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."

Flawless by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Science Fiction / Supernatural

 

Flawless

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 600

Jade knew Malik was obsessed with perfection, but she never thought he’d turn that obsession on her. His voice was smooth, practiced, but there was something unsettling in the way his eyes lingered on her face. “You know, babe,” he said as they lounged in their sleek, glass-walled apartment overlooking Atlanta, “I’ve been working on a new serum. It could smooth out that little mark on your face. Make your skin absolutely flawless.”

Jade’s fingers brushed the coffee-colored crescent beneath her left eye, a mark her mother once called a kiss from God. A faint chuckle left her lips, but unease curled in her stomach. “I don’t need to be flawless, Mal. I like my birthmark.”

He sighed, tilting his head as if analyzing a scientific anomaly. “But imagine how much more beautiful you’d be without it.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m already beautiful.”

Malik kissed her forehead. “Of course you are. But perfection is power.”

That night, Jade lay awake, staring at the city lights flickering through the window. She had spent years loving herself exactly as she was. Why couldn’t Malik?

As weeks passed, his obsession deepened. He gifted her expensive serums, subtly left articles about laser treatments on her nightstand, and even edited pictures of her, erasing the mark so she could see how ‘perfect’ she’d look. Each time, Jade refused. But the way Malik looked at her birthmark—like it was a stain on an otherwise pristine canvas—began to chip away at her confidence.

One evening, Malik handed her a cup of chamomile tea. She took a sip, not knowing he had slipped a few drops of an experimental formula into it. “Trust me,” he murmured as she drifted into sleep.

Jade woke up light-headed. Stumbling into the bathroom, she gasped. The birthmark was gone. Her skin was eerily smooth—flawless, just like Malik wanted. But something was off. Her reflection looked... hollow. A perfect image of herself, but missing something vital.

Malik stood behind her, smiling, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You’re perfect now.”

Jade touched her cheek, expecting relief, maybe even joy. Instead, a slow, creeping dread spread through her, sinking into her bones. It was as if a part of her had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a beautiful shell. Her mother’s words echoed in her head: A kiss from God. Her fingers lingered on the spot where it used to be, and for the first time in her life, she felt incomplete.

A week later, the side effects began. Her skin became eerily pale, then translucent. Dark veins webbed beneath the surface. Her body ached. Malik worked tirelessly to reverse the effects, but the damage was done. The woman who once radiated warmth now looked cold, artificial. Flawless.

One evening, as she lay in bed, weak and fading, she whispered, “You stole something from me, Malik.”

Tears welled in his eyes. “I was only trying to make you perfect.”

Jade smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I was perfect.”

The next morning, she was gone—vanished like mist, like she had never been there at all. But Malik would never forget the way she looked that last night, a ghost of the woman he once loved, destroyed in his pursuit of perfection.

And in the mirror, just beneath his own eye, a faint mark began to form—a coffee-colored crescent, shaped like a kiss from God. Malik’s breath hitched. His fingers trembled as they traced the mark, a curse etched into his skin. A deep, bone-chilling realization settled over him; perfection had demanded a price, and it had come to collect.