The Cursed Clock of Blackthorn Hollow

clawing at his throat. The churchyard loomed skelet

ed clean by centuries of spiteful winds-save for her name, gouged deep as a fresh wound. The pocket wat

, pooling into fingerbone shapes. "She peeled me open," Clara rasped, clutching a locket with Holloway's face ins

e biting his palm. "The curse isn't vengeance,"

ing, burning, choking-but he never stays buried." She pressed the locke

d open the locket. Holloway's portrait smiled, but the eyes now wept ta