Every house has its quirks, especially old ones. Mine, a dilapidated Victorian i

Every house has its quirks, especially old ones. Mine, a dilapidated Victorian inherited from a great-aunt I barely knew, had many. But none were as maddening—or as haunting—as the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway. From my first night, the clock disturbed me. Its ticking was loud, irregular, a cacophony of ticks and tocks that never quite synced up. I’d lie in bed, each tick a hammer against my skull, each tock an echo in an otherwise silent home. I complained about it to friends and family, half-jokingly, but their laughter couldn’t drown out the incessant noise. One evening, driven to the brink, I resolved to stop it. I approached the clock, its pendulum swinging with an exaggerated, almost mocking arc. I reached out to still it—just to have some peace. But the moment my fingers brushed the cool, metallic surface, the ticking ceased abruptly. Relief washed over me. But it was short-lived. That night, the silence was oppressive, a stark, suffocating void where the ticking should have been. It felt as though the house was holding its breath. In bed, I tossed and turned, straining to hear something, anything. But there was nothing—just the heavy, expectant quiet. Then, past midnight, the quiet broke. A soft tapping began at my window. I told myself it was just a branch, the wind, anything normal. But when I pulled back the curtains, there was nothing there. No tree, no wind, just the still, dark night. The tapping moved, a slow, deliberate rhythm, from the window to the walls, encircling me. Frightened, I left my bedroom to check the house. The air was chillier than usual, my breath fogging in the moonlight streaming through the windows. The tapping followed me, always just behind. When I passed the hallway, I couldn’t help but glance at the clock. It was working again, its pendulum swinging, but the face told a different time than before—somehow, hours ahead. And with each swing, a new sound joined the symphony of taps: a faint whisper, echoing throug

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Every house has its quirks , especially old ones . Mine , a dilapidated Victorian inherited from a great-aunt I barely knew , had many . But none were as maddening—or as haunting—as the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway . From my first night , the clock disturbed me . Its ticking was loud , irregular , a cacophony of ticks and tocks that never quite synced up . I’d lie in bed , each tick a hammer against my skull , each tock an echo in an otherwise silent home . I complained about it to friends and family , half-jokingly , but their laughter couldn’t drown out the incessant noise . One evening , driven to the brink , I resolved to stop it . I approached the clock , its pendulum swinging with an exaggerated , almost mocking arc . I reached out to still it—just to have some peace . But the moment my fingers brushed the cool , metallic surface , the ticking ceased abruptly . Relief washed over me . But it was short-lived . That night , the silence was oppressive , a stark , suffocating void where the ticking should have been . It felt as though the house was holding its breath . In bed , I tossed and turned , straining to hear something , anything . But there was nothing—just the heavy , expectant quiet . Then , past midnight , the quiet broke . A soft tapping began at my window . I told myself it was just a branch , the wind , anything normal . But when I pulled back the curtains , there was nothing there . No tree , no wind , just the still , dark night . The tapping moved , a slow , deliberate rhythm , from the window to the walls , encircling me . Frightened , I left my bedroom to check the house . The air was chillier than usual , my breath fogging in the moonlight streaming through the windows . The tapping followed me , always just behind . When I passed the hallway , I couldn’t help but glance at the clock . It was working again , its pendulum swinging , but the face told a different time than before—somehow , hours ahead . And with each swing , a new sound joined the symphony of taps: a faint whisper , echoing throug

Info

Taille

1768X1328

Date

Jul 11, 2024

Mode

Studio

Type

cell

Checkpoint & LoRA

Checkpoint

Dark Sushi 2.5D 大颗寿司2.5D

#Conception de Scène

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Every house has its quirks, especially old ones. Mine, a dilapidated Victorian i

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