The following is a short story written for the Sublime and Gothic class in December 2007
Stepping off the train, Herbert Styles walked onto the platform, his black pointed dress shoes planting themselves firmly on the concrete floor. He could not help sweating in the hot, smog-lined summer afternoon. Once again he pulled a white handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his black pinstripe jacket. With it he patted the beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead and his upper lip, just above his razor-thin black moustache. As soon as he reached the platform, however, he felt a cool breeze rushing between his legs. The air was brisk, and on the open-air platform Mr. Styles saw the afternoon darkened by clouds, which cast a dark shadow over the bright blue sky he had seen on the train. England was known for its unpredictable weather patterns, but for some reason this abrupt change seemed rather unusual. The entire sky had been crusted off so that the summer day was obstructed from the ground below.
Mr. Styles opened the door of the station, the wind rushing past him through the entranceway. Setting his pristine black leather briefcase down between his legs on the polished terrazzo floor of the station, he pulled out the pocket watch in his vest pocket, and matched its time to the clock above him. The station clock was an immense steel instrument that sat high overhead, housing gears of every shape and size behind its white tinted glass backing. This fragile material was separated into sections, with one triangular portion for each hour. Painted onto every panel was a black seriffed roman numeral to denote the time. The towering steel hands were ornamented with patterns of symmetrical waves running along their sides. They loomed over Mr. Styles, pointing to exactly three o’clock. Satisfied that he had the right time, he set the watch delicately back into his pocket.
Still thirty minutes remained before Mr. Styles would be at his job interview, so he set out to explore the town and find his way to the office. Making his way through the empty cobblestone-paved streets, the sound of his pointed shoes hitting the pavement echoed along the walls. There were no sidewalks here, and because there was no one to be found, he decided to walk in the middle of the street, where the ground tapered down to allow for the floods. With these clouds it might certainly flood soon.
At last Mr. Styles came to the bank. It was a large dark red brick structure, standing three storeys tall and topped with a grey roof that slanted down on all four sides and ended in a sort of plateau. A young, short-haired blond man with an impeccable red tie wound in a half Windsor knot stared down at him through a window on the second storey. Mr. Styles approached the door and let the brass door knocker fall three times. Upon the third crack of the metal, a short man, roughly a head smaller than he, opened the white panelled door to show him in. The short man was black-haired, wearing a pair of round, gold-rimmed spectacles upon his large nose.
“Mr. Styles,” the man said slowly with a rather high voice, “welcome. How was your train ride?”
“Oh it was quite good sir, although I must admit the weather has changed rather rapidly,” he replied.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. The weather is always like this here. But come in, let me show you upstairs.”
On the ground floor, heavy white curtains were drawn over the windows looking out onto the street. A dim light revealed the path to the two. The floor was of dark inlaid wood that formed patterns on the ground. Past the foyer, Mr. Styles caught glimpses through the open doors. Men sat at large wooden desks, busily working in the black of their offices lit only by small art nouveau Tiffany desk lamps. The bespectacled man led Mr. Styles up the white, varnished wood spiral staircase on the far side of the corridor. Mr. Styles grasped the gold railing as he walked along the thin side of the stairs, carefully maneuvering his feet up the sturdy surface.
When they reached the first floor above ground, Mr. Styles was given a warm greeting from the blond man he had seen in the window who, upon closer inspection, couldn’t have been much more than twenty years old. The bright blue eyes stared back at him as the man introduced himself.
“John Hayesbury, president of this little enterprise,” he said as he gave a forceful shake to Mr. Styles’ right hand, “So good to finally meet you Mr. Styles.” Without waiting for Mr. Styles’ reply, to the short man he said simply, “you may go back about your work Mr. Worth.”
Mr. Hayesbury beckoned Mr. Styles into his office. Sitting down in front of the desk on a large wooden armchair, Mr. Styles set his briefcase down between his legs. As he looked around the room he managed to make out in the dim light rows of ornate wooden bookshelves lining walls, which housed papers and volumes of all sorts. Behind Mr. Hayesbury, who was now sitting behind his desk, he saw a detailed map of Africa hanging in a picture frame on the wall.
His interviewer had said nothing after his introduction and he was surprised to have asked, “Well Mr. Hayesbury, have you been working here long?”
The man’s gold tie pin had come loose. Once he had reattached it he looked up, quite relaxed, saying, “I suppose it must be,” he paused to think, “oh about twenty five years or so now.”
Mr. Styles was astonished, but he had no time to give it any further thought, as his interviewer had already begun. The interview must have lasted at least half an hour, and upon its conclusion Mr. Styles was given a position at the bank. He left the building, excitedly walking back to the train station. Once he started work he would be given a room in town to avoid the long commute. There might still be time to reach the four-fifteen train, so Mr. Styles pulled out his pocket watch. To his dismay, however, it still read three o’clock. He must not have wound it enough the day before. But strangely, he found it fully wound. There must be something loose in the mechanism, he thought.
