The streetlights, weak amber eyes in the gathering dusk, flickered to life as Jean-Pierre locked up his carpentry workshop.
The air held the faint scent of sawdust and varnish, a comfortable smell that usually eased his mind after a day spent shaping wood. But tonight, a different kind of air pressed down, thick and expectant, making the familiar scent seem thin, almost brittle.
He could feel it in the way his steps sounded too loud on the pavement, in the hurried goodbyes exchanged between the last few storefront owners as they secured their doors.
A strange urgency had gripped the town every evening for weeks now. It started subtly, a gradual quickening of paces as daylight faded.
Then came the early closings, first a shop here and there, then a wave sweeping through Main Street. Now, by the time shadows lengthened, the town became a ghost of its daytime self, doors bolted, windows dark.
Jean-Pierre, a pragmatic man who had weathered earthquakes and political storms back in Haiti, initially dismissed it as collective anxiety, some town-wide nervousness feeding on itself.
But the feeling, whatever its source, was infectious. Even he, who prided himself on his calm demeanor, found himself glancing over his shoulder more frequently as the sun dipped below the horizon.
He walked towards his small apartment above a bakery, the scent of day-old bread, usually a comforting aroma, tonight tinged with something else, something vaguely unsettling.
The bakery below was already dark, the owner, Mrs. Davison, a woman usually cheerful past sundown, must have shuttered early.
He noticed the silence first, a vacuum where the gentle evening sounds of town life should have been. No distant television murmur, no clatter of dishes from dinner tables, just the faint whisper of the wind, and something else, something…regular.
Tick.
Jean-Pierre paused, his keys halfway to the lock. He listened. The wind rustled the leaves of the oak tree in front of the bakery, the normal sounds of night. He tried to convince himself that was all it was.
Tick.
There it was again. A distinct, measured tick. Not quite like a clock, more organic, deeper. It was faint, almost lost in the ambient sounds, but undeniably there. He unlocked his door quickly and stepped inside, flipping on the light.
The small room, with its worn furniture and familiar tools leaning against the wall, felt like a sanctuary, however temporary.
He closed the window, though the night was still warm, a reflex he'd seen others adopt. Inside, with the door locked and the window shut, the ticking was fainter, almost imperceptible.
He told himself it was just his imagination, the town's nervousness seeping into his own thoughts. He made himself a simple dinner, rice and beans, a taste of home that usually brought comfort.
But even the familiar flavors felt muted, overshadowed by the persistent, quiet tick in the background of his awareness.
Later, he tried to read, an old book of French poetry he'd carried with him from Port-au-Prince. The words swam before his eyes, the rhythmic verses failing to capture his attention. He kept listening, straining to hear past the silence of his apartment, for the sound that had begun to infect the town's nights.
Tick.
It was there, fainter now, muffled by the walls, but undeniably present. It wasn't inside the building. It was outside. And it was moving.
He could sense a gradual change in its position, a very slow, deliberate progression. He stood up, walked to the window, and peered through a gap in the curtains.
The street below was deserted, bathed in the weak glow of the streetlight. Nothing. Just empty pavement and the shadows of the buildings.
Tick.
He jumped back from the window, a jolt of pure, irrational fear shooting through him. It sounded closer now, definitely closer. And he could swear, though it defied logic, that it was coming from the direction of his window.
He moved away from the window, to the far side of the room, feeling foolish, yet unable to shake the growing dread. He sat on the edge of his bed, the book falling forgotten to the floor.
The ticking continued, a slow, deliberate count of passing moments, each tick heavier than the last.
He tried to distract himself. He turned on the small radio he kept on his bedside table, tuning it to static first, then finding a late-night talk show, the host's voice a bland drone.
The human voice helped, a little. It filled the silence in his small apartment, pushing back against the oppressive quiet of the town. But even over the radio, he could still hear it.
Tick.
It was louder now, undeniably louder. And it was definitely moving, drawing nearer. He turned the radio up, trying to drown it out completely, but it was no use. The tick was not a loud sound, but it possessed a quality that bypassed the ears and went straight to the nerves. It was a sound that seemed to resonate inside his bones, a vibration of dread.
He got up again, pacing the small room, his heart beating faster now. He felt a prickling sensation on his skin, the instinctive awareness of being watched, even though he knew it was absurd. There was nothing out there. Just the night, the empty street, and… the ticking.
Tick.
It was right outside now. He could feel it, a presence just beyond the thin walls of his apartment. He stood frozen in the center of the room, listening, his breath shallow.
He imagined something outside, something unseen, unheard except for that slow, rhythmic tick, standing there, waiting. Waiting for what?
He wanted to look out the window again, to see if he could finally see what was making the sound, what was causing this town-wide panic.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Fear, raw and primal, held him rooted to the spot. It wasn't just the sound, it was the feeling it evoked, a sense of something ancient and malevolent, something patient and inevitable.
Tick.
It was just outside his door now, he was certain. He could picture it, a dark shape pressed against the wooden door, the ticking emanating from it, filling the small space between the door and the frame.
He backed away from the door, moving slowly, silently, until his back was against the far wall. He stared at the door, his eyes wide, his body tense. He felt like prey, cornered, waiting for the predator to make its move.
Tick.
The ticking stopped.
The sudden silence was more terrifying than the sound had been. The absence of the tick was like the absence of a heartbeat, a sign that something vital had ceased.
Jean-Pierre held his breath, straining his ears, listening for any sound, any indication of what was on the other side of the door. There was nothing. Just silence. A thick, heavy silence that pressed in on him, suffocating him.
