This production elegantly captures Harvey’s ability to transform domestic banality into a vessel for existential dread. It serves as a sophisticated reminder that the most unsettling horrors are not found in the shadows, but in the rhythmic persistence of the everyday.
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The Clock | A classic ghost story…or is it? | by W. F. Harvey | AudiobookAdded:
The clock by W. F. Harvey.
Read by Miss Worm.
I liked your description of the people at the boarding house.
I can just picture that rather sinister Miss Cornelius with her toupee and clinking bangles.
I don't wonder you felt frightened that night when you found her sleepwalking in the corridor.
But after all, why shouldn't she sleepwalk?
As to the movements of the furniture in the lounge on the Sunday, you are, I suppose, in an earthquake zone.
Though an earthquake seems too big an explanation for the ringing of that little handbell on the mantelpiece.
It's rather as if our parlor maid, another new one, were to call a stray elephant to account for the teapot we found broken yesterday.
Well, you have at least escaped the eternal problem of maids in Italy.
Yes, my dear, I most certainly believe you.
I have never had experiences quite like yours.
But your mention of Miss Cornelius has reminded me of something rather similar that happened nearly 20 years ago soon after I left school.
I was staying with my aunt in Hampstead.
You remember her, I expect, or if not, her poodle, Monsieur, that she used to make perform such pathetic tricks.
There was another guest whom I had never met before, a Mrs. Caleb.
She lived in Lewes and had been staying with my aunt for about a fortnight, recuperating after a series of domestic upheavals which had culminated in her two servants leaving her at an hour's notice without any reason, according to Mrs. Caleb.
But I wondered.
I had never seen the maids.
Now I had seen Mrs. Caleb and frankly, I disliked her.
She left the same sort of impression on me as I gather your Miss Cornelius leaves on you.
Something queer and secretive.
Underground, if you can use that expression, rather than underhand.
And I could feel in my body that she did not like me.
It was summer.
Joan Dinton, you remember her, her husband was killed in Gallipoli, had suggested that I should go down to spend the day with her.
Her people had rented a little cottage some 3 miles out of Lewis.
So we arranged a day.
It was gloriously fine for a wonder, and I'd planned to leave that stuffy old Hampstead house before the old ladies were astir.
But Mrs. Caleb waylaid me in the hall just as I was going out.
"I wonder," she said, "I wonder if you could do me a small favor.
If you do have any time to spare in Lewis, only if you do, would you be so kind as to call at my house?
I left a little traveling clock there in the hurry of parting.
If it's not in the drawing-room, it will be in my bedroom or in one of the maids' bedrooms.
I know I lent it to the cook who was a poor riser, but I cannot remember if she returned it.
Would it be too much to ask?
The house has been locked up for 12 days, but everything is in order.
I have the keys here.
The large one is for the garden gate, and the small one for the front door.
I could only accept, and she proceeded to tell me how I could find Ashgrove house.
You will feel quite like a burglar, she said, but mind, it's only if you have time to spare.
As a matter of fact, I found myself glad of any excuse to kill time.
Poor old Joan had been taken suddenly ill in the night, and they feared appendicitis.
And though her people were very kind and asked me to stay to lunch, I could see that I should only be in the way, and made Mrs. Caleb's commission an excuse for an early departure.
I found Ashgrove without difficulty.
It was a medium-sized red brick house, standing by itself in a high-walled garden that bounded a narrow lane.
A flagged path led from the gate to the front door, in front of which grew not an ash, but a monkey puzzle that must have made the rooms unnecessarily gloomy.
The side door, as I expected, was locked.
The dining room and drawing room lay on either side of the hall, and as the windows of both were shuttered, I left the hall door open, and in the dim light looked round hurriedly for the clock, which from what Mrs. Caleb had said, I hardly expected to find in either of the downstairs rooms.
It was neither on table nor mantelpiece.
The rest of the furniture was covered carefully over with white dust sheets.
Then I went upstairs.
But before doing so, I closed the front door.
I did, in fact, feel rather like a burglar.
And I thought that if anyone did happen to see the front door open, I might have difficulty in explaining things.
Happily, the upstairs were not shuttered.
And I made a hurried search of the principal bedrooms.
They had been left in apple pie order.
Nothing out of place.
But there was no sign of Mrs. Caleb's clock.
The impression that the house [clears throat] gave me Well, you know, the sense of personality that a house conveys was neither pleasing nor displeasing.
But it was stuffy.
Stuffy from the absence of fresh air.
With an additional stuffiness added that seemed to come out from the hangings and quilts and antimacassars.
