The Clock Said Goodbye

We’d barely walked in the door, still smelling faintly of lilies and that cloying funeral home air. My husband, Mark, was pale as a sheet, and I wasn't far behind. We'd just come back from burying his old man, Donald.
We were sitting in his mother's, Elaine's, living room, a meticulously kept time capsule of floral wallpaper and doilies. Elaine, a woman whose hair had been permanently sculpted into a helmet sometime in the 80s, was stirring a lukewarm cup of tea. The only sound was the gentle clink of her spoon against the ceramic.
“He would have hated the eulogy,” Mark muttered, finally breaking the silence. “Reverend Thompson barely knew him. Said he was a ‘pillar of the community.’ Dad spent more time at O’Malley’s than at church.”
“Well, dear,” Elaine said, her voice a little shaky, “he was a pillar… of O’Malley’s community. And he always tipped well.”
That got a weak chuckle out of both of us. Then silence descended again, heavier this time. My gaze drifted to the wall behind Elaine, to the monstrosity of a clock that had been hanging there for as long as I’d known her. It was one of those grandfather-style wall clocks, all dark wood and ornate carvings. Donald had gotten it as a retirement gift from the plumbing company he’d worked at for forty years. Thing was, it used to chime, but about five years ago, the chimes went kaput. Just stopped working. Since then, it was just a glorified timepiece, ticking away the seconds with relentless efficiency.
“That clock is hideous,” I blurted out, the words just slipping out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Mark gave me a warning look. Elaine just sighed. “Your father loved that clock, dear. Said it was… a reminder of his contribution.”
"His contribution to overpriced pipe fitting," I muttered under my breath.
And then it happened.
The clock groaned.
Not a chime, not a tick, but a deep, guttural groan that vibrated through the room. We all froze. Then, clear as a bell, it struck three times. Bong… Bong… Bong.
Mark and I exchanged wide-eyed glances. Elaine’s face went white.
Then, almost in slow motion, the unframed photograph of Donald, propped up against a vase of slightly wilted tulips on the mantelpiece, tilted forward. Just a slight bow.
"He… he bowed," Elaine whispered, her eyes fixed on the photo. The words caught in her throat. "He bowed. He thanked us.”
Then she just... tipped over. Like a felled tree.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered. Mark was yelling, “Mom! Mom, wake up!” I was scrambling for my phone, fumbling with the 911 app.
“Forget the damn tulips, Mark! Get a cold cloth!” I barked, my voice surprisingly steady in the chaos.
The next few minutes were a blur of frantic movement, cold compresses, and a panicked phone call punctuated by the wail of sirens in the distance. The whole time, the ridiculous grandfather clock ticked away, utterly indifferent to the drama it had just unleashed.
Elaine was fine, just a fainting spell. The paramedics said it was probably the stress and the… uh… let’s call it “the unexpected auditory event.”
Later, after Elaine was settled in bed with a cup of chamomile tea (and maybe a shot of something stronger, I wasn’t judging), Mark and I sat in the kitchen, trying to process what we’d just experienced.
“Okay,” Mark said, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “The clock. It hasn’t chimed in five years. Five years, Sarah. And it picks tonight, after we just buried Dad? It's insane!"
“Maybe it was… a malfunction,” I offered weakly, even though I didn't believe it.
“A malfunction that makes the photo bow? Come on! It was Dad. Saying goodbye.”
I sighed. “Okay, maybe. Or maybe it was just a particularly unlucky series of coincidences. It's not like he was a saint. More likely he was telling us to empty out his liquor cabinet.”
Mark gave me a wry smile. “Now that sounds like him.”
The funny thing is, the clock never chimed again. It just sat there, ticking, a silent monument to a moment of profound weirdness. Every time I saw it, I couldn’t help but wonder. Was it really Donald, saying goodbye? Or was it just a broken clock, finally deciding to give us all one last scare? I still don’t know, but I do know one thing: I will never look at a grandfather clock the same way again. And if one ever starts chiming in my presence, I’m running. Fast.
And as for the tulips? Well, Elaine declared them "cursed" and insisted Mark burn them in the backyard. I didn't argue. Some things are best left un-investigated. Especially when they involve dead fathers and malfunctioning clocks