but this time he was the one in control, this time he was the nightmare–)
The second hand, the thinnest of the three, suddenly snapped and fell out of the clockface completely,
bouncing once on the rug and disappearing into the ashes of the hearth.
Conor stepped back quickly, letting go of the pendulum. It dropped to its centre point but didn’t start swinging again.
Nor did the clock make any of the whirring, ticking sounds it usually made as it ran, its hands now frozen solidly in place.
Uh-oh. Conor’s stomach started squeezing as he realized what he’d done.
Oh, no, he thought. Oh, no. He’d broken it. A clock that was probably worth more than his mum’s whole beaten-up car.
His grandma was going to kill him, maybe actually, literally kill him–
Then he noticed. The hour and minute hands had stopped at a specific time. 12.07.
“As destruction goes,” the monster said behind him, “this is all remarkably pitiful.”
Conor whirled around. Somehow, some way, the monster was in his grandma’s sitting room.
It was far too big, of course, having to bend down very, very low to fit under the ceiling,
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