Clockwork Doll Novels & Stories

The clock was specially crafted to be driven solely by the enhancement of dimensional time. The clock hand would remain perfectly still with the same flow of dimensional time as the outside world, not moving a single inch. The first contestant emerged from the cubic space completely exhausted. Sweat poured down his face. He could not help but collapse to the ground the moment he stepped out. Then, the second contestant entered the cubic space. He moved the clock hand with his mind, and it moved forward three-quarters of a notch. However, it only retreated by one-quarter of a notch.

Not hers. My hands started shaking. 'Are they selling off coma patients' bodies?' All those stories from school came flooding back. My skin crawled. I fought the nausea and fear, forced myself to finish cleaning her up. I was about to leave when I saw it—the music box on her nightstand. Ms. Deinert had told me not to mess with it. But my hand moved anyway. I popped it open. No music. Just velvet at the bottom. Then I saw it—tiny crumbs near the edge. Crackers, maybe?

In the meantime, she needed to hurry back to Marwolaeth as there was plenty of work to do and only two sets of hands with which to do it. Once she was sure Maevis had stepped away from the rickety front porch, Serendipity took her advice and crossed over to the door, dropping the lock in place. If Mr. Cane was to return, he would find a doll maker far less inclined to let him in than the one he had met previously. Without another thought, she returned to the doll she was working on, wondering only briefly what she had done to offend her dear Pozzletot.

She glanced at the clock on the nightstand, and a furrow formed on her brow as she read the time – past four in the evening. He lied. Swallowing hard, Amara blinked the sleep away and pulled herself up. Yawning, she padded to the bathroom, her steps echoing in the stillness of the room. The cool water splashed against her face, momentarily dispelling the fog of sleep. As she met her reflection in the mirror, her eyes widened in astonishment and confusion.

Flora swallowed hard and took the napkin off and saw the most horrible thing ever: a human-length sex doll, wearing a white nightgown similar to hers and crucified on the cross. And of course, the sex doll had Flora's exact face and body shape. It was even wearing the same nightgown. There was tissue and plastic in a corner of the room, there were some weird machines too. Flora guessed it right: Claude was also the one who made that doll, that creepy masterpiece. To that point, Flora had used all the braveness she had. The truth was clear: Claude is as sick as Jack. Maybe even worse. Flora's mind was thinking about one only thing: She has to run away before the painted desires turn to real d

“The clock is running.” “Right,” Ara breathed. She pressed the screwdriver into the first rivet. The tool hummed with blue light, and with a sharp *crack*, the fastener started to turn.

"You are merely a clockwork doll that has learned to scream. You are a melody played on a broken string." He gestured, and the shadows in the room groaned. The stone floor beneath Cattleya began to sweat blood, the red fluid pooling around her boots, smelling of iron and ancient, stagnant graves. From the pools, elongated, skeletal hands”pale and frantic”reached up to latch onto her ankles. They were the husks of her past cycles, the discarded failures of the nursery, their eyes hollowed-out sockets weeping dark, viscous ichor. Cattleya felt the cold dread of them, the suffocating weight of a thousand identical deaths dragging at her resolve. She looked down,

Sahara became so absorbed in wandering around the city that she completely lost track of time. By the time she finally returned home, the sky was pitch black. The digital clock on her phone read 11:03 PM. Her heart immediately began to race. Leaf was probably already home. Sure enough, the familiar black Rolls-Royce Phantom was parked inside the garage. For a moment, she remained standing outside the gate, staring at the vehicle. A bitter feeling rose in her chest.

My sunset-gold fire was no longer a mantle; it had become a Strobe of Pure Panic, flashing in sync with the erratic ticking that echoed from the heights of the bone-tower. "The clock isn't measuring time, Darlene," Jackson-crow spoke. He was no longer a shadow or a boy; he was a Fractured Image of a man, his form flickering between the Gilded Vizier and the Liquidator. He pointed toward the face of the clock—a massive, circular lens of obsidian-glass where the numbers weren't digits, but the Names of the Eleven Sovereigns we had just freed.

A statue of a white wolf, with prominent blue eyes was built up at the pinnacle and below it was a large clock, ticking away. This was the clock. I rushed up the aisle, stepping onto the altar as I stood before the clock to see clearly. Then I realized that this clock was different from the usual ones we knew. Its values were a six hour interval where the seconds value was supposed to be. And a twenty-four hour interval for where the hours were supposed to be. What day is twelve o'clock? Twelve o'clock? Oh. She was talking about the northern cardinal. "Thursday." And where is the hour hand?