u/TurkEmperor1923

My grandfather Arthur was a man carved out of routine. For forty years he ran a tiny dimly lit watch repair shop at the corner of 4th street. He woke up at precisely 6 AM drank his coffee black while staring out the kitchen window and spent his days surrounded by the ticking of hundreds of brass gears. As a kid I used to sit on his workbench fascinated by how his shaky hands became completely still the moment he picked up a pair of tweezers to place a tiny jewel into a watch.

He used to tell me things that didnt make sense back then. Time isnt a river that flows away from us kiddo he would say puffing on his pipe. It is a fabric and it is already woven. We are just ants walking along the threads thinking we are discovering new territory when the pattern was completed long ago. I always chuckled thinking it was just the eccentric ramblings of an old watchmaker who spent too much time inhaling oil fumes.

He passed away three weeks ago from sudden heart failure. The house an old place with creaking floorboards and a heavy scent of dust was left to my parents. Since they were too sad to handle it I volunteered to clear out the attic.

Yesterday afternoon I was moving a heavy dust covered oak desk that he used for his personal bookkeeping. As I dragged it across the floor I heard a hollow click. I investigated the underside and discovered a false bottom hidden behind the central drawer. Inside lay a single leather bound notebook secured with a brass latch.

I opened it expecting to find old financial records or something. Instead I found a diary. But the moment I read the first page a cold sweat broke out across my neck.

The first entry was dated November 14th 1998. In his neat cursive my grandfather described a major highway pileup on Route 9 detailing the exact colors of the three cars involved the name of the responding officer and the fact that a stray golden retriever caused the swerve. I looked up the event on my phone. It happened exactly as written but it happened in November 2004.

I flipped through the pages my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The book wasnt a diary of his past. It was a record of the future written decades before the events actually occurred.

He had recorded the exact day and time my parents would meet at a local diner. He recorded the precise weather during their wedding including the minor detail that the caterer dropped the cake. He even recorded the day of my birth my exact weight and the fact that the hospital rooms air conditioning was broken that night.

As I flipped further the entries became more global and infinitely darker. He had written about natural disasters political assassinations and market crashes years before they hit the news. But he hadnt used this knowledge to get rich or save lives. Why?

I found the answer in a margin note from 2012. Tried to warn Sarah about the flight. Bought her a different ticket. She took a taxi to the airport instead and the taxi was struck by a drunk driver. The fabric snaps back. The gears cannot be stripped. If you try to force the hands of the clock backward the spring breaks completely.

My hands were shaking so violently I almost dropped the book. I realized with a sickening dread that I needed to check the end of the notebook.

I flipped past pages and pages of blank sheets until I hit the very last written entry. I looked at the top of the page. The date written there is for tomorrow.

Unlike the rest of the book which was written in his trademark steady beautiful script this entry was chaotic. The ink was smeared and the letters were jagged as if his hands were trembling uncontrollably. It read:

To whoever finds this most likely my grandson I am so sorry. I tried to rewrite the gears one last time to save myself but the clock always strikes midnight. The balance must be maintained. If you are reading this it means the sequence has initiated. Tomorrow at exactly 3:14 PM the fabric will attempt to correct the anomaly of my absence.

Do not look out the window. No matter what sound you hear outside whether it sounds like a car crash a crying child or someone scratching at the glass do not open the blinds. Keep the house completely dark. If you look at them they will know you have the notebook. And if they know you have the fabric you will become the next correction.

That was it. The rest of the book was entirely blank.

It is currently 4:45 AM. I havent slept a single wink tonight. I am sitting in his old armchair in the living room the notebook heavy on my lap. The house is dead silent save for the rhythmic tick tick tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. A sound that used to comfort me but now feels like a countdown.

About ten minutes ago the silence was shattered. I live on the fourth floor of an apartment complex. From the balcony window right through the heavy curtains I heard a sharp heavy thud. Like something massive and heavy slithering or pressing itself against the glass from the outside.

I am staring at the curtains right now. The fabric is faintly twitching. I dont know what to do.

I dont think I am going to make it to 3:14 PM tomorrow. I will try to update this post if the sun comes up and I am still here. Please someone tell me this is just an elaborate cruel prank an old man played on his family. Because if it isnt I dont know whats waiting on the other side of that glass.

أعطني نصيحة بشأن ما يجب فعله يا ابني، كما لو أنني أكلت ديكًا