The Riddle [Fiction]
The howling wind heralds more than a flurry of snow, something otherworldly glides with it. It visits once a year, on Christmas Eve.
No. It's not the jovial, bearded old man in a red suit with a sack of gifts wrapped in shiny papers. At least, the young ones look forward to seeing him.
This one—I dread facing it on that one night.
A night that decides the course of the following year. Pleasant. Or horrible.
It's a legacy passed down from my grandpa to me, and one I wish I can undo.
Grandpa's breathing was raspy, painful as he laid on his dying bed, three years ago. It was an illness the doctors had no name or cure for. It happened in October.
He was wasting away but cold regrets oozed from every groan, weighing heavier than his illness. “Chippy, I knew the answer….but I didn't trust myself…,” he muttered between gasps.
I assumed he was speaking gibberish. After hours of coaxing, between painful breaths, he spilled a dark secret. One unexpected of the most jolly person I knew in this world.
You see, my grandpa was a storyteller, and a budding writer who filled my childhood evenings with fantastical tales that took me out of this world. His stories were better than any show on TV since we couldn't afford it.
That night, I found many unfinished manuscripts in his old steamer trunk as he recounted this tale. “The manuscripts are…yours, Chippy. I reckon you can…finish what I started.”
Excitement rolled through my veins because I'd get to read his stories. But misery cut it short and lodged itself in my heart because his dream to be an accomplished author didn't come true.
“Yes, grandpa. I'll finish your stories.” I gripped his frail, wrinkled hand in assurance. The old man gave me one final smile with an effort. In hindsight, I think he was trying to say, ‘You know nothing, Chippy’.
His next words sealed my fate. “I'm sorry, my boy.” He drew his last breath and our small, weathered hut fell into a haunting silence. He was the only family I had.
Even the birds in the sparse forest around our hut stopped chirping, mourning with me.
After his funeral, I committed to finishing one of his manuscripts about the arrival of an alien ship on earth, carrying a virus that could transform humans into super beings.
It was the hardest task I'd ever embarked on. Not because I couldn't write—my politics column in the local newspaper was the most read piece in town.
The biting cold of Christmas Eve night seeped through the hut and numbed every part of me. The warmth from the fireplace was inadequate but I sat under the candlelight and wrote.
Then a cold draft shook the front door. It was nothing new…until it creaked open slowly on its own.
Heavy footsteps thudded against the concrete floor, yet no one was there.
My skin crawled as I knew something powerful and unseen was in the hut with me.
Heavy breathing drew close to my ears from behind, raising the hairs on my neck. My pen slipped off my shaking hands, clattering to the floor.
Grandpa was right. It stifled the air with fear and such stench that nearly hurled out my internal organs. I was suffocating and powerless against it.
It's voice raked through my mind—I felt it. Then it spoke a riddle.
And like grandpa, I had no answer to it.
When it left, I threw up all over the floor and was sick for days.
Determination to make grandpa proud pulled me up from the sick bed. I worked on the manuscript day and night.
By the following Christmas Eve, I was ready with a mediocre manuscript. I answered the riddle correctly and saw its form for the first time—my muse.
I edited the manuscript that night, following it's directives.
Now, two of grandpa's sci-fi books top the world bestseller's list. But the price is a very hard one.
I have set the clock and soon enough, the muse will return again to ask…and give.
The burden of my legacy.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt “set the clock”.
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