It’s gone, for now. I’m alone. I’m in a storage room of this abandoned building on 6th Street and 3rd. I can still hear him. Or it. His clicks, echoing. Like a raw, inescapable pain. Nerves jolt all around my rattling body. My legs are weak, and I feel like there’s about 100 pounds being compressed down onto my chest. My breathing is slow, heavy, but fast. Before I go any further in hoping this reaches anyone who can help me, I’ll explain what’s going on.
About two hours ago, I was in a bar in a pretty run-down and rough area of town. I stepped outside as a fight began to develop. I took out a cigarette and tried to relax. I finished my cigarette and was ready to head back in, but then, I noticed him. Down back from the far end of the alleyway, came a fast-snapping clicking sound. I looked down the alley, in the light I saw IT. A figure, about six foot seven, dressed in an all black cloak and top hat, finger nails were long and sharp. It had it’s right armed raised and was snapping fast. I stopped and stared for around a minute.
I shouted:
“Excuse me, can you maybe keep it down? I’m trying to relax.”
It ignored. The clicking kept assaulting my ears for another few seconds.
I shouted, again, angrily:
“Didn’t you hear me? I said shut the fuck up!”
It stopped. I sighed in relief.
However, the thing started to move towards me. Almost hovering. I ran back into the bar and decided to stay for a bit longer, as the fight had calmed down. I ordered another beer, and looked out the window. There it was. Clear as day. Looking at me. In about half an hour, I finished my beer and it was gone. I called a taxi and was on my way home within a ten minutes. The streets were dead quiet and black, only lit by the streetlights. About halfway through the journey, we both saw it. We saw IT. The driver stopped talking. I attempted to get his attention, to no avail. Then he turned to look at me. I froze. My stomach sank, my throat closed and my heart nearly blew out of my chest. His eyes were bloodshot and wide, tears streaming down his face. His smile was wider than the average human. In the reflection of his eyes, was the figure from the alley. I took the wheel and slammed the breaks and ran out of the car. As I reached the curb, I tripped. I looked back. On top of the car, was the man, clicking his fingers. His left hand was digging into the taxi driver’s throat, blood pouring from the gashes.
I stood up and ran down the street. I heard the clicking following me all the way through the running, getting closer and closer. Eventually, I got to 6th Street and 3rd and took shelter in this abandoned building called The Clicking Cocktail. In the middle of the floor was blood stains, a pentagram and brownish-yellow tape. Ever since I got here, the clicking has been echoing throughout the entire building, along with this old, broken 1920s jazz song. It goes something like this from what I can tell:
This is the tale of who I call the Clicking Man, I met him back in ‘21 all the way up in Portland. We talked and chatted for a while, taking ‘bout far and wide. Then he introduced me to his wife, she was called Mrs. Stride. The Clicking Man is long gone now, but every single day, I still hear his clicking tale and the clicking far away.
It’s in here now. Whether or not I manage to post this, I don’t know. I hope I do. It’s coming closer. I’m ready.
Wait, it’s gone now. I think I’m saf-