Horror - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. Head Clock Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

HEAD CLOCK

Joe Hanazawa had an empty fish-stinking pail by his feet and an empty paper bread bag by his side. He could give and give and it would never be enough for the animals, but that was good, that was best, it kept them close and friendly. Birds bounced and launched, hardly put off by gravity. Otters cut against Pacific waves as if swimming with the tide. Two sea lions kept a watchful eye about thirty feet beyond the shore, bobbing on the surf. The bench was one of many, and was third from last along Lance River’s Sea Walk Trail. Joe could watch these creatures in their shared habitat and simply be a part of it all.

“Okay, time for work. My grandson’s coming tonight, I’ll bring him out, some of you might remember him, so maybe you otters tell the sea lions to tell some humpbacks or orcas to come in close, huh?”

The old man got to his feet, stuffed the folded bread bag into his pocket, and picked up the ocean-rinsed fish pail from the ground. He smiled and nodded at a man—a tourist most likely, given the season and that Joe had never seen him before…and that attire. He dressed like the wealthy people dressed on reality TV shows about partying and promiscuity. A thin gold chain. A thin gold bracelet. Diamond studs in both ears. Thick black hair, gelled back. A silky shirt, off-white, untucked, unbuttoned three from the top. Tight red jeans. Dusty leather loafers. Cellphone in hand.

Joe walked toward the parking lot at the head of the trail about a mile away and the man made for the end of the trail only another three hundred feet or so in the opposite direction.

“Hey,” the man said and Joe turned around. “Is it always this quiet down here?”

An unusual question. People typically asked about wildlife or how far the trail went or if there was a Burger King or a proper shopping mall in Lance River—no to both.

“In mornings, afternoons, and early evenings all summer, it’s busy, but nowadays, not so much. I come out first thing and then at dusk, my brother’s daughter bought me a flashlight to wear on my head like a miner for when I fall asleep.” Joe grinned, knowing he’d said more than was necessary, but liked to talk when people wanted to listen.

“Every day?”

“Sure, mostly, I go visit family a few times a year. I feed the animals here.” Joe lifted his bucket. “They know me and come running and swimming, they’re like cats. Sometimes you see the whales and sometimes the sea lions come up to the shore how the otters will, but only when it’s quiet. Nighttime is my favorite time out here.”

“And you come alone?”

Joe thought a moment, another strange question, but said, “Usually. My grandson’s up from Vancouver, so he’ll come out tonight, I’m sure. We do it every year since Arthur was little.”

“Good for you,” the man said and lifted the cellphone. The photo snap was barely loud enough to overshadow the gentle tumble of the morning ocean. He nodded then and turned to continue on.

Joe frowned, wondering if and why that man had taken his picture, but resumed his journey.

—

The man sat on the last bench of the trail and opened the Reddit application on his phone. Within a new thread titled HEAD CLOCK TONIGHT/TOMORROW, the man posted the picture of Joe Hanazawa he’d just taken and the caption: Tonight/tomorrow 9:00PM PDT start gurgle gurgle bet time slots hint Pacific Northwest tides hurry now first set re-up ready video feed live HEAD CLOCK CHINK spread to Chans and Kiwi.

—

Joe almost floated while he worked. His grandson loved the animals and his wide-eyed wonder was enough to make the man feel twenty, thirty years younger.

“Do you have the Harry Potter books?” asked a middle-aged woman in a blue jogging suit. Her hair was sweat-matted.

“No. Every set I get in, goes out the very next day.”

“Oh, hmm. I’m supposed to get those books for tomorrow.”

“Maybe new?” Joe shrugged. If he didn’t have the books and a customer wanted them right away, what could he do?

“I tried Mountainside already.”

Joe lifted his hands and pouted, tilting his head slightly, the universal gesture of can’t help you. “Maybe the grocery stores?”

“Hey, yeah, maybe,” the woman said and hurried away without another word.

Joe looked back down at the old Archie that had come in a box on Sunday afternoon just before he closed up. The bell above the door jangled once for the departing woman and moments later jangled again. He lifted his head and waved to his daughter and…his grandson? Arthur wore makeup and had grown his hair long. He also wore a skirt and tank top.

“Tawny?” Joe said, eyes hard on Arthur. “This a joke? Why’s Arthur dressed like a girl?”