Entering the train station, he sought the time from the steel clock on the wall. The hand again pointed to three o’clock. The briefcase Mr. Styles had been holding in his left hand fell to the polished terrazzo floor, slipping away from him onto its side and producing a shock so profound in the desolate station that it seemed to shake the very earth itself. At that moment the train outside gave a loud whistle. Mr. Styles quickly gathered his briefcase and ran to the train, all the while dusting the dirt off of it with his handkerchief.
As he rode away in the train, the ominous dark clouds began to part, and revealed to him once again the hot summer sun and bright blue sky. Removing his pocket watch, Mr. Styles noticed the small second hand ticking away behind the other two, housed in its own circular space. The watch now showed four twenty.
* * *
Several days after his interview, Mr. Styles sat in his new office on the ground floor of the brick building. He was in the process of scribbling out a set of figures for the bank’s ventures in Africa. He wrote with a new gold fountain pen that reflected the light emanating from his gilded art nouveau lamp onto every corner of the room.
While he busied himself over a set of reports, he gradually became aware of the sound of an incessant ticking noise. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the ticking came from his vest pocket. He knew not how it started moving, but the clock now read three o two.
Without wasting another minute, Mr. Styles flew up the white spiral staircase to see Mr. Hayesbury. Before he was able to reach the first floor, however, he inadvertently kicked one of the steps with the pointed toe of his shoe, and would have fallen forward if his left hand did not catch the golden railing. Once he had regained his composure, Mr. Styles continued up the stairs at a more moderate pace.
Inside the office, Mr. Hayesbury seemed distressed. Out of breath, Mr. Styles managed to say briskly, “Mr. Hayesbury, my watch has started.”
The other had opened the curtains and was looking through the window. Small drops of rain streamed from the dark sky, hitting the glass pane. He was peculiarly distant when he remarked, “it hasn’t ever rained here in nearly thirty years.”
The man’s face was sunken. He turned to face Mr. Styles, pushing two grey strands of hair away from his brow. “Mr. Hayesbury, my watch has started,” the new initiate told him, brandishing the watch.
“You are the only outsider among us Mr. Styles. You are the only one who can stop the clock again.”
Mr. Styles fell into the wooden armchair without saying a word. Mr. Hayesbury continued, “there isn’t much time left. You must go to the train station and stop the clock.”
“But how?” he asked, rising from the chair.
“Go to the train station,” Mr. Hayesbury repeated more forcefully this time.
“Come with me,” Mr. Styles appealed.
“Very well.”
After he grasped his briefcase, Mr. Styles and Mr. Hayesbury set off running down the cobblestone streets to the train station. Inside the two could hear the gears of the massive clock turning behind its face.
“We must go upstairs,” Mr. Hayesbury said, pointing at the black metal staircase on the left side of the clock. The time was now three ten.
On the polished terrazzo floor, Mr. Styles could easily glide to the staircase, and they rushed up to meet the awakened giant. Thousands of turning gears covered the room, racketing away. The only light available was an uncovered light bulb hanging from a cloth-wrapped cord that descended from some place in the ceiling.
Where the awful noise was loudest they gazed in amazement at a massive gear, at least three times the size of either of two, spinning wildly against another of the same proportions at all too swift a pace. Its teeth were as sharp as a Beefeater’s pike, and madly tore into the air in front of them.
“We’ve got to find a way to stop it,” Mr. Hayesbury yelled through the din. With his blue-gray eyes he looked down at his companion’s black briefcase.
“I’m not giving it up,” Mr. Styles returned.
Suddenly, without warning, Mr. Hayesbury took hold of the briefcase and thrust it into the teeth of the gnashing gear. They penetrated the surface of the case, crushing it entirely and causing the new golden clasp Mr. Styles had fastened the day before to come flying off in a whirl of shredded leather. The gears stopped just before they reached the hand still grasping the handle of the briefcase.
Without letting go, Mr. Styles turned his head towards his companion with beads of sweat slowly streaming down his nose. In an instant the din ceased. Mr. Hayesbury looked on, now entirely white-haired, with the new wrinkles in his face producing a terrifying image in the light of the hanging bulb. A soft creaking could be heard in the distance, as the hinges of a rusted gate creak when it swings in the wind. Louder and louder it became, echoing through the room. The harsh sound rang through their ears until the din, came back.
The giant gears started up again in a fit of wild fury, and a piercing cry rose from the train station out into the grey sky, nearly shattering the glass of the clock and curdling the blood of anyone nearby. Mr. Styles had been engulfed in the mouth of the great beast.
Outside the rain had stopped and the curious ticking noise that had sounded throughout the town could no longer be heard.
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Ever since The Fog began, I had planned to conduct interviews with the Senate candidates. The Voice already had a monopoly on Senate platforms, so I thought that an interview with the candidates would allow students to get a closer look at the people running before the elections. It seemed like the simplest idea at first.
