The town had always been quiet, the kind of place where you could hear the wind sweeping over the cobblestone streets long after the villagers had gone to bed. But that night, at precisely midnight, a sound shattered the stillness—a profound, resonant toll that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth itself.

The old clock tower, a broken relic forgotten to time, had come to life. Its bell rang thirteen times, each toll vibrating through the bones of anyone still awake. For a brief moment, the town seemed to hold its breath. No one knew why it had started again or why they hadn't heard it for 23 years, but when the thirteenth chime echoed into the dark sky, something shifted.

Those already in bed rose and ventured outside to gather in the streets and stare at the tower with glassy eyes. It was as though they were waiting for something to happen—for a promise to be fulfilled, one they couldn’t quite remember.

The mysterious thirteenth chime had grabbed hold of most people, but a few curious folks were unaffected for reasons no one understood. One was 23-year-old Maeve Calder, who remained unaware of the night’s events until she rose for work the next day. She prepared her morning coffee as she hummed a tune, still blissfully ignorant.

Her vibrant mood came to a resounding halt as she stepped outside and saw the people gathered in the town square. They formed an almost perfect circle, with a cheerful young boy skipping circles around the group, singing a happy song. The breeze blew warm, and the sun shone brightly as if nothing was out of place. Yet fear lingered in the air.

Mouth still agape, Maeve remained frozen on her doorstep as her coffee spilled at her feet. She caught the eye of the young boy, who waved at her enthusiastically before clapping his hands in glee.

“The toll chooses the worthy,” The boy sang out, his smile widening as he motioned for the group to follow him. Finally breaking his circle, he skipped down the street toward the clock tower, the previously unmoving group slowly following him as their gaze remained skyward.

Broken from her shock, Maeve looked around frantically, desperate to find anyone else not wholly transfixed. She ran along the main street, pounding on every door, shouting for someone to listen. Her heart sped up with each door that remained closed, each plea that went unanswered.

Although the strange young boy skipped further away, his chant seemed to echo louder and louder in her ears, “The toll chooses the worthy.”

Finally, one door gave way, creaking open to reveal a dim room. As she threw herself inside with relief, a shadowy figure emerged from behind a counter. The smell of sweat and stale beer overwhelmed her as she ran toward the mystery person, stopping abruptly as they stepped into the light and pointed a handgun. She threw her hands up, “Whoa whoa, I’m not gonna hurt you! I have no idea what’s going on!”

The figure lowered the gun and stepped further into the light as soon as she spoke, and Maeve got a better look at the bedraggled old man.

“I thought you might be the boy; I had to be sure.”

Maeve glared at him, “You know him? What’s going on?”

The man met her gaze with a darkened sadness and despair in his eyes. “The toll chooses the worthy, and it chooses you.”

Before Maeve could respond, the clock chimed again, growing louder and more intense with each ring. The thirteenth chime sounded like it came from her head, forcing her to her knees. Pushing through the pain behind her eyes, Maeve spoke, “What does that mean?” she demanded, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“The toll chooses the worthy,” he repeated. “You feel it, don’t you? The pull.” The man’s voice became more monotone with each syllable.

Maeve looked up at him, standing over her, his hand outstretched. He spoke again, his eyes blackened and expression broken. “It’s an honour, you know, in the end.”

The heavy ringing in her ears turned to pounding in her head as the old man took her arm and dragged her back into the street. The town had gathered at the base of the clock tower, standing on either side of the entrance, their eyes fixed on Maeve. The boy’s sing-songy melody danced in her ears like a haunting lullaby. Maeve knew she should run—should scream—but her legs felt like lead. The insistent thud of her heart drowned out her thoughts, leaving her mind in chaos. Still, she couldn’t move.

Her chest heaved as she fought to break free, but her body felt heavier with each breath. Her thoughts slipped away like smoke in the night. The pull of the clock grew stronger, more insistent, until she no longer knew where her thoughts ended and the clock’s will began.

The young boy appeared, the unnatural, toothy grin still plastered on his face. He waved his arm invitingly as the clock tower doors opened, “Welcome to the worthy,” he said, his voice smooth and unwavering.

No longer in control, Maeve moved toward the doors. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass window, her arms flailing and her mouth open, shrieking. And yet, she felt no fear as her vision grew blurry, eyes glazed, movements robotic. A fuzzy white figure appeared before her, and a cold, hard hand took hers, its skin smooth like marble.

It ushered her through the door as the boy skipped circles and laughed behind her in delight. He watched as the doors slid shut with a groan, and Maeve became an eternal piece of the clock’s intricate machinery.

The boy skipped away as the townsfolk regained their wits, oblivious to what had happened. Except, of course, for the haggard old man who felt his spirit settle, content that the innocent, unknowing town would enjoy another 23 years of quiet, peaceful protection.

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