His house sat at the end of a gravel road that no one bothered to pave, a crooked Victorian with a porch that sagged like an old mule. Everyone in town knew Uncle Shom as the man who fixed clocks and never smiled. But I knew him as the man who, twice before, had shown me things that couldn’t be explained.
“That some doors aren’t meant to keep things out,” he said. “They’re meant to keep something in.” uncle shom part3
By an unreliable nephew
I felt the air change. The house groaned. Somewhere above us, a clock began to tick backward. His house sat at the end of a
“You’re late,” he said without turning. “That some doors aren’t meant to keep things
Part 1 was the jar of fireflies that never died. (He shook it on Christmas Eve, and they spelled a name I’d never heard: Liora. )