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My room is of modest size, not surprising since it was designed to be lit by a candlestick. It contains a full bed, a small table and chair, and a standing wardrobe rather than a closet. There is electric light courtesy of a floor lamp, but there is no television. That’s perfectly fine with me. I rarely watch television unless I am watching a movie with Sean.

A door opposite the bed leads to a small bathroom. The bathroom is floored with ceramic tile and contains modern fixtures and a small square window facing the alley at the rear of the building. Its modernity clashes rather horribly with the antiquity of the rest of the house, but it’s not as though I plan on spending a large amount of time in the bathroom.

I unpack my suitcase and change into my nightgown. I prefer to shower in the evening, but it’s very late, and I am exhausted from my flight. I’ll freshen up quickly in the morning and resume my normal routine tomorrow night.

I sigh with relief when I get into bed. The mattress might be smaller than the king-size Sean and I share, but it is plush and warm and comfortable. My eyelids droop the minute I lay down, and I can already feel sleep taking me.

A cacophony of sound pulls me right back to wakefulness. It begins with a heavy gong-like chime, probably from one of the larger grandfather clocks. After that, there are a series of shrill whistles, jaunty melodies, sharp clangs and bright rings.

The clocks downstairs are going mad. Their earlier synchronization appears to have failed rather quickly as the noise continues for well over a minute and changes character as time passes.

And now I see the downside to working at a clock museum. I’ll have to purchase a set of earmuffs to wear at bedtime.

The sound grows louder, and after another minute, I feel a touch of concern. Why has no one stopped this yet?

I get to my feet and pull on my shawl and slippers. Something tells me it’s not wise for me to leave the safety of my room to investigate this, but I have never been stopped by prudence before.

I hesitate at the door to the stairwell. I wonder if I should knock on Elena’s door and tell her what’s happening. But then she must know. Unless she is wearing earmuffs. That’s a distinct possibility. This can’t be the first night this has happened.

As I debate the merits of alerting my employer to the panic of her museum pieces, the chiming stops. A final, crisp bell rings, and then there is silence. I hesitate another moment, straining to hear any footsteps or voices that might indicate foul play.

I hear none, so I head downstairs. The stairwell, unlike the elevator, isn’t modern at all. It looks as old as the house itself. A faded red carpet—once plush but now threadbare—lines the spiral staircase. The banister to my left opens to an identical landing at each floor. I look through the window to the third floor but see only a dim nightlight that illuminates one corner of the living room couch. When I come to the second floor, I exit the stairwell and find myself in the electronic exhibit.

The clocks here are all synchronized perfectly as well. I suppose that's less impressive, given their digital nature.

The clocks themselves are intriguing in their own way. They're designed to resemble old pendulum clocks, but like many modern things, they are also ridiculously minimalist. Many of them consist of clock faces with exposed inner workings. Some of them are contained behind a polished brass or aluminum case with a window, but none of them show the artistry of the older pieces. The only adornment must possess is the uppercase R's. I can see why Elena isn't fond of them.

In any case, these clocks are all perfectly in time, so they can’t be responsible for the cacophony I heard a minute ago. I return to the staircase and descend to the first floor.

As soon as I open the door, the mess of clicks, ticks, tocks and whirls that assaults my ears tells me I've found the culprits. As I suspect, when I enter the exhibits, I see the clocks all out of sync. The grandfather clocks differ only slightly from each other, but that difference grows with each second as the weights move at different speeds. In the spring clock exhibit, the differences are stark. Some of the clocks rattle as their hands spin swiftly. Others groan and scrape as their hands move with agonizing slowness. Some have stopped moving at all, while others tick relatively regularly, only for their hands to remain still or else shake or twitch without progressing forward.

The cabinet clocks have it the worst for wear. The large one with multiple cabinets shudders with each passing second, its automata jammed at seemingly random intervals. A donkey tries and fails to pull a cart through a doorway, and a bird convulses and opens its mouth as though in agony. A stooped, bearded man leans over with one hand on his hip, the other outstretched and shaking.

His eyes are wide, the lids pulled back. His mouth is dropped open in shock as though he's witnessed some particularly terrible carnage. Perhaps he has. These are all very old timepieces, after all. Perhaps I've been unfortunate enough to witness their final demise.

“Oh, Mary.”

The voice startles me, and for the second time tonight, I cry out and flinch away from it.

“I’m sorry,” Elena says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was only going to apologize for waking you.”

“That’s all right,” I tell her, catching my breath. “I hadn’t fallen asleep yet.”

She crosses her arms and sighs in exasperation as she looks around at the clocks. “Oh dear. I’ll have to shut them down until Francois can look at them. This isn’t uncommon, I’m afraid. Most of these timepieces are hundreds of years old. This isn’t an every-night occurrence, but it does happen.” She walks to the nearest clock and pulls on a switch at its back. It stops moving with a creak and a sigh that’s almost ghostly.

“You can go to bed, Mary,” she tells me. “I’ll shut them off.”

“Here, let me help you,” I tell her, reaching for the large cuckoo clock near me.

“No!” she snaps, causing me to flinch again. “Sorry. It’s just that these timepieces are incredibly old and valuable. It’s no offense to you, but I’d rather not allow anyone but myself or Francois to touch them.”

“Ah. Of course. You’re right.”

“Thank you, anyway, but it’s all right. You can go to sleep.”

I sense something else in her tone, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s another reason she wants me away. I can’t imagine what that reason might be, but the tension in her shoulders, and the anxiety in her eyes as she looks at me makes me feel like there’s more to this late-night interruption than meets the eye.

But how can there be? A collection of old clocks has malfunctioned. It’s the most sensible answer to a mystery that really isn’t even a mystery?

Elena’s right. I just need to sleep. I smile at her and say, “Thank you. Good night, Elena.”

She sighs, and some of the tension in her shoulder. “Good night, Mary.”

I return upstairs, taking the elevator this time. It’s smooth, even whine and soft chime help to scrub the discordance from my mind.

I remove my slippers and shawl and return to bed. Once more, my eyelids droop immediately, and this time, when sleep takes me, it takes me all the way.