Click. The grandfather clock, notmally muted in the background of everyday machinations, was deafening. The swing of the pendulum drowning out thought after thought. Time was running out quickly. The smell of the old wood was similarly repulsive and intoxicating. This clock had held many a people captured. A feeding ground for what hid inside it.

Centuries ago, when the clock had been placed in the now abandoned manor house. The wet nurse had claimed it was the spawn of Satan himself... She was close. Very close. As the investigator stood hypnotised, the clock chimed.

One.

The door opened ajar, the sounds of flies fill the air, the buzzing getting louder as one or two flies emerged from the ajar door

Two

The spell was broken, the hypnotic enchantment of the tick of the clock and the smell of the wood broke.

Three

Something else kept the investigator here now, rooted to the spot, fear turning their spine to ice.

Four

The door opened up further, as a clawed hand wraps around the wooden frame of the clock, their nails scraping against the wood.

Five

The flies had gotten thicker and thicker, almost blinding the investigator, the fles crawling on his face, almost suffocating him.

Six

"Another one, we have been fed in deceades. Ever since the previous owner ran screaming."

Seven

A demonic head emerged from behind the door, long extravegant horns, crimson red skin, flies buzzing round their skin.

Eight

A demonic cackle filled the dusty decrepid room as the demon took a step out of the clock, standing a full 15ft tall. A claw raking across the investigators chin.

Nine

"Time's up, you'd better run.... I like it when they run."

Ten

The investigator turned on his heels and ran, but the flies followed him, they buzzed around them, marking them for death

Eleven

A claw gripped the collar of his jacket, picking the man up like a limp rag doll.

Twelve

Beelzebub's jaw opened, a cackle drowned out by flies, the sharp teeth baring down, large enough to rip the investigator's head clean off

Thirteen.

...

Click. The grandfather clock, notmally muted in the background of everyday machinations, was deafening. The swing of the pendulum drowning out thought after thought. Time was running out quickly. The smell of the old wood was similarly repulsive and intoxicating. This cloak had held many a people captured. A feeding ground for what hid inside it.