An upbeat hum filled the air. The swishing of the microfiber duster matched the rhythmic noise. Particles of dead hair and cells flew up as the wind from the duster appeared on occasion. The tick, tick, tick, of the grandfather clock ,as the inspiration of the song. Jeffery Gutenhiemer’s wrinkled hands clutched the duster loosely, allowing it to swing back and forth across the front of the grandfather clock. His eyes traveled constantly, taking in the oak tea table, the dark, leather, L-shaped couch, and the giant succulents, resting soundly in pots of oak. The butler’s eyes traveled to the bottom of the clock, checking for dust particles. A slow journey upwards revealed the brass pendulum. A curious red liquid was dripping down the side, drops falling to form a puddle.
Gutenhiemer squinted his eyes, intrigued as to what the liquid was. He leaned forward to inspect the puddle; however, a deep breath revealed a slightly metallic smell. ‘How curious,’ he thought. Ideas flashed through his mind. ‘Could is be rust? No, that’s impossible. Then wha-,’ His forest eyes widened. Frightened eyes rose to the top of the clock and then to the side. Pale hands reached up to move the sideboard, revealing cold, dead eyes.
His old heart sped up with every hyperventilating breath. The butler’s hand dug into his pocket and fumbled for his cellular device. Shaky fingers grasped the box and slowly brought it into the open. Light was emitted from the once dark screen, except for three little numbers, etched in black. 9-1-1.
