The Sudden Sound of Silence

Fantasy / 3200 words

The house was old—perhaps the oldest on the block—and stood out like a sore thumb with its worn-out walls, dusty windows, and wild lawn.

But that is not what drew my eye.

It had been there for as long as I remembered, and I’d moved here over a decade ago. Always it had been empty and I’d often wondered why—it was in a nice neighborhood and, considering its state of disrepair, it likely would have been cheap.

And yet, I was standing across the street, staring at an old man’s silhouette walking back and forth inside. He was plain enough to see each time he went past a window.

“I bet he moved in in the middle of the night.”

The voice startled me. I spun and let out a mental sigh when I saw my neighbor from two houses down.

“Hello Marsha.”

She scrunched up her face, motioning toward the old man with her chin.

“Look at him! Going about like he owns the place.”

“He probably does.”

“You know what I mean!”

“I’m not sure that I do.”

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking, Peter?”

I really didn’t, as I had a strong sense of the direction this would go, but she didn’t wait for my response—of course she didn’t.

“He’s a Jew. It’s obvious just from his face, don’t you think?”

And here we go again!

“I couldn’t care less,” I said as I turned to face the house once more.

The stranger had paused at one of the windows. He was bent, as if looking at something on the floor. I could see him better now—short white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a gray flannel shirt.

“Well, you should! If those people aren’t kept in check, they’ll take over the world!”

No they won’t, you bigoted old hag.

I gave her my most insincere smile. “I hear my wife calling my name. Good day, Marsha.”

She started to protest, but I ignored her and hurried back inside my house. I’d gone out to get the paper from the lawn, and that was when I’d noticed the old man. But I was in no mood to put up with the woman’s venom—to be fair, I never was.

For some reason, Marsha had decided that she liked me. Very unfortunate, as the feeling was not mutual.

***

I knocked on the old man’s door because it was the neighborly thing to do. Wendy—that’s my wife—had baked some cookies, and I thought I’d share some with our new neighbor.

The door opened, and the sound of a thousand ticking clocks droned into my head.

“Ah, Peter. It is nice to meet you. Please come in.”

I stared behind him at the shelves that covered the walls. Each shelf was crammed with clocks, all ticking in rhythm.

The man had moved away from the door. I stepped in, as in a daze, fascinated with all I was seeing.

“Is that for me?”

The question brought me back to my senses. I straightened and focused on the old man’s face. He seemed greatly amused by my reaction to his living room.

“Yes,” I said after clearing my throat and holding out the box. “Cookies. My wife made them.”

“Wonderful! You’ll have to give her my thanks. That was very thoughtful.” He took the box and headed toward the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh batch.”

It wasn’t like Wendy had made the cookies specifically for him, but she always tended to bake for a regiment. Though there was no point in sharing that detail with him.

“Sure,” I responded distractedly. That was when his earlier words finally registered in my mind. “Wait! How do you know my name?”

“I think you’ll like it,” he called out from the kitchen.

He must not have heard me.

While I waited for him to return, I walked around the room, examining his collection. The clocks were all different and unique, though all seemed old and worn.

Their singing bathed me, almost hypnotizing.

The sound had seemed harmonious at first, but now I realized it was marred by a faint, out-of-sync ticking.

Searching for the source of the discordance, I was drawn to a cluttered table where two clocks throned. The one on the left was small and made of bright beige wood; it had a splintered frame, and its hand barely moved at all. The other was tall, dark, dented, cracked, and it ticked too quickly with a sharp and piercing sound.

A chuckle from behind made me jump.

“You have quite an ear to have picked up on that.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry...”

The man held two steaming cups and handed me one.

“Here. And please, have a seat.”

I took the offered cup and settled on the couch.

“You are a clockmaker?” I asked.

The man sat across from me, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” His gaze wandered across the shelves. “I don’t make them after all. Clockworker would be more appropriate, I suppose.”

“I’m surprised you keep so many worn ones.”

He smiled.

“Each clock is its own enigma, Peter, each with its own story and its own flaws. It is not my place to pick favorites.”

My eyes went to the table. “But you fix them when they break.”

“Sometimes.”

I blew on my coffee to cool it down, then took a small sip.

It was really good, he’d been right about that.

“How do you know my name?” I asked again.

The gleam in his eye echoed the mirth in his voice.

“I saw it on your mailbox when I moved in. You are Peter Kendall, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh good! I worried for a moment that I might have gotten it wrong. That would have been awkward.” A pause. “I’m Arwin, by the way.”

I nodded. “This house has been empty for so long, Mr. Arwin... When did you move in?”

He laughed. “It’s just Arwin. As for your question, I drove all day yesterday and arrived after midnight. It is a relief that I did not wake you. I was quite worried I would disturb the entire neighborhood.”

We spoke for half an hour.

He was a pleasant man, albeit a touch eccentric.

I thanked him for the coffee and conversation, and headed back across the street.

On my way, I noticed his garage door was open...

... and there was no car inside.

***

My family is an ordinary family. We have two children—Lisa is sixteen and dreams of becoming a pop star; Jason is ten and is obsessed with anything Curious George related.

