It’s the second clock that wakes the thing. A slant, warped box of thirteen crimson letters set about a chipped, slate face. The sound of steel striking bone. Infernal, arrhythmic punctures that dance between the pendulum’s metered silences. The manic, staggered metronome somehow growing, resonating and layering with tick over stop over tick over tock over is over not.
A breath crawls up the thing’s shrivelled throat and ribbons of rotting tissue flutter between the jagged ivory jutting from its maw. A mob of sleep-stuck eyes writhe under tallow skin. Misfiring piston coughs shake the meat of it and rattle the iron bed. Tender, raw flesh snags against the rust-peppered springs, galvanising the putrid mass into waking. Its flank of crust-glued eyelids strain and, oozing, tear themselves open to the gloom; goat/squid pupils snapping at the thin, grey morning, edged flame by the streetlight peering in through the barricaded window.
Then the thing on the bed begins its screaming.