A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…
Doug was a little, skinny man who sat in the window of his little, skinny shop mending clocks. He was a fixture in the city, and as reliable as the dawn. So the day he wasn’t there there, a hunt was called. But there was no sign. The city burghers sent for a finder who led them to a half-forgotten graveyard, where a moss-encrusted headstone marked Doughall Snaith’s last resting place.
The mayor had to be revived with smelling salts and burnt feathers.
“But who has been mending our clocks?”
“Who? Or What?”
The finder flew away laughing.
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