Tawny took a deep breath. “It’s Autumn now and it is no joke.”

Joe’s heart pattered. This was not good. This was in fact, bad. “But Arthur is a boy.”

“Arthur is no more. Autumn is a girl, please, Dad.”

Joe shook his head. It had been all over the news, about bathrooms and perverts. He hadn’t cared much one way or another—not having a young girl in the family to worry over—hadn’t even thought much about it. “Where’s he pee?”

“She pees in a toilet.”

Joe blinked at his daughter, the answer was lightning hard and fast, practiced. He rubbed his chin. “God made Arthur and this is wrong. Arthur, you’re confused.”

Autumn stiffened, made a face, and then broke from the bookstore to hide her tears.

“I told her you’d be supportive. That you’d love her no matter what. Do you have any idea of how difficult this has been for her? Do you think if she had any inkling left that this wasn’t right that she’d be living this way? Nobody chooses to stick out for this kind of ridicule! She’s not some limelight TV star or YouTuber, she’s a real girl and she needs the support of her family.”

“You should’ve told me…and it’s Arthur and he is a boy.”

“We’ll be at the house. The last ferry leaves at seven, so you have until six to decide if you’re accepting Autumn for who she is, or if we’re leaving.”

Joe scrunched his face as if he’d found an especially sour taste. “It’s a fad. You remember, you had the hair with the spray and—”

“This isn’t a fucking fashion trend!” Tawny spun on her heels and stomped out of the store. The bell rattled violently upon opening and jangled once more when the door wheezed to a close.

Joe stared at the Archie comic without turning a page for ten minutes before taking up his keys, flipping the back in a half-hour sign, and heading next-door for a coffee.

—

The bets were always, always higher when the clock counted down on a visible minority. The man wouldn’t tell the crowds he was in Canada, as the majority were in America and got off on the idea of ethnically cleansing their homeland. The man didn’t care one way or the other, business was business.

—

“My man, you know how easy it is to throw away old people these days? Just pretend like the relationship never really mattered?” Takashi Oka made a wet zippy sound with his lips. “My suggestion, you either come to terms with it not being your say or you pretend like the boy was a girl all along.”

Takashi Oka was the child of a friend, so when it came time to renovate the building Joe owned, he shrank his bookstore, and did a friend a favor—he was going to downsize and renovate anyway. He’d been lucky and financially fortunate, and frugal, enough that he’d lose a little money for a couple years and make it back once Oka Sushi was turning a profit—even if the business failed, Joe owned the building and all the kitchen features fitted therein.

“But…that’s not how God made Arthur,” Joe said, mouth pointed to an empty coffee mug.

“Joe, when’s the last time you went to church or prayed?”

Joe didn’t look up. He couldn’t answer the question, not well anyway. “Long time, I suppose.”

“See, what’s more important, an ingrained notion of godliness or you and your family staying a family?” Takashi put his tea mug between the sets of chopsticks on the little plate they’d shared of veggie gyoza. He stood. “I hear some pots calling for me to wash, you want another coffee?”

Joe shook his head. “You’re wise, for a young man.”

“Young? I’m forty-two.”

“Everybody seems young to me.”

“Yeah and the older you get, the harder it is to shift all the baggage you have up here.” Takashi tapped his left temple. “Probably if you make an honest effort to accept her, they’ll give you space. Only fanatics demand immediate revolution.”

Joe reached into his pocket and put two dollars on the table. He didn’t pay for food or coffee at Oka Sushi, but he’d leave a tip for the conversation.

He returned to the store and put away the box that came in over the weekend, handled a few trade-ins and a dozen paying customers. At 5:00 PM—an hour earlier than usual—he flipped the sign, hit the light switch, and locked the door behind him as he left.

—

The man opened his kit and laid the contents out on the bed at the Old Courthouse Hotel. He unwrapped the plastic from a syringe and the jar of Xylazine, a horse tranquilizer. He guessed the old man’s weight at somewhere nearing 170 pounds and filled the chamber of the syringe with about 85mgs of liquid. This done, he unwrapped a second syringe and repeated. Just in case. He also had a small jug of chloroform if the Xylazine didn’t incapacitate the man.

—

“Dad, you’re being smug. You don’t deserve a ribbon for putting up with this. You have no clue how difficult this is and either you’re in and supportive or you’re nothing. Got it?” Tawny said, leaning in over their emptied plates. Autumn had gone back to the buffet for more fruit and chicken wings.

