Chapter 4: The Call

The morning was muted, wrapped in a heavy blanket of gray clouds that seemed to press down on Havensbrook, blurring the line between sky and earth. Amelia stood in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. The aroma was rich, but its warmth did little to banish the cold knot in her chest. The silence in the house was overwhelming, filled with an almost oppressive weight that seemed to amplify every creak and groan of the old structure. The events of the night before lingered at the edges of her mind, like the remnants of a dream that refused to fully dissolve.

She stared out the window above the sink, her gaze unfocused as it wandered over the garden outside. The hedges swayed gently in the breeze, their overgrown branches tangling and untangling like skeletal hands locked in a slow, silent dance. The damp ground shimmered faintly with the remnants of the previous night’s rain, the puddles reflecting fragments of the dull sky above. It was a familiar sight, yet it felt alien, as though she were looking at the world through a veil of unease.

Amelia took a slow sip of her coffee, the heat spreading across her tongue and down her throat. It was comforting in its own way, a tether to normalcy in a morning that felt anything but. Her thoughts drifted back to the workshop, to the notebook and the strange, cryptic diagrams that had filled her dreams with spinning clock hands and Bernard’s whispered warnings. The words The Eleventh Hour echoed faintly in her mind, a riddle she couldn’t yet solve but couldn’t ignore. What had Bernard been trying to tell her? And why did it feel like his message was meant for this moment, as though time itself had been holding its breath, waiting for her return?

The sharp buzz of her phone shattered the quiet, jolting her back to the present. She set the mug down on the counter, the ceramic clinking faintly against the wood, and turned to where the phone sat, its screen glowing with an unfamiliar number. For a moment, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the device. Something about the timing felt off, as though the call itself were a thread in the web Bernard had woven. Her pulse quickened, and a faint chill prickled at the back of her neck.

Finally, she picked up the phone and pressed it to her ear. “Hello?” she said, her voice steady despite the unease tightening her chest.

“Miss Carter?” The voice on the other end was deep and even, but there was something in its tone that made her stomach sink – a subtle weight, like a shadow creeping at the edges of her thoughts. “This is Sheriff Dalton.”

Amelia’s grip on the phone tightened, her fingers pressing into the smooth casing. “Yes, this is Amelia Carter,” she replied, her tone cautious. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

There was a pause, just long enough to make her heart begin to race. “I think you should come down to the town square,” Dalton said finally. His words were deliberate, carefully measured, as though he were holding something back. The hesitation in his voice made the space between them feel vast, heavy with something unspoken.

Amelia frowned, her stomach twisting as she processed his words. “The town square?” she asked, her tone sharpening. “What’s going on?”

The line went quiet for a moment, save for the faint crackle of static in the background. When Dalton spoke again, his voice was softer, almost reluctant. “It’s George Matthews,” he said. “He’s... gone.”

The word gone hit her like a wall, the breath rushing from her lungs as though she’d been punched. She leaned against the counter for support, her knuckles whitening as she gripped its edge. “Gone?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “What do you mean, gone?”

Dalton sighed, the sound crackling faintly through the phone. “We found him this morning, near the clock tower,” he said. There was a finality to his tone, a weight that made her stomach churn. “Miss Carter, there’s something you need to see.”

Her mind reeled, a flood of memories and questions colliding in a dizzying swirl. George, the man who had greeted her at the station, who had carried her suitcase and reassured her with his calm presence, was... gone. The word felt hollow, inadequate, as though it couldn’t possibly encompass the reality of what had happened. And the clock tower. Why there? What had drawn him to that place, and what had taken him from it?

Amelia ended the call with trembling hands, the faint click as she set the phone on the counter echoing far too loudly in the oppressive stillness of the kitchen. For a long moment, she stood frozen, her mind reeling from what she had just heard. George Matthews – gone. The words replayed in her head, each repetition hitting her harder than the last, as though the weight of them was only beginning to settle. She gripped the edge of the counter for support, her knuckles whitening as her thoughts spun out of control.

How could it be true? Only yesterday, George had been there, warm and steady, carrying her suitcase with the kind of quiet determination that made her feel safe in a town that no longer felt like home. His familiar smile, his easy manner – it was impossible to reconcile those memories with the idea of him being gone. And near the clock tower? The thought twisted her stomach, a sharp pang of dread settling deep inside her. Why there? Why now? The questions swirled relentlessly, but no answers came.

