27
The Clock: A Creepypasta by Continental_General
A cash crop farmer by the name of Mark Wilson worked hard each day for his life and money. On June 16, 1864, he noticed a spike in pests. The main pests Mark found around his farm were mainly aphids and ants, but this time, he experienced a very different kind of annoyance; quantity. The more pests he had on his farm, the more he worked and lost money. He wasn't a greedy person, he just was in desperate need of a way to live. Not to mention the weather that year had been terrible: Droughts, little rainfall, you name it. Any kind of bad weather, that year was full of it. As you know, for farmers this is a bad thing.
Mark sat at his desk, late at night, and stared into the old grandfather clock. He cried, and cried, and cried. Looking at his paycheck, he had only recieved a handful of cash: Fifty-two dollars and sixty cents. That wasn't enough to pay his bills, which meant he wasn't going to have enough for food or water. He knew it was all over. Just weeks later, he became homeless and was now on the brink of survival. He survived in the woods, watching campers from afar. He couldn't feel his hands- not until he ate something. Not until he replenished his body with fuel. Mark looked at the campers, and thought. He considered their flesh, like it was pork.
Just months into being homeless and in the woods, his total appearence changed. Everything about him, both his mental and physical state. He beared no fat, no clothes. Only eyes, watchful eyes. He had lost his sense of communication with the outside world and all the humans; the only thing he learned how to do was make a clicking sound like a clock with the roof of his mouth and his toungue. The campgrounds around the area shut down for safety reasons, and rangers were sent all around the area to prevent anyone from entering the woods.
The Clock felt his stomach shrinking, wrapping around his heart like a boa constrictor. It squeezed his heart, and consumed his soul.
Now, all that remains is the Clock's spirit. He can travel to wherever he likes, whenever he desires. He enjoys to go into homes, and play with the roof of his tounge. Tick, tock. Nobody suspects the sound, for all they hear is a normal clock. At night, he watches the sleeping humans. He wants to make friends, but the only way of doing that is to bring them into the afterlife. He travels from soul to soul, waking up their spirits. Tock, tock, tick, tock.
A cash crop farmer by the name of Mark Wilson worked hard each day for his life and money. On June 16, 1864, he noticed a spike in pests. The main pests Mark found around his farm were mainly aphids and ants, but this time, he experienced a very different kind of annoyance; quantity. The more pests he had on his farm, the more he worked and lost money. He wasn't a greedy person, he just was in desperate need of a way to live. Not to mention the weather that year had been terrible: Droughts, little rainfall, you name it. Any kind of bad weather, that year was full of it. As you know, for farmers this is a bad thing.
Mark sat at his desk, late at night, and stared into the old grandfather clock. He cried, and cried, and cried. Looking at his paycheck, he had only recieved a handful of cash: Fifty-two dollars and sixty cents. That wasn't enough to pay his bills, which meant he wasn't going to have enough for food or water. He knew it was all over. Just weeks later, he became homeless and was now on the brink of survival. He survived in the woods, watching campers from afar. He couldn't feel his hands- not until he ate something. Not until he replenished his body with fuel. Mark looked at the campers, and thought. He considered their flesh, like it was pork.
Just months into being homeless and in the woods, his total appearence changed. Everything about him, both his mental and physical state. He beared no fat, no clothes. Only eyes, watchful eyes. He had lost his sense of communication with the outside world and all the humans; the only thing he learned how to do was make a clicking sound like a clock with the roof of his mouth and his toungue. The campgrounds around the area shut down for safety reasons, and rangers were sent all around the area to prevent anyone from entering the woods.
The Clock felt his stomach shrinking, wrapping around his heart like a boa constrictor. It squeezed his heart, and consumed his soul.
Now, all that remains is the Clock's spirit. He can travel to wherever he likes, whenever he desires. He enjoys to go into homes, and play with the roof of his tounge. Tick, tock. Nobody suspects the sound, for all they hear is a normal clock. At night, he watches the sleeping humans. He wants to make friends, but the only way of doing that is to bring them into the afterlife. He travels from soul to soul, waking up their spirits. Tock, tock, tick, tock.
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