Anger flashed and for a moment Joe thought he’d threaten to withhold the surprise college fund he’d put together for Arthur if she didn’t give him a break, didn’t acknowledge the great sacrifice to the right of the universe he was making, but it passed. He was making no sacrifice and the smugness was a defense mechanism. He was uncomfortable, confused, and a little frightened of his grand…daughter.

“I’m sorry. You need to be patient with me. I am old. I am an old dog learning a new trick,” he said and for the first time since she’d arrived, it appeared Tawny had lowered her hackles.

“I’m sorry too. She needs an offensive defense sometimes.”

“Has school been hard?” Joe watched Autumn and then watched the eyes watching Autumn. She was very obviously, biologically, a sixteen-year-old boy in a dress and makeup.

“Not so bad. It’s everywhere else, everywhere there’s older people. And online. The internet is a window to Hell.”

Joe did not doubt this, saw people he knew well saying hurtful, misguided, plain ignorant things. He saw them share fake news. He saw them argue the lies in conversations. He saw families strained and communities splitting at the seams. “I don’t go on much anymore. Not on the social sites. There are some pages where I talk to other book people.”

Autumn returned to the table and Joe had a thought and acted. He reached over his dishes and the flickering tea candles in the fishbowl of water and snatched a piece of cantaloupe from Autumn’s plate. “Thanks for offering, dear,” he said and began munching.

Autumn wore the faux-outrage face Arthur wore whenever his grandfather would steal from his plate. Tawny grinned into her napkin.

“I hope you brought your walking shoes,” Joe said after cleaning the orange meat from the green rind.

Tawny turned to Autumn and raised her eyebrows, as if to suggest it was up to her and she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do.

“Sure I did,” Autumn said.

“I’ll probably be asleep by the time you get back. I’m bushed,” Tawny said and then, on cue, yawned.

—

The man sat in his rental car and watched the Sea Walk Trail empty out. The closer to sundown it drew, the lonelier the parking lot became. The one of two smartphones in the cup holder rang and he scooped it up.

“Andrew Tran?” the voice on the other end said.

“Speaking,” the man said. This was his everyday phone, the one he used for his job at Wells Fargo down in Portland.

“Hey, my name’s Gerald Hopper, Daisy Buchannan gave me your number.”

“Ah, great. Great.” The man, Andrew, picked up the burner smartphone from the cup holder after it vibrated twice. He read ETA? “How is Daisy?” He typed back 9:30ish.

“Fine, I assume. Anyway, I’m looking at consolidating my accounts into one of those all-in-one lines of credit.”

“Hmm, okay. One thing, if you’re in a hurry, I’m on vacation until next week. If you can wait, I’ll ring you back…” he trailed, seeing the familiar car roll up and park only twenty feet away. There were two heads inside and he was about to text his contact that they’d reschedule as the grandson had come when he saw the grandson was in a dress, and then recognized the features of a young man. “Jesus,” he whispered—he had to make this work, it would be a legendary twofer—and corrected himself with a cough, “sorry about that, a wasp was crawling on me. Can you wait to schedule sometime later next week.”

“No problem. I would’ve waited to call, had I known.”

Andrew forced a phony laugh and said, “How could you have known?”

Once the call ended, he got to work texting his contact that they were adding a second player to bet on, what appeared to be either a boy in drag or a tranny. He added a similar sentiment to the Reddit thread he’d created that morning. About an hour earlier, he’d stashed the cameras and tripods near the bench where the old man sat. The drugs were in a messenger’s bag along with zip ties and clothesline. He got out of the car, slung the bag over his shoulder, and fell in line, moving slowly behind the man and the teenager. On a walking trail, nothing seemed like following.

The old man carried a stinking bucket and the teen carried a bag of bread, tossing crusty bits every thirty or forty steps. To their right was the red fading glow as the sun dipped lower behind the mountains of Vancouver Island.

Getting too close, Andrew took one of the bike paths that led up to the highway, knowing he could cut back down nearer to his target after they fell into position. Doing two heads at once was risky and tougher, but this was a gold mine.

