Clockwork Doll Novels & Stories

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.

Which made Jane step closer. "Are you interested?" Jacob asked, making Jane turn her head. "This clock is at Mommy's house. It's in Papa's study. Every time I accompany him to work, this clock accompanies me with its distinctive chime. I wonder if this clock is also made by Goojoo?" "There are only ten in the world. The wood carving was specially imported from overseas. The movement on this clock is also different from any other clock Goojoo has ever made. One of them is indeed in Mr. Charles' study."

The hands of the clock ticked the time, which was two hours off from the current time. “So you went to all this trouble to find me for a clock,” said Da. “It must be very important to your mother.” There was an edge to those words that I didn’t understand. Olivier caught them, too, his brow furrowing. “It is, yes. And I’ll pay you any sum if you’ll sell it to me.” “Any sum? My boy, that’s no way to barter. Now I’ll fleece you silly and you’ll go home with a smile on your face.”

This was my empire, my passion, my life—proof that I’d achieved the success and wealth I’d always strived for. As always, my eyes lingered on the impressive floor-to-ceiling antique clock against the wall. It was a lustrous deep brown, skillfully carved from black walnut wood into the shape of a wine bottle. It had cost me almost half as much as my car, as I had to commission it from one of the country’s most well-known custom furniture artists, Silvadore—or that was what he called himself—but it was also one of my proudest purchases.

The notes referred to a hidden chamber, accessible only through what Haverstone had cryptically labeled “the clock that doesn’t chime.” “The clock that doesn’t chime,” she repeated under her breath. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on a tall grandfather clock in the corner. It was ornate, its wood polished to a mirror-like sheen, but its hands were frozen at midnight, and it emitted no sound. Emma approached it cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest. The closer she got, the more she noticed the subtle details: carvings of the same triangular symbol along the edges, a keyhole hidden at its base. She dropped to her knees and examined it more closely. The keyhole was intricate, surrounde

He reached out and unpinned it from the clock’s face, the paper trembling in his hand. “I don’t know who,” Elliot said finally, his voice tight. “But whoever it is… they’ve been watching for a long time.” Emma joined him by the clock, her gaze shifting from the photograph to the cracked face of the timepiece. The clock’s hands ticked forward steadily, moving toward midnight. “It’s broken,” she said, frowning. “The glass is shattered, but it’s still running.” Elliot nodded. “It’s not just running. It’s counting down.”