The dread became fact. The old grandpa clock stopped short, pendulum hanging middair, close to the ninth hour. The time would be such until the pendulum fell.

At night, the birds are set free. Their caws were audible now, very loudly. “The louder they are, the farther they come” said the older boy.

“We must go where the clocks are” amswered the girl, bitting the nail of her pinky.

“We’d have to cross the street” said the youngest. “It’s dangerous”.

The birds turned silent. As they looked back at the grandpa clock, a flap of wings knocked the three of them down. Its screeches looked painful on its beak but the sound came as distant as thunder.

“We must go and cross the road!” yelled the girl, fighting against the shower of sharp feathers that befell them. More beasts are on the way.

“Jump inside the clock” said the eldest, and quickly grabbed his brother’s arm and shoved him inside the pendulum deck. Their sister followed short, and closed the crystal gate with her naked foot.

The birds — they were hundreds now — cuddled around the clock and waited. They knew the pendulum would not move again, not while they hadn’t had their dinner.

“There’s something written in the pendulum” noticed the youngest. “Dim the nights, the birds are coming” he read. The inscription was shallow but clear.

“A bit late for that” said the eldest bitterly.

“That’s what we should’ve done before the clock stopped dead” added the girl.

… And there they are, to this day. May anyone who finds the house where it’s always almost the ninth hour, fight the dreadful birds and save the children?