That night, as we sat for dinner, the mood was more somber than usual.

Wendy works as a nurse at the hospital, and Jason’s best friend had been rushed to the ER after a severe asthma attack. The boy, who struggled to breathe, was now hooked to machines and pumped with steroids.

We ate in silence.

“I visited our new neighbor,” I said after a moment, to try and lighten the mood. “He’s very odd.”

Wendy threw me a glance.

“What new neighbor?”

“You know that old house across the street?”

“No one’s lived there for years, Peter.”

“Well, there’s someone there now.”

“Really?”

“He moved in last night.”

“Oh.”

Her answers felt mechanical. I could tell her mind was elsewhere, so I decided to drop it.

“Mommy...”

We looked at our son, who was playing with his vegetables rather than eating them.

“Yes, Jason?”

“How’s Michael?”

My wife tensed. This was likely the question she had dreaded hearing. She stared at her plate, a frown on her face.

“He’s not well, sweetie.”

“Can I play with him tomorrow?”

“You’ll have to wait until he gets better.”

“When will he get better?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

“Hey, champion,” I cut in before the boy could ask another question. “Are you going to finish those vegetables?”

He shook his head. “They taste funny.”

“That’s because you didn’t put enough ketchup on them.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Then go get ready for bed,” said Wendy. “I’ll come read you a story in a few minutes.”

“Alright, mommy.”

Jason left the table and headed upstairs.

Lisa, who hadn’t said a word yet, looked at her mother.

“It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

Wendy sighed. “He’s struggling. Honestly, I don’t know if he’ll make it. We’ve pumped into him everything we could think of.”

I grabbed and squeezed her hand.

“Poor Jason,” muttered Lisa.

***

The next morning, I was mowing the lawn when I saw the neighborhood bigot coming up the street, waving her hands wildly to draw my attention.

I sighed and turned the engine off.

“Hello, Marsha. How can I help you?”

She grinned. “You have it all wrong, Peter! I’m the one who’s here to help.”

Oh great. Can’t wait to hear what she has to say today.

“Last week, I was in town, and I met these wonderful people.” She pulled a brochure out of her bag and handed it to me. “I think they could really do something for Lisa.”

I took the document and flipped it open. Cringed as I read.

“Conversion therapy, Marsha? Really?”

“No, no!” She made a dismissive gesture. “That’s not it at all. Your daughter is suffering from Same-Sex Attraction Disorder. They told me everything about it, and it really makes sense! The best part is that it can be cured! Isn’t that wonderful? See, it says it all right here.” She tapped on the document I still held. “These people know what they’re doing, Peter. Don’t you want what’s best for Lisa?”

What I really wanted was to scream at her, and it was all I could do to keep my temper in check. Had this been anyone else, I would have snapped right there and then. But she was a neighbor. I’d read too many horror stories about neighborhood conflicts turning into nightmares that I always tried to keep things civil.

“It’s not a disease, Marsha! This is who she is, and I wouldn’t want her any other way.”

I shoved the brochure back into her hands and was about to turn the mower back on when I froze.

A boy was running around on the lawn of the house next door to mine.

Marsha was still speaking, but I couldn’t hear a word.

Because that boy was Michael.

And he was playing and laughing and climbing up trees like only a healthy ten-year-old could.

***

I don’t know why I went back to him. Would it be weird to say I felt compelled to do so? I was so shocked to see Michael that I left the mower and the bigot on my lawn to go talk to him. He was as normal as I’d ever seen him.

When I turned to head back, still stunned, my eyes fell on the old house across the street. And I saw Arwin standing there at the window, staring at me—or that’s how it felt to me then.

And so I went to him.

He opened the door before I knocked. Stepped aside, and I went in.

The ticking of the clocks immediately appeased me.

There was comfort in that sound, in that moment.

Even the one that ticked out of sync no longer bothered me.

Do not ask me to explain it, I could not.

I had never felt this way before.

A part of me was numb.

We sat and we spoke.

I’m not sure what about.

The weather. The neighbors. The infuriating banality of life.

But as we spoke, my eyes were drawn to the table.

Gone was the smaller clock; only the darker one remained.

I scanned the room and found it. There, on a top shelf. Its wooden frame was still splintered, but the hand moved in sync with all the other ones.

“You fixed it,” I said.

The man, who had been talking, paused mid-sentence and turned to follow my gaze.

“Yes,” he muttered. “I was not sure if I could save it.”

“Why do you do it?”

He gave me a strange look. “Because someone needs to.”

I was not sure how to respond to that, but before I could figure it out, his eyes fixed on something behind me.

“Ah. We have a visitor.”

He stood and headed for the entrance.

I turned just in time to see Marsha peeking through the window. She scurried back in alarm when Arwin spotted her. He opened the door.

“Hello, Miss Card. Would you like to join us?”

“No, I...” She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know my name?”

“We’ve been talking about you, of course.”

“You have?”

I didn’t remember that, but then I couldn’t say what we had talked about.

“And Peter here has been saying lovely things about you.”

“He has?”

