Witching Which Time

The bridge is arched, with a wall along both sides to prevent anypony from accidentally falling off. That didn’t stop some enterprising ponies to leap off it anyway into the chasm below. The mountains the city was built on provided some breathtaking sights, and this bridge in particular overlooked a huge chasm between two of the peaks. Some of the jumpers were prepared and looking for thrills. Some were pegasi who wanted a fun place to begin flight. Some were not.
On the wall tonight sat Waxworks, one of the latter types of pony. Her lantern sat on the railing beside her, and she looked up at your approach. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested in jumping. That would solve nothing and possibly create even further problems. I just like the view.”
The view in question is a set of moonlit crags stretching out below, with the shadows between each peak making them look taller and sharper than they actually were.
“You found me while I was taking a break, so I suppose I can favor you with another little something,” she said. “Since our last meeting I thought more about time, and I remembered a little poem somepony wrote about their childhood. Their grandfather, who has long since passed by now, had a larger home in the upscale part of town. The house itself was very large. The kind you would expect to hold secrets,” Waxworks grinned at you. “In this case, you would be correct. I present, as he titled it: Witching Which Time.”

The clock’s in a hall at my grandfather’s home;
My grandfather’s grandfather clock.
It’s big and it’s tall and it’s next to the wall,
but it gives me a bit of a shock.

Its face shows a pearlescent glow in the dark,
Its hands are of iron and steel.
The big hand goes ‘round like it’s overseas bound,
The short’s on a casual wheel.

It has an appearance that’s basic and bland,
“A clock, just a clock” it would say.
I know that there’s more to its tick-tocking chore,
Than it shows in its time-keeping way.

It chimes like a clock with the deepest of peals,
A good ringing-singing clock should.
But most clocks would chime on the hour’s own time,
While this one avoids it for good.

It rings when the minute hand’s passing the ten
Then once more when it hits the two.
I can’t say for sure why the time isn’t pure
but I think it’s a what or a who.

I stayed up one evening as young people do,
Invincible, wild, and free.
The moon she shone down on our part of the town,
In places the dark shouldn’t be.

The hour was close to the three on the clock,
The minute hand near to the ten.
The chime came along and I heard the clock’s song
Away from my spot in the den.

I laughed at the strange and so curious thing;
“That clock still can not get it right”
But then all my hair felt a charge in the air
And shadows all deepened the night.

I looked at the clock and it told me the time;
Just five simple minutes to three.
The hour of witches and long-stolen riches,
things mocking the powers that be.

Steps heavy and powerful lurked in the home,
I wasn’t alone anymore.
Something was thumping and horribly bumping
Above me on my second floor.

I ducked down behind of the chair I was in,
I had no desire to fight.
Whatever was here was already too near,
and had given me quite a big fright.

It pounded and stomped its way down from upstairs,
I froze while it moved down the hall.
It lumbered its walk all the way to the clock
Where it stopped and gave off a cold pall.

The clock for its part had avoided a fight,
It made not a sound but a tick.
We waited in quiet so we wouldn’t buy it
Praying the thing would be quick.

It finally went on its loud stomping way,
Leaving me there in the dark.
I stayed still and hidden until I was bidden
To rise by a ringing so stark.

The grandfather clock I had thought was so odd,
Was chiming the time was ten past.
I understood now both the why and the how
Of the curious timing it cast.

Whatever had lived in my grandfather’s home,
Left something behind in the shade.
And although it’s a place filled with honor and grace,
I can’t say the horror will fade.

Whatever it was that had scared me so much,
Scared more than just me, you can tell.
That clock is still sour to ring on the hour
No ringing or singing or knell.

I never stay up when it’s midnight or past,
And certainly not till it’s three.
Whatever that thing is, that scared the clock’s ring is
A thing I don’t want to catch me.

The End.

Waxworks picks up her lantern and hops off the bridge railing. She hooks it back onto her saddlebags and looks at you. “He’s a successful businesspony now, but true to his word, he never stays up late. Even if he has to leave while some event is going on, he refuses to be out at 3:00am,” she said. “It could have been a burglar for all I know. He says he never saw it, so it might not be supernatural in any way. But that clock still avoids chiming on the hour.”
Waxworks looks out over the chasm one last time, then turns to cross the arch of the bridge, leaving you in the pool of light from the lamppost above you. She turns back around one last time and winks at you with a wicked grin.
“The real question is; there’s 24 hours in a day, but he only encountered one that appeared at three in the morning. Why does it avoid all the other hours of the day, hmmm?” With a short, barking laugh, she turns away and leaves you alone once more.