Cars whizzed by him every half-minute or so, but he had plenty of room and nobody beeped at him. Quickly enough he was at the next path that led back to the trail. He went most of the way down and sat on the heels of his shoes, listening. Footfalls crunched gravel and birds began squawking. There was splashing and a chirping sound. The plastic bucket clanked as the old man rinsed it. The footfalls drew closer then, but not too close.

Andrew listened. The pair spoke of ducks and whales. He waited until the conversation shifted to something that would preoccupy minds more intently.

“So you never wondered about me?”

“Oh, I don’t know. All this, maybe there was something.”

“Not the shows I watched or the TV people I told you about?”

“Ar—Autumn, I really didn’t think for a second. I’m sorry.”

Andrew was up and moving. Given the circumstances, he’d use the chloroform on one to start while he jabbed the other. Once one was out and the other was a zombie, he’d stick the sleeper. Gamblers liked to see the player’s awake and comprehending at least a little by the end of it all.

He stepped out of the bush, he had the chloroform rag in his left palm and the syringe in his right. The pair kept talking, but lower—they must’ve heard him. The bench was on the western lip of the trail, overlooking a five-foot drop to a rocky beach below.

“I’m sorry I just didn’t—”

The rag went over the teen’s face, sapping consciousness in a single, very deep breath. The needle entered the old man’s neck and he popped to his feet, moving like a much younger individual.

“You? What…? Arthur…? What’d you do?” The old man was looking at the teen and then to Andrew as Andrew came at him with his hands out. “No!” the old man shouted and picked up a rock from between his feet. He swung it and Andrew flopped back, crying out in pain and surprise as the rock brushed his cheek. The landing was jarring—this wasn’t right, it was only business…how dare he!

The old man stumbled back to the bench and flopped onto the seat, began shaking the sleeping figure.

“Wake up! Help! Somebudeels,” the old man said and began making wet smacking sounds as he gawked around, his head bouncing lazily.

Andrew got up, took the second syringe, and stuck it in the teen. To be sure he’d guessed right, he reached between the teen’s legs and felt a penis. “I knew it,” he hissed and then turned to the old man. “Let’s go to the beach, you want to go to the beach.”

The old man kept smacking his lips, but didn’t fight, even tried to aim for a high rock as Andrew helped him down from the bench—he still landed hard, snapping a bone in his left arm. Up and moving, the old man stared at the break like it was a magic trick, the way it dangled.

“Lie down.”

The old man did. Andrew tugged him close to the damp boulder—anvil shaped, about five feet high, about four and a half feet long—and turned to bring the teen down. With no help, he dragged and lifted, grunting and groaning at the weight, despite it being only 130 pounds. Once in place, he hurried back to his bag for the clothesline and zip ties. They might not recover their senses in time to struggle for the camera, but safe was the only way to do this. He zipped the teens wrists, then ankles, and went over to the old man and did the same. He then tied the zipped wrists together at the anvil peak of the boulder, walked two circles around the boulder, and then tied the two sets of ankles together. According to Google, tide would be all the way in by 9:00 in the morning, but they were far enough out that they’d drown hours sooner.

Heading back to get the cameras, he kicked a light on a head strap that had tumbled to the beach floor. He huffed and put it in his pocket. The cameras settled inconspicuously amidst the rocks and he stepped to a stone three feet short of the drugged heads. He strapped the headlamp to a rock and turned it on, giving the faces a ghostly glow. Anything was better than night vision.

He opened the app, connected to the cameras, looked at the feeds, adjusted both cameras, checked a second time, and then set the feed to streaming.

—

The water hit Joe’s mouth. The pain in his arm was but a dull throb. He tried to move and found himself tied. He looked right to rocks and the ocean, he looked left and saw Autumn. Ahead, light shined in his eyes. Water hit his face as if coming from behind and beneath, and he again tried to move. His body was heavy and he was too tired to do anything…it had to be some kind of weird dream anyway.

—

Andrew was in his car. He’d dozed, but it was already close to 5:00 AM. The sun was a good ways off, but the night had lifted enough that he could gather his gear and skedaddle. He glanced at the burner phone and saw that he had more than twenty text messages—must’ve been a wild finish.

As he jogged the trail, he noticed the quiet eyes of the birds following him and just how close the tide had come to shore already. He’d be able to save his clothesline if he wanted, at minimum he could separate and push the bodies out, hope the tide carried them away.