Her gaze drifted to the window, the overcast sky outside casting a dull, muted light over the garden. The hedges swayed in the breeze, their tangled branches shifting like restless hands reaching for something unseen. Even the mundane world outside felt altered, heavier, as though it were reacting to the weight of what had happened. Amelia’s reflection stared back at her in the glass, pale and drawn, her eyes wide with confusion and fear. She looked like a stranger to herself.

Forcing herself to move, she turned away from the window, her movements stiff and mechanical. The coffee she had poured earlier sat untouched on the counter, its surface rippling faintly as her hand brushed against the table. She picked up the mug but didn’t drink, setting it down again with a soft clink. Her mind was too full to focus on anything as mundane as coffee. Her eyes fell on the notebook sitting on the kitchen table, its cracked leather cover seeming to glint faintly in the weak morning light. A part of her wanted to open it again, to dive back into Bernard’s cryptic world in search of something – anything – that might make sense of what was happening. But not now. Not yet.

She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, the fabric feeling heavier than usual as she pulled it on. Each motion felt sluggish, weighed down by the reality she was struggling to process. She reached for the notebook again, her fingers brushing against its edge, but stopped herself. Whatever Bernard’s work might reveal, it would have to wait. The sheriff had asked her to come to the town square, and the urgency in his voice left no room for hesitation.

The door creaked softly as she stepped outside, the sound swallowed quickly by the chill morning air. The streets of Havensbrook were eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made even the softest sound feel intrusive. The usual hum of small-town life was absent – no clatter of dishes from the café down the road, no faint chatter from neighbors exchanging morning pleasantries. Even the birds seemed subdued, their songs reduced to faint, sporadic chirps that did little to fill the void. The entire town felt as though it were holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to break the stillness.

Amelia walked to her car, the gravel crunching beneath her boots the only sound accompanying her. Each step felt deliberate, her legs heavier with every move forward. The wind tugged at her coat, sharp and biting, carrying with it the faint scent of rain that lingered from the storm the night before. She paused briefly as she reached the driver’s side door, glancing back at the house as though it might offer her some reassurance. But the windows stared back at her blankly, their reflections warped and distorted by the uneven glass. Whatever comfort she might have once found there was long gone.

The engine groaned to life as she turned the key, the low rumble breaking the oppressive quiet around her. She adjusted the rearview mirror, her pale face staring back at her for a fleeting moment before she shifted into gear. The tires crunched over the gravel as she backed out of the driveway, the sound fading as she turned onto the main road. The drive to the town square was a short one, but the weight of the sheriff’s call made each minute stretch into an eternity.

Her thoughts raced faster than the car. Questions piled one on top of another, each more urgent than the last. What had happened to George? Why had Dalton called her? And what was it that she was meant to see? The notebook’s cryptic diagrams and repeated mentions of the clock tower surfaced in her mind again, twisting her unease into something sharper. The tower. It loomed at the edge of her thoughts, its presence now impossible to ignore. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel as the faint spire of the clock tower appeared in the distance, rising above the rooftops like a needle piercing the dull morning sky.

The closer she got to the square, the heavier the sense of dread became, settling over her like a suffocating fog. The familiar streets of Havensbrook blurred past her, their tidy houses and quiet storefronts feeling strangely foreign. The town had always seemed timeless, but now it felt as though it were unraveling, its edges fraying under the weight of something too large to contain. Her chest tightened as she turned onto the final stretch of road leading to the square, the sight before her sending a fresh wave of unease through her.

The square, normally bustling with life, was empty save for the cluster of police vehicles gathered near the base of the clock tower. Their flashing lights painted the surrounding buildings in sharp bursts of red and blue, their glow stark against the muted tones of the morning. The tower itself loomed above the scene, its dark silhouette cutting through the gray sky like a blade. Its face was unreadable from this distance, its hands still and silent, yet its presence was louder than ever.

Sheriff Dalton stood near one of the vehicles, his broad frame hunched slightly as he spoke to another officer. His hat was pulled low over his face, casting a shadow that obscured his expression, but Amelia could see the tension in his posture even from across the square. He turned as she stepped out of the car, his eyes meeting hers with a look that was difficult to read – serious, yes, but with something else beneath it. Pity, perhaps. Or something closer to resignation.

Amelia hesitated, her feet rooted to the ground for a moment as the weight of the scene pressed down on her. The clock tower loomed higher now, its shadow stretching across the square, pulling her toward it like a tether. Forcing herself forward, she took a deep breath and began to walk, each step feeling heavier than the last. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the faint hum of the police radios and the distant murmur of voices. Whatever was waiting for her at the base of the tower, she wasn’t sure she was ready to face it. But there was no turning back now.