Author: Dennis Page 70 of 179

A mysterious clock tower crashes into a sleepy town, only to become a silent sentinel. Reporter Auceon can’t shake the feeling something’s off. When the clock’s glow flickers out one day, his suspicions ignite. What secrets are hidden within the metallic giant? Will Auceon be the first to uncover the truth, or will he become another unsolved mystery?

A monstrous violet tower, shimmering with an unnatural metallic sheen, plummeted into the heart of Whiteridge. Screams echoed through the town square as people scattered, seeking cover from the falling giant. A high-pitched, metallic whine vibrated through the air upon impact. Fear was replaced by bewildered curiosity as the dust settled. There, the new clock tower stood, a silent sentinel twice the height of any building nearby, adorned with digital numbers the size of a delivery drone displaying the current time.

Auceon’s shoulders slumped in relief as he surveyed the scene. Thankfully, the chaos hadn’t resulted in any casualties. All the buildings remained undamaged except for a concrete patch that the town council grudgingly designated as a park. He and his journalistic colleagues searched for clues as to why the structure landed there, but no one found any inscriptions on the outside nor a way inside. A xhosian near the scene told reporters they felt electrical disturbances before the crash, but no one else reported anything unusual leading up to the crash. Early speculations suggested the planet’s guardian dropped the tower; however, when the press inquired, The Black Dragon denied any knowledge.

Months passed, with the clock ticking faithfully yet revealing nothing. Auceon clung to his favorite theory: a social experiment by a hidden cult. He’d once entertained the notion of a maverick artist whose grand statement involved the fleeting of time, but logic scoffed at that idea, as someone would’ve taken credit by now. One of his colleagues believed the tower was a stunt meant to scare off any shady criminal dealings. The town council was also clueless, but the lack of reason didn’t stop them from taking advantage of the landmark. With no answers forthcoming, the tower, once a beacon of the bizarre, began to blend into the monotonous humdrum of Whiteridge.

Despite the dwindling headlines, the tower remained a fixture in Auceon’s reporting duties. Every hoverboard commute included a cursory visit, a ritual that felt increasingly pointless. Over time, the usual park updates materialized: vibrantly colored flowerbeds bloomed like a scattered kaleidoscope here, a sturdier bench there, and even new playground equipment. Press releases flooded his inbox for each addition, a testament to the town’s dedication to beautification from the tourist-loving city council.

Yet, Auceon couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something like other town mysteries, such as the bright pink bubblegum stubbornly reappearing on the same corner of the mayor’s favorite bench every morning or why some residents swear they hear the faint whirring of clippers coming from the long-abandoned barbershop. The tower remained unchanged, secrets locked away inside the metallic shell.

Today, the white glow that usually emanated from the numbers was absent, a gaping hole in the morning light. Excitement jolted Auceon. The numbers were always on display. With a snarl of the hoverboard’s engine, he rocketed toward the tower, his brown sasquatch fur whipping in the wind.

Another curiosity appeared. Three figures, burdened with boxes, spilled out of a previously hidden door at the base. A desperate scramble, a flash of movement as they vanished around the corner. Follow them? Or delve into the silent, now clockless tower? His curiosity warred with his sense of self-preservation. Following the figures could lead to answers, but entering the silent tower felt equally risky. The choice hammered against his instincts, but he wanted to see for himself what was in the tower.

Auceon stepped through the previously hidden door, anticipation twisting his gut. Inside, the answer to the tower’s mystery wasn’t a single device or inscription but a revelation that defied his wildest imaginings. Walls, ceiling – every surface thrummed with the soft glow of thousands of screens. An unsettling quiet pressed against Auceon’s ears. His gaze darted across the endless screens, each a window into a life unwittingly displayed. A baby dragon playing in a sandbox, an elder sasquatch watering her roses, a gorgon styling the snakes in her hair – the normalcy of the illegal surveillance chilled him more than any monstrous revelation could. Two monitors showed a human girl with rainbow hair holding hands with a ghaukvoi, a biped blue-skinned being with shades of blue hair, as they romantically strolled through the downtown district. Auceon concluded each screen was tracking an individual and not a location. The reporter felt sick, like a tiny insect caught in the sticky threads, and the thought a monitor was scrutinizing and evaluating his every action caused his gut to tighten.

“Hello,” Auceon called out. “Anyone here?”

