“I think so,” Astrid whispered back. “Let’s go in.”
“It’s dark. No one’s inside. We should go home.”
“Not when we just got here.” Astrid wanted to go home too. Nothing would be easier than to go home. But they wouldn’t get their wish if they gave up now.
A light appeared in the window. Someone was inside.
Astrid gasped softly. Max gasped loudly.
They looked at each other. Slowly they approached the house on a path made of slick mossy stones. Max followed close behind her.
When they reached the door, it was so dark Astrid had to turn on her flashlight to find the bell. She pushed the button and waited to hear a ring.
She didn’t hear a ring but a voice, a weird mechanical voice.
“What can’t be touched, tasted, or held but can be broken?”
Astrid jumped back, which made Max jump. They were both panting with fear.
“What was that?” Max asked, eyes wide.
“I think it was the doorbell.” Her hand was shaking, but she pressed it again.
The voice spoke again, and it was like listening to a clock talk, and every syllable was a tick.
“What. Can’t. Be. Touched. Or. Taste. Ed. Or. Held. But. Can. Be. Broke. En?”
“It’s a riddle,” Astrid said. “We can’t get in unless we answer the riddle. What can’t be touched or tasted or held but can be broken? Think, Max!”
But Max wasn’t thinking. He was shaking. “Astrid, I want to go home. You promised if it was scary, we could go home.”
Then it hit her. She knew the answer.
Astrid called out to the door, “A promise!”
After a long pause, the mechanical voice said, “Tick. Tock. Wel. Come. To. The. Clock.”
The door creaked open.
—FromThe House on Clock Island,Clock Island Book One, by Jack Masterson, 1990
Chapter Seven
Hugo was in exile.His own fault. Three stories up in the air, he stood at the railing of the widow’s walk and watched as the boats and ferries came and went, bringing boxes and grocery bags, even temporary household staff to handle the cooking and cleaning. A small army of staff had been temporarily enlisted by Jack to put on this insane contest of his. So far only one priceless marble bust made by a dead artistic genius had been broken. Jack had laughed and said, “That’s why we have insurance.” Hugo’s head had nearly exploded, which was when Jack sent him to the widow’s walk to “supervise the boats.”
Hugo protested. “Supervise the boats? Someone has to make sure nothing else gets broken down here.”
“Hugo,” Jack said with a large and rather terrifying grin on his face, “your bad mood is scaring the children.”
Hugo waved his arms around the room. “There are no children here.”
“Weren’t we all children once?” Jack said.
Point taken. Hugo retreated to the roof.
But even up here, he couldn’t find peace and quiet. His pocket began to vibrate. Yet another phone call from yet another unknown number, no doubt. Who was it this time? TMZ? TheNew York Post?National Enquirer? Out of pure spite, he answered the call.
“Yes?”
