‘Twas the week before Halloween and all through the village, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Out to explore the beauty of nature one crisp fall day in the White Mountains, Candace Morehouse became disoriented. She allowed her writer’s mind to carry her away to another place and time. Candace was always mesmerized by the castles, vineyards and majestic mountainsides of Germany, and she found herself leaving Arizona to venture into the Black Forest.
Before long, she was in the deepest thicket of the woods, far from civilization. A dark shadow fell over the forest--and with a shudder--Candace realized nighttime had set in. The wind swooshed through the mighty pines, sounding like the wise old whispers of the ancient Mogollon Indians who populated the grounds thousands of years ago. But suddenly, shivers danced down Candace’s spine. And when she heard blood-curdling screams coming from deep in the thrush, her heart caught in her throat.
Bathed in the eerie glow of the full moon, busy little dwarves hammered and pounded, chiseling beautiful cuckoo clocks out of the barks of pine. In the distance, werewolves howled and witches cackled, their blood-curdling cries slicing through the forest. Over the pummeling of nails, the dwarves kept right on working. But as Candace moved in closer, she heard them chattering amongst themselves and her blood ran cold.
“Beware,” the tiny man’s scratchy voice echoed in the wind. “Tis the witching season when one clock will be snatched up by the werewolves and witches that come out during a full moon. And with the powers bestowed upon them by the Mogollon Indians, they cast a wicked spell on a clock.”
“Indeed so,” another little man screeched. “And that clock will haunt its owner. It will cuckoo precisely three times, even though the hands of the clock will show a different time. The witches and werewolves of the Black Forest play this trick to frighten a person out of their wits. And we are the only ones that can break the spell with our chanting.”
Captivated by this mystical legend, Candace moved closer, her feet crunching dry twigs and pinecones. The dwarves stopped hammering and gawked, their wrinkled little faces twisted into gasps.
“Who are you and what do you want, mere mortal?”
“I’m Candace Morehouse and I have one of those haunted clocks. Please help me. Can you break the ancient spell so I can sleep at night?”
“Sit a spell on this pine stump and tell us your tale of woe,” a tiny bearded man gestured with a gnarled green fingernail. “And we’ll help if we can. But first, we need to hear the entire story.”
Sucking in her breath, Candace began to tell the tale of the Haunted Cuckoo Clock:
“A couple years ago my folks took a trip to Germany. My dad loves going there and exploring his ancestral roots. Of course, shopping for gifts for their brood of kids and stepkids is always part of their trip. Especially for me they brought back an authentic cuckoo clock manufactured in Germany’s famous Black Forest region.
“I was tickled pink. I’ve always wanted a cuckoo clock, and this one features a delightful tune and a cute little boy and girl that dance in and out of the doors. I put it up in my Mesa home (much to the chagrin of both my son and my husband, who hated hearing the cuckoo noise). A few months later I moved up to my current home hear in northeastern Arizona. Of course, the clock came along with us. Unfortunately I didn’t pack it correctly for the move and when I hung up in my kitchen, it never worked right; it kept stopping at will. I got tired of starting it back up again so I let it hang as a decorative object.
“Some months later I was all alone working away doing my freelance writing. It was a blustery, gray, gloomy sort of day. The wind was blowing and a chill was in the air. As I was sitting in the living room at my laptop typing, all of a sudden I heard the cuckoo clock strike three o’clock in the afternoon. I got immediate goose bumps. I glanced at the clock on my laptop and noted it was exactly three o’clock. The cuckoo clock tick-tocked several times, then abruptly stopped. When I went into the kitchen to look at it, the hands were pointing at a completely different time.
“I got so freaked out I had to leave my house for a while. I told my husband the story when he got home that night and he pooh-poohed the whole idea of a haunted clock. To this day, I still think something paranormal was going on. After all, what are the odds that a malfunctioning clock would suddenly strike exactly on the hour even when it wasn’t set to that time, start out of the blue, and then stop and never do it again?
“Perhaps it has something to do with the ancient Mogollon Indians who populated this area thousands of years ago…”
“Indeed so,” the little man stood, excitement gleaming in his eyes. “You have a haunted clock. And we can break the ancient spell but it must be done before the clock strikes midnight tonight.”
“But,” Candace stammered, fear blazing in her eyes. “I’m so far from home and I’m lost. I can never…”
“Hush up and listen,” the bearded man took charge. “Drink this, dearie.”
“What’s this?” Candace peered at the blood red liquid in the silver cup the size of a thimble.
“Tis shiraz, m’dear. Drink up and you’ll be home.” He then proceeded to hand her a clove of garlic he snatched up from the floor of the forest. “Then rub this on the face of the clock. It’s been sprinkled with root of the pine. As you are rubbing the garlic into the face of the clock, you must repeat the chant three times.”
“What chant?”
“Spell of the ancient druids begone. Now drink the …ah…” A wicked chuckle spewed from his lips, “…shiraz and off you go. But you must never enter the Black Forest again…or else….”
And as Candace disappeared from the deep dark woods of the Black Forest, the mournful wails of the werewolves warbled through the mighty pines.
Beware haunted cuckoo clocks and have a happy Halloween!
To learn more about Candace Morehouse and purchase her books, visit her at:
www.candacemorehouse.com