He blinked heavy, disbelieving eyes once he got close to the bench. The heads were leaned together like drunks, sitting where the old man and the teen had been.

Andrew slowed his feet, but not his pulse. The closer he got, the more he saw. Once directly over them no more hope remained; it was indeed the players. The zip ties were gone. Tiny cuts circled their wrists and fat teeth marks riddled their arms through torn clothing.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Andrew whispered and hopped over the side to grab the cameras and tripods, but they were smashed. All that remained were bits of clothesline and zip tie plastic. It all appeared to have been chewed. “How in the hell?”

A tremendous chorus of barks cried from the ocean and Andrew jumped back. Dozens of midnight bulbs stared at him like marble-sized voids. There had to be thirty seals floating not fifteen feet out.

Andrew broke then and started away, scrambling up to the path, and kicking the old man’s feeding pale by accident. He kept on, running hard as his legs would take him. From the beach, rock clanks and hissing trailed his movement. Overhead, bird’s squawked.

Nothing attacked him and he made it to his car, started it up and peeled away. This was all wrong and he’d need to be on the first ferry the fuck out of Lance River. He crossed town and hit the parking lot of the Old Courthouse Hotel after six minutes of driving. He took two steps at a time on the outdoor staircase. Head leaned against the door, he fiddled with the keys, hands shaky, breath short, heart trip-hammering.

Inside, the bed was so inviting he almost conceded, but he couldn’t. The old man had seen him and the old man hadn’t drowned. He filled his suitcase with clothes and his laptop. The bathroom door was closed and he swung it open to grab his—

“Caw!” a crow belted and Andrew opened his mouth to shout, but before a sound left his throat, a seagull dove from the shower curtain rod, lightning bolting between his teeth. Its feathers raked against the soft tissue of his lips and insides of his cheeks. Its arched and sharp beak grabbed for his tongue deep down his throat, steadying its spiked feet against his jaw. The pain was tremendous and Andrew grabbed the fat bird cutting off his air and tearing into his soft pink flesh.

More caws joined the first and a murder of crows went for his eyes. Nine of them worked as if there was a pecking order, taking turns. Andrew began swinging and backing up. The wet smacks and clicks seared new pain with each strike.

Something like a scream ejected from his throat on a wave of blood as the seagull jerked from between his jaws with a treasure pinched by its beaks. It dropped the sloppy tongue to the carpeted floor and began picking for a meal.

The crows weren’t through, pecking and pulling. Andrew’s eyelids were gone and his eyeballs were a little something like stringy mashed potatoes running pink down his cheeks. He vomited blood, moaning a gargled scream. He kept swinging, but it was hopeless.

Suddenly, as if called away, the birds flew from the room. Andrew was alive, somehow he was alive, but he needed help. He followed the feel of the breeze on his face until he was back out the door. He crawled, blood gargling and moaning, trying to breath more than scream. He pushed himself upright and began spitting and shouting noises, hoping the blood or sound would hit someone or something of import, bring about the attention he needed.

He inhaled to gag up another moaning retch. Four huge and piercing claws latched onto his shoulders, tearing into meat, securing a hold against bones. Again, Andrew began to scream nonsense sounds—the eagles were unfazed—as his feet lifted from the ground and he began rising. Suddenly he was soaring and the wind cutting against him was cold and awful…then it stopped and he was stalled. The pain continued but he was no longer moving into the cold.

The talons let go and he dropped, the air cutting again, but different, coming at him from below. His organs rose and pressed against his lungs until his feet hit ocean. Water rushed up his nose and down his throat, but his arms acted on instinct—despite that small bones had been broken.

He choked out the water as his head broke surface. Then the barking started and all around him were sea lions and seals, closing in and enormous. He slapped the water and wailed to the skies. A big, dog-like mouth clamped over his foot, dragging him down. He made to scream another gurgle shout, but an otter—slick as grease—charged down his throat and began digging with sharp little paws; digging until it left his chest via homemade hole created a half-inch beneath the ribcage.

Within one minute, all that remained of Andrew Tran was a blood cloud quickly dissipating in the busy ocean.

—

Tawny ran when she saw her father and daughter on the same bench her father had been using to feed the wildlife for more than fifty years. They looked wet and dirty, but breathing and maybe a little doped up.

“Thank god!” she shouted and buried them in kisses.

XX