Then, a slow, deliberate scratch. Not on the door itself, but on the wall beside the door, just inches from his head on the other side. A dry, scraping sound, like fingernails on wood. Slow. Deliberate. And then another scratch, and another. Moving slowly up the wall, towards the window, towards him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands against his ears, trying to block out the sound, trying to block out the fear. But it was no use. The scratching continued, moving closer, and he could feel the vibrations through the wall, feel the cold dread seep into him.
He opened his eyes, his gaze darting around the room, searching for anything, any weapon, anything to defend himself with. His eyes fell on the toolbox in the corner, the tools he used for his carpentry.
A hammer, a chisel, a saw. He scrambled towards it, his movements clumsy with fear. He grabbed the hammer, its weight strangely reassuring in his trembling hand. He turned back to face the door, the hammer raised, ready. Ready for… what?
The scratching stopped again. Silence descended once more, even heavier than before. He waited, his heart pounding, the hammer shaking in his grip. Minutes stretched, each second feeling like an eternity. The silence was a physical weight now, pressing down on him, crushing him.
Then, a new sound. A soft, wet sound, like something brushing against the door. A slow, dragging sound, moving from the top of the door downwards. He imagined something sliding down the door, something heavy, something… viscous.
He couldn't take it anymore. He had to see. He had to know. He moved slowly towards the door, his hand reaching for the knob. His fingers trembled as he grasped the cold metal. He took a deep breath, held it, and turned the knob. Slowly. Quietly.
He pulled the door open a crack, just enough to peer through. The hallway outside was dimly lit by a single bulb at the far end. Empty. Nothing.
Just the hallway, the doors to the other apartments on either side, all dark, all silent. He opened the door a little wider, peering out, searching. Still nothing. No sound, no movement, just the empty hallway.
He stepped out of his apartment, cautiously, the hammer still raised. He looked up and down the hallway. Nothing. He walked a few steps, moving silently on the carpeted floor, his senses strained, alert for any sign of danger.
He reached the end of the hallway, looked around the corner. Still nothing. The stairs leading down to the bakery entrance were dark and silent.
He felt foolish now, the fear receding slightly, replaced by a wave of embarrassment. He had let his imagination run away with him, fueled by the town's collective nervousness. It was just the night, the wind, shadows playing tricks. He was being ridiculous.
He started to turn back towards his apartment, to close the door and try to sleep, to forget this whole ridiculous episode.
Then he saw it.
At the far end of the hallway, near the stairs, a shape. Dark, indistinct, but definitely there. Standing motionless in the shadows. And he heard it again, faint but unmistakable.
Tick.
He froze, his blood turning to ice. The shape began to move, slowly, deliberately, gliding towards him, not walking, not running, but gliding, as if it was floating just above the floor. And with each step, each glide, the ticking grew louder.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
He could make out details now, in the dim light. It was tall, impossibly tall, its form elongated, distorted. It wore something that looked like a dress, a dark, shapeless garment that swayed as it moved, but there was no breeze in the hallway.
Its head was bowed, hidden in shadow, but he could see long, pale hands hanging down, almost to the floor, and on one hand, something glinted faintly in the dim light.
Tick.
Tick.
It was closer now, just a few feet away. He could feel the cold radiating from it, a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with temperature.
He could smell it too, a faint, sickly sweet odor, like rotting flowers, or something…decomposing.
Tick.
Tick.
He could see its face now, as it raised its head slightly. Or what should have been a face. It was pale, bone white, and stretched, elongated like the rest of its body. There were no eyes, no nose, just a slit for a mouth, a thin, black line that seemed to widen as it drew closer. And where its heart should have been, in the center of its chest, something pulsed, something dark and organic, and from it came the sound.
Tick.
Tick.
He understood then. The ticking wasn't a sound it made. It was its heartbeat. Slow, deliberate, the heartbeat of something not alive, not dead, but something in between, something… other.
He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He tried to run, but his legs were lead, rooted to the spot.
He could only stand there, paralyzed by terror, as the Ticking Woman glided towards him, its pale, stretched face looming closer, its black mouth widening into a silent, hungry grin.
Tick.
Tick.
Its hand reached out, the long, pale fingers grasping, and he saw the glint again, on one finger, a small, silver thimble. As its fingers brushed his cheek, cold as death, the ticking stopped again. Silence descended, absolute and final.
The next morning, the bakery owner, Mrs. Davison, found Jean-Pierre's apartment door open. The hammer lay on the floor just inside the doorway.
Jean-Pierre was gone. His book of poetry lay open on the bed, the pages ruffled as if disturbed in a hurry. The radio was still on, playing static.
The town searched, of course. The police went through the motions, asked a few questions, but everyone knew, without saying it aloud, what had happened.
The Ticking Woman had taken another one. They would find others gone in the coming weeks, always alone, always at night, always after the ticking sound had been heard.
But Jean-Pierre was different. He wasn't just another name on a list, another victim of the nightly terror. Back in Haiti, during the earthquake, he had lost his wife, his daughter, his entire family crushed beneath the rubble.
He had come to this town, to this quiet life, seeking a refuge from loss, a place to rebuild, to find some semblance of peace.
He had escaped the tremors of the earth, only to be claimed by a different kind of tremor, a slower, more deliberate one, the tick of a heart that wasn't his, leading him not to death, but to a silence even deeper, a void more complete than any earthquake could create.
He had survived one devastation, only to walk unknowingly into another, a darkness that echoed the loss he had tried so hard to leave behind, a final, brutal twist of fate that made his journey not just tragic, but uniquely, devastatingly his own.