Silence swallowed Auceon’s calls whole. As he walked up the glass stairs, the echos of his steps reverberated through the metal walls like a tuning fork. The next floor was the complete opposite of what the reporter expected to find. Gone were the sterile surfaces and watchful screens, and instead, a wave of humid warmth washed over him, thick with the loamy scent of damp soil and the sweet, cloying perfume of exotic blooms. Lush greenery, a riot of ferns, and hanging vines filled the space beneath a hidden dome that diffused sunlight into a dappled green glow. The air buzzed with life – the rustle of unseen insects, water trickling across rocks, and a hidden bird’s soft chirp. Soft leaves brushed against his fur as he made his way deeper inside. The unease that once prickled Auceon’s fur like a thousand tiny needles began to soften while in the calming space. What purpose did a greenhouse serve in a surveillance tower? Were people locked in here like a science experiment? Did this keep them sane?

At the end of the greenhouse, two unremarkable doors offered no clues about their purpose. One led to a sterile bathroom, the chrome fixtures gleaming coldly in the dim light. The other opened into a cramped bedroom with bunk beds stripped bare. No clothes, no clutter, nothing to hint at who might have occupied this spartan space.

Just another layer in this unsettling enigma, he thought. This story is going to be hard to write without answers.

Auceon trekked back downstairs to study the screens again. Each screen flickered with a live feed, a mosaic of Whiteridge laid bare before him. A cold sweat prickled his fur, which he attributed to the change of climate between the levels, but a part of him knew his anxiety was responsible. 

“What have I stumbled into?” he whispered, his voice swallowed by the oppressive silence.

Waves of static on a single screen snagged Auceon’s attention, sparking his reporter’s instinct like a jolt to the nerves. Why are you not working? He leaned closer, the silence in the room pressing down on him like a physical weight. As he moved in, a single name scrawled on masking tape beneath the display sent a fresh wave of dread crashing through him: Bravak.

The name was a legend whispered in hushed tones across the dimly lit corners of Whiteridge’s taverns. Bravak, they murmured, wasn’t one person but a title passed down through generations, each inheriting a piece of the town’s underbelly. Some claimed Bravak controlled the flow of illegal goods, and their network was a spiderweb reaching every corner of the market. Others whispered of darker things, of bargains struck with beings from beyond the veil, of whispers that Bravak could grant dark desires and wishes. Whatever the truth, Bravak was a name that inspired a cold sweat and a quickened heartbeat, a phantom that lurked just beyond the reach of the law. Some of his fellow reporters thought Bravak was a copout for lazy investigations, but he felt there was some truth to the legends. Whispers of silenced reporters and unsolved disappearances always lingered around the name Bravak.

Faced with an offline monitor of a notorious figure, the dread coiled in Auceon’s gut solidified into a leaden weight, threatening to paralyze him. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to run, to get as far away from this place and this name as possible. The story wasn’t worth death.

Before the reporter could react, the room exploded with sound. The door buckled inward, ripping off the hinges, and a cacophony of grunts and footsteps filled the room, echoing off the metal walls and shattering the oppressive silence.

A mountain of a figure filled the doorway, casting the room into a sudden, oppressive gloom. Auceon craned his neck back, a whimper trapped in his throat. A face, vaguely bull-like in structure, loomed over the relatively tall reporter. His skin, a deep, matte aubergine, reflected the harsh light from the screens in a way that cast shifting shadows across his face. The large, luminous eyes were an electric blue so intense they felt like a physical shock when they came into contact with Auceon. This was Bravak-he had no doubt. 

Bravak scanned the room, studying the screens before settling back on Auceon. A feral grin, wide enough to showcase a disturbing array of needle-sharp teeth, split Bravak’s scarred snout.  

“You,” his voice boomed, a deep tremor that shook the walls. “So much for discretion. I should’ve known a nosy reporter would sniff me out.”

As Bravak marched forward, the reporter’s heart hammered. Bravak’s monstrous hand, impossibly large, slammed around Auceon’s face, cutting off his air and vision. The stench of brimstone flooded his nostrils. The following deafening roar seemed distant, as if coming from underwater and distorted. Auceon knew this was the end of his journalism career, except for as a person in another journalist’s story. Then, blessed darkness enveloped him.

Thank you to Henry Yusman at Design Pickle for bringing this scene to life. For this artwork, the scene depicted takes place before the events of the story, back to when the clock tower first fell.

This story has been updated from my original version, adding more details, more world-building, and triple the length. Hope you enjoyed!