by Mr. W
He twiddled the gleaming, silver socket wrench in his fingers and sighed. The cogs and gears snicked along, the leather restraining straps were oiled and crack-free, the massive pendulum razor-sharp, yes. But–he checked his watch again–the damn victim-fueled clock just couldn’t keep a steady time.
He had spent too many years on this. It was time to pack it up.
From the basement of the castle echoed the rattle of chains and a guttural, whimpering scream. He rolled his eyes. Now what was he going to do with all these victims?