The Clock in Widow Gray's Hall by Olivia Salter / Rhyming Story / Supernatural

The Clock in Widow Gray's Hall

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 399

In a forest where fog kisses bramble and thorn,
Stood a house wrapped in shadows, forgotten, forlorn.
Its shutters hung loose, and its hinges would moan,
And the woman inside lived completely alone.

Widow Gray wore a shawl stitched with secrets and thread,
And folks said she dined with the long-sleeping dead.
She’d murmur to mirrors and hum without sound,
While lanterns inside flickered round and around.

But strangest of all was the tall, wooden clock
That stood in her hall with no tick, only tock.
It never told time like the rest on the wall—
It echoed a lie and remembered them all.

"Speak false in my house," the Widow would say,
"And the clock will take something you can't give away.
Its chimes don’t strike hours, but choices and sins—
It knows where deceit ends, and justice begins."

A peddler arrived with a smile carved in gold,
Selling powders and potions, so brazen and bold.
He bowed to the Widow, his charm quick and slick,
With a glint in his eye and a tongue just as quick.

He promised her youth in a silvery vial,
Called her “Madame Divine” with theatrical style.
He sipped at her tea and said, “That clock’s quite a feat!”
Though he felt the tock rattle deep in his seat.

But the moment he lied, the walls seemed to groan,
And dust stirred to dance on the chilled cobblestone.
The clock’s hands spun back as its body grew bright—
Its face glowed with memory, pulsing with light.

It struck once. His breath turned to vapor and steam.
It struck twice. He collapsed in a trembling dream.
On the third solemn chime, he let out a cry,
As his years peeled away and the past drifted by.

"Time keeps all accounts," Widow Gray softly said,
As the man shrank and wailed with a child’s voice instead.
"A life built on lies is a debt left unpaid—
And the clock is the banker, collecting delayed."

She cradled the infant once known as a cheat,
Then vanished from town with light, soundless feet.
The house stood abandoned—but the clock stayed behind,
Still echoing tocks to the curious mind.

Now wanderers whisper near that ancient old hall,
Where ivy has swallowed the stones and the wall:
"If you speak what is false, be you great or be small,
The clock won’t forgive. It remembers it all."

The Last House on Sycamore Ridge / Flash Fiction/ Psychological Drama / Social Realism

 

The Last House on Sycamore Ridge

By Olivia Salter

Based on a true story.

Word Count: 572

The road into Sycamore Ridge gleamed beneath the fading sunset, asphalt dark and slick from the afternoon rain. Young maples stood in perfect rows, half-built houses framing the skyline like promises still under construction.

Marcus drove slowly down the cul-de-sac, the soft hum of his midnight-blue Jaguar blending with the evening chorus of crickets. He paused at the curve before his house, feeling the familiar thrill of arrival. This was his home, the first fully finished house in the subdivision and every inch of it had been his choice, his design, his money. No mortgage. No debt. No compromise. Years of strategy, promotions, and disciplined work had bought him this place, and it was perfect.

Then he noticed the silver SUV in his rearview mirror. Sleek, shiny, new. At first, he thought nothing of it; Sycamore Ridge was still attracting buyers. But as he turned left onto Maple View, it turned too. Right onto Willow Bend? Same thing.

By the time he reached his driveway at the very end of the cul-de-sac, the SUV had settled directly in front of his house.

The passenger window rolled down. A blonde woman leaned out, ponytail tight, lips pressed in a practiced line.

“May I help you?” she called, voice crisp, clipped.

Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“This is my house,” she said, firmer now, as if repeating it would make it true. “May I help you?”

Marcus let the corner of a smile tug at his lips. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the remote on the visor.

A soft click echoed, followed by the low mechanical groan of his garage door rising. Inside: his golf clubs, neon green motorcycle, tools neatly arranged, the canvas he’d been meaning to hang in the living room. His life, unmistakable and undeniable.

He laid his head on the headrest, hands relaxed, and let his eyes meet theirs.

“Whose house did you say this was again?”

The woman blinked rapidly, eyes flicking to the open garage. The man in the driver’s seat gripped the wheel, shifting uncomfortably. Their confidence crumbled as the truth hit them.

“I… I think we’ll go now,” she stammered.

Marcus’s smile widened just slightly, enough to show he noticed their discomfort. “That would be wise,” he said, calm and deliberate.

The SUV backed out hastily, tires splashing water down the cul-de-sac, disappearing into the gathering dusk.

Marcus stood in his driveway, the silence pressing in. For a moment, the pride he’d felt about this place dimmed, smudged by the reminder that even here, behind a paid mortgage, an impressive job title, and good credit, some people still couldn’t imagine a man like him belonging.

Marcus pressed the remote again. The garage door descended with a satisfying thud, sealing away the confrontation. The quiet of the street felt absolute, like the world itself had exhaled.

He walked to the porch, paused at the door, and unwrapped the new welcome mat, smoothing it with deliberate care.

Through the window, the streetlight flickered on, bathing the cul-de-sac in soft gold. For the first time in weeks, Marcus let himself linger on the sight: this was his, undeniably his. Every polished step, every shadowed corner, every echo of laughter yet to come belonged to him.

He stepped inside, the scent of new wood and leather wrapping around him like a cloak. Closing the door, he whispered, almost to himself, “Yes. I belong.”

And this time, he truly did.