The corridor onto which the bedrooms I had examined opened communicated with a smaller wing. An older part of the house, I imagined.
Which contained a box room and the maid's sleeping quarters.
The last door that I unlocked I should say that the doors of all the rooms were locked and re-locked by me after I'd glanced inside them contained the object of my search.
Mrs. Caleb's traveling clock was on the mantelpiece.
Ticking away merrily.
Well, that was how I thought of it at first.
And then for the first time I realized that there was something wrong.
The clock had no business to be ticking.
The house had been shut up for 12 days.
No one had come in to air it or to light fires.
And I remembered how Mrs. Caleb had told my aunt that if she left the keys with a neighbor, she was never sure who might get hold of them.
And yet, the clock was going.
I wondered if some vibration had set the mechanism in motion and pulled out my watch to see the time.
It was 5 minutes to 1.
The clock on the mantelpiece said 4 minutes to the hour.
Then, without quite knowing why, I shut the door onto the landing, locked myself in, and again looked round the room.
Nothing was out of place.
The only thing that might have called for remark was that there appeared to be a slight indentation on [clears throat] the pillow and the bed.
But the mattress was a feather mattress, and you know how difficult it is to make them perfectly smooth.
You won't need to be told that I gave a hurried glance under the bed.
Do you remember your supposed burglar in number six at St. Ursula's?
And then, much more reluctantly, opened the doors of two horribly capacious cupboards, both happily empty, except for a framed text with its face to the wall.
By this time, I really was frightened.
The clock went ticking on, and I had a horrible feeling that an alarm might go off at any moment.
And the thought of being in that empty house was almost too much for me.
However, I made an attempt to pull myself together.
It might, after all, be a 14-day clock.
If it were, then it would be almost run down.
I could roughly find out how long the clock had been going by winding it up.
I hesitated to put the matter to the test, but the uncertainty was too much for me.
I took it out of its case and began to wind.
I had scarcely turned the winding screw twice when it stopped.
The clock, clearly, was not running down.
The hands had been set in motion probably only an hour or two before.
I felt cold and faint.
And going to the window, threw up the sash, letting in the sweet, live air of the garden.
I knew now that the house was queer, horribly queer.
Could someone be living in the house?
Was someone in the house now?
I thought that I had been in all the rooms, but had I?
I had only just opened the bathroom door, and I had certainly not opened any cupboards except those in the room in which I was.
Then, as I stood by the open window, wondering what I should do next, and feeling that I just couldn't go down that corridor into the darkened hall to fumble at the latch of the front door with I don't know what behind me.
I heard a noise.
It was very faint at first and seemed to be coming from the stairs.
It was a curious noise.
Not the noise of anyone climbing up the stairs but you [clears throat] will laugh if this letter reaches you by a morning post but of something hopping up the stairs like a very big bird would hop.
I heard it on the landing.
It stopped.
Then there was a curious scratching noise against one of the bedroom doors.
The sort of noise you can make with the nail of your little finger scratching polished wood.
Whatever it was was coming slowly down the corridor scratching at the doors as it went.
I could stand it no longer.
Nightmare pictures of locked doors opening filled my brain.
I took up the clock, wrapped it in my mackintosh, and dropped it out of the window onto a flower bed.
Then I managed to crawl out of the window and getting a grip of the sill successfully negotiated, as the journalists would say, a 12-ft drop.
So much for our much abused gym at St. Ursula's.
Picking up the mackintosh I ran round to the front door and locked it.
Then I felt I could breathe but not until I was on the far side of the gate in the garden wall did I feel safe.
Then I remembered that the bedroom window was open.
What was I to do?
Wild horses wouldn't have dragged me into that house again unaccompanied.
I made up my mind to go to the police station and tell them everything.
I should be laughed at, of course, and they might easily refuse to believe my story of Mrs. Caleb's commission.
>> [snorts] >> I had actually begun to walk down the lane in the direction of the town when I chanced to look back at the house.
The window that I had left open was shut.
No, my dear, I didn't see any face or anything dreadful like that.
And of course it may have shut by itself.
It was an ordinary sash window, and you know how difficult they are to keep open.
And the rest?
Why, there's really nothing more to tell.
I didn't even see Mrs. Caleb again.
She'd had some sort of fainting fit just before lunchtime, my aunt informed me on my return, and had had to go to bed.
Next morning I traveled down to Cornwall to join mother and the children.
I thought I'd forgotten all about it, but when 3 years later Uncle Charles suggested giving me a traveling clock for a 21st birthday present, I was foolish enough to prefer the alternative that he offered, a collected edition of the works of Thomas Carlyle.
>> Mhm.
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