I have?

To be fair, I might have been even more startled than she was.

At a loss for words, Marsha stepped in when he motioned for her to do so.

Her eyes went wide when she saw all the clocks.

“What...”

“Please,” Arwin said, “have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Coming back to her senses, she spun and pointed an accusing finger at our host.

“I knew it! Up to no good, just as I thought! Do you have a permit for all this?”

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t just waltz in and start a business in your home—assuming this is your home, I still have my doubts about that! But what you most definitely can not do is start selling clocks from your living room!” She wrinkled her nose. “And what is that noise?”

“It’s the ticking of the clocks,” I muttered.

Arwin seemed amused by her outburst. “Oh, dear lady, I am doing no such thing. I am merely a clockworker.”

“See! That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s work. So, you need a permit! Do you have one?”

“No, no, you misunderstand. I’m more like a collector.”

“As if I would... Oh, for crying out loud! What is that?”

She swung around, eyes darting about wildly until they fell on the tall, dark, discordant clock on the table.

That must have been what was bothering her.

Her nostrils flared.

“I can’t stand it anymore!” She marched to the table and reached out.

“Oh, miss Card, please, do not—”

Arwin hurried after her, but it was too late.

She seized the offending clock, raised it above her head, and hurled it against the ground.

The clock exploded into pieces, gears flying all around the room.

Marsha slumped to the floor.

I rushed to her side and gently slapped her face to wake her, but she did not respond.

Her skin was cold. Her face very pale.

Trembling, I grabbed her wrist to check her pulse.

“She’s dead,” I said, voice quivering.

The old man was gathering pieces from the floor.

“Not all clocks can be fixed,” he said mournfully.

“Have you heard me? She’s dead! We need to call the cops.”

He straightened. Dropped all the pieces on the table and came up to me. Placed a hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll take care of everything, Peter.” There was such sadness in his voice that it nearly broke my heart. “Go to your family.”

“But—”

“Your three children will need you. Besides, this is my home. It’s my responsibility. Go.”

I hesitated, but I still felt so numb inside that I nodded, and left.

***

I went home and found Wendy working in the kitchen. She spoke to me, I think, but I could not focus on anything she said. I was still thinking about Marsha.

My eyes were drawn to the window. I pulled a chair so I could face it and stared at the house across the street.

And I waited.

As I waited, the numbness receded, and I grew nervous.

“What’s with you?” asked my wife, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

“Nothing,” I said grumpily.

“You’ve been sitting there for well over an hour, Peter, don’t tell me nothing’s wrong!”

Had it really been that long?

I shifted in my chair.

Pointed out the window.

“Something bad happened there.”

“That place again? It’s empty. I checked after you mentioned that man last night. I think someone played a prank on you, Peter. It’s still up for sale.”

“It can’t be. It’s filled with clocks!”

She pressed her hand against my forehead, as if to check my temperature. I swiped it away, grunting.

“I’m not sick!”

“If you say so. But you’re not making it easy for me, you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

She looked away, flushing a little.

“I... I have something I’ve been meaning to tell you, but what with Michael being sick, it never felt like the right time.”

“Michael... How can he be so well after being so sick?”

Wendy shrugged. “His meds finally kicked in; it just took a while. It happens. But listen, this is important.”

She knelt in front of me, grabbing my hands and smiling shyly—I hadn’t seen her like this since...

“I’m pregnant.”

I stared at her.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, squeezing my hands, looking into my eyes for my reaction.

“You are? Really?”

She pulled away and stood, frowning.

“You don’t seem happy about it.”

I was more shocked than anything else. It’s not that I was upset about it, I was just having a hard time processing the information, with everything else that had happened.

Standing, I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to me.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Of course I’m happy.”

We kissed.

Not long, as a siren interrupted us.

“Finally!” I cried out as I pulled away and rushed to the window.

“What is going on?” Wendy asked.

An ambulance rushed past our house and drove on down the street.

“I have no idea,” I said in confusion.

Glancing at Arwin’s house, it seemed as quiet as it had ever been.

We went outside and saw the ambulance had stopped at Marsha’s house.

People had gathered there and we hurried to join them.

We reached the group just as the paramedics were bringing out Marsha’s body.

I stared in disbelief as they placed her in the ambulance.

“What happened?” asked Wendy to a neighbor.

“Roy went to speak to her. Found the door open, and her lying dead in her bed. Can you believe it?”

I couldn’t. I really couldn’t.

Leaving them all behind, I ran to Arwin’s house—I needed to understand.

No one answered when I knocked.

I tried the door, and it swung open.

The living room was empty.

No more clocks.

No more shelves.

Only dust and silence.

Was I going crazy? How was this possible?

That’s when I saw it.

A box near the door to the kitchen.

When I got closer, I saw a note attached to the lid.

“A gift for you. Do not let it break.”

I knew from the muffled ticking sound what was within before I opened the box.

It was a beautiful, intricately carved, and brand new clock.

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Text (c) 2025 by Alex S. Garcia.

Header: royalty-free stock image, edited by me, using a template by Shane Bzdok.

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