The Cuckoo Clock

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

I was an apprentice to a clockmaker. I loved the mechanics of clockwork, but I was particularly fascinated by cuckoo clocks. The intricate mechanism that made a tiny bird emerge from the small door to sing its "CUCK-OO" intrigued me.

The clockmaker had many cuckoo clocks, but one was especially unique, with beautiful carvings. He told me it came from the Black Forest, the homeland of cuckoo clocks, and that it was very old. The clock was adorned with ivy climbing up the sides and pairs of small faces—always one smiling and the other terrified. At the top, the clock was crowned with a skull, carved with a crown. It sent shivers down my spine, yet I was drawn to it beyond understanding.

But I understood mechanics, and I kept pestering my Master to let me inspect the old clock and restore its ancient workings as my journeyman's test, which was approaching.

The Master was reluctant but eventually relented with the words, "There was only one rule: don’t open the door."

"But Master," I protested, "the door has to open for the cuckoo to come out!"

"NO," he almost shouted, "That function must not work!"

I got to work, quickly grasping the old clock's mechanism. My hands worked almost on their own, and soon I had the clock fully restored.

The day of the presentation came, and several respected clockmakers were to judge my test.

The head judge started the clock, and it worked perfectly. As it struck twelve, the cuckoo emerged, shrieked hoarsely, grew larger than a vulture, dug its talons into the judge, and gouged out his eyes. Then it went for his neck, severing his arteries, and suddenly the wall around the clock was no longer white.