The Wishing Game(22)

He screamed. She screamed.

When you gotta scream, you gotta scream.





Tick-Tock. Welcome to the Clock.





    In the middle of the deep green wood stood a house half-hidden by towering maple trees. Astrid had never seen a house so strange or so dark. Although the house was tall and wide and made of red brick, so much green ivy grew over it that she could only tell where the windows were by the way the moonlight glinted on the glass.

“Is that it?” Max whispered behind her. “Is that his house?”

“I think so,” Astrid whispered back. “Let’s go in.”

“It’s dark. No one’s inside. We should go home.”

“Not when we just got here.” Astrid wanted to go home too. Nothing would be easier than to go home. But they wouldn’t get their wish if they gave up now.

A light appeared in the window. Someone was inside.

Astrid gasped softly. Max gasped loudly.

They looked at each other. Slowly they approached the house on a path made of slick mossy stones. Max followed close behind her.

When they reached the door, it was so dark Astrid had to turn on her flashlight to find the bell. She pushed the button and waited to hear a ring.

She didn’t hear a ring but a voice, a weird mechanical voice.

“What can’t be touched, tasted, or held but can be broken?”

Astrid jumped back, which made Max jump. They were both panting with fear.

“What was that?” Max asked, eyes wide.

“I think it was the doorbell.” Her hand was shaking, but she pressed it again.

The voice spoke again, and it was like listening to a clock talk, and every syllable was a tick.

“What. Can’t. Be. Touched. Or. Taste. Ed. Or. Held. But. Can. Be. Broke. En?”

“It’s a riddle,” Astrid said. “We can’t get in unless we answer the riddle. What can’t be touched or tasted or held but can be broken? Think, Max!”

But Max wasn’t thinking. He was shaking. “Astrid, I want to go home. You promised if it was scary, we could go home.”

Then it hit her. She knew the answer.

Astrid called out to the door, “A promise!”

After a long pause, the mechanical voice said, “Tick. Tock. Wel. Come. To. The. Clock.”

The door creaked open.

—From The House on Clock Island, Clock Island Book One, by Jack Masterson, 1990





Chapter Seven





Hugo was in exile. His own fault. Three stories up in the air, he stood at the railing of the widow’s walk and watched as the boats and ferries came and went, bringing boxes and grocery bags, even temporary household staff to handle the cooking and cleaning. A small army of staff had been temporarily enlisted by Jack to put on this insane contest of his. So far only one priceless marble bust made by a dead artistic genius had been broken. Jack had laughed and said, “That’s why we have insurance.” Hugo’s head had nearly exploded, which was when Jack sent him to the widow’s walk to “supervise the boats.”

Hugo protested. “Supervise the boats? Someone has to make sure nothing else gets broken down here.”

“Hugo,” Jack said with a large and rather terrifying grin on his face, “your bad mood is scaring the children.”

Hugo waved his arms around the room. “There are no children here.”

“Weren’t we all children once?” Jack said.

Point taken. Hugo retreated to the roof.

But even up here, he couldn’t find peace and quiet. His pocket began to vibrate. Yet another phone call from yet another unknown number, no doubt. Who was it this time? TMZ? The New York Post? National Enquirer? Out of pure spite, he answered the call.

“Yes?”

“Hugo Reese? This is Thomas Larrabee with Shelf Talker.”

“Never heard of it.”

“We’re a renowned literary blog.”

“What’s a blog?” Hugo asked with pure unadulterated spite.

“It’s a, well, it’s a—”

“Never mind. What do you want?”

“We were hoping you’d answer a few questions—”

“I have a one-question limit.”

“Oh, well, all right,” he said. Hugo heard pages flipping in a notebook. “What’s the real Jack Masterson like?”

“Good question,” Hugo said.

“Thank you.”

“If I ever meet the real Jack Masterson, I’ll tell you.”

Hugo hung up. How were these people getting his phone number? Because he was on the roof, he could get just enough cell phone reception to google Shelf Talker. No surprise, this renowned literary blog had all of seventeen followers, most of which looked like Russian bot accounts.

It wasn’t a bad question, though. What’s the real Jack Masterson like? Hugo wished he knew.

Suddenly last year, out of nowhere, without warning, and with no explanation, Jack got out of bed one day and started writing again. And then, again with no explanation, without warning, out of nowhere, and all of a sudden, he decided to throw a contest in his own house on the island?

The old man loved routine, loved his privacy, loved peace and quiet. Social butterflies did not live on private islands. No, Jack was whatever you called the opposite of a social butterfly—an introverted moth, maybe. Yet for a whole week, the house would be overrun with strangers. Why?