On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 250, of 266 so far.

The Gift of Time

They had all met the solicitor before, and indeed there had been two meetings prior to this one: to arrange the funeral, and to obtain certain personal financial information from each surviving family member.

This gathering was the only one they had each been looking forward to, and not just because it marked the final part of the whole process. The family patriarch had been a difficult man to love, but he was also a man that they were compelled to love, lest they be omitted from his will when the time came.

The hour had now arrived, with the funeral completed the day before, and all five direct beneficiaries were gathered in the grand house, specifically in the deceased’s own office. It was dark and sombre, reeking of furniture polish and faded tobacco, and it was a room that had a way of immediately setting any visitor’s nerves on edge.

“Since we’re all here, I believe we should begin,” the solicitor said. He withdrew a handwritten letter from his briefcase, and quickly glanced around the room before continuing. “This is a written statement from the late James Alleyn Gordon, pertaining to his wishes regarding the disposal of his estate.”

The second wife was there, looking pale and nettled. She was sixty-three herself, and her husband had recently seen — if not quite celebrated — his own eighty-first birthday. Then there was Gordon’s younger brother, who looked about ninety despite being ten years the dead man’s junior. There was the spinster sister. And the two sons, one married but unaccompanied, and one a staunch bachelor.

Assorted cousins existed, as well as friends and acquaintances, but the will apparently mentioned only the five people assembled. It was of little surprise to anyone. The dead man’s pharmaceutical empire was vast, and he had built it from scratch, holding onto each penny as if his life depended on it. Each of the benefactors unconsciously leaned forward slightly, and the solicitor cleared his throat.

“I’ll read the statement shortly, but first Mr. Gordon requested that you each be given these.”

The solicitor retrieved five boxes, each approximately cube-shaped, made of burgundy leather and stamped with the family crest in gold. The boxes were perhaps ten centimetres on a side, and each one weighed a little more than half a kilogram. He distributed them to the five beneficiaries, and nodded to indicate that the boxes should be opened.

Within each box, there was an elegant mechanical wristwatch, in tasteful platinum with a burgundy dial to match the boxes themselves. The faces bore the family crest and no other mark, and the only complications were an inset date window, and a small sub-dial providing a twelve-hour timer.

“Mr. Gordon requested that you each put these timepieces on immediately,” the solicitor said.

The family members looked around at each other — perhaps for the first time in quite a few years in some cases, owing to the fractures of estrangement that snaked through the family tree — and then they each slid their watch onto their wrist and fastened the bracelet. It was evident that the watches were identical, in a smaller case width that would suit either men or women. The solicitor nodded, and then he stood up.

“At this point, I must ask you to excuse me for ten minutes or so, to make a series of money transfers in your favour. I’ll return shortly.”

He left the room, though they could all hear him in the chamber outside, tapping away on a computer keyboard. The family members themselves made no conversation whatsoever, each lost in their own thoughts. When almost fifteen minutes had passed, he returned and once again took his seat.

“My apologies for the brief delay. I’ll read Mr. Gordon’s statement now,” the solicitor said. “The remainder of these words are his own.”

He shifted in his chair, his face betraying no particular emotion, but the wife noticed that his office door was now slightly ajar. There had been two black-suited men sat outside when they had all entered.

“I am giving you the gift of time, and an appreciation of how precious it is. As of this moment, each of you possesses a personal liquid wealth in excess of five hundred million Euros.”

To her credit, the spinster sister didn’t visibly respond. The other four, however, had reactions varying from gasps to smiles of triumph. The wife, in particular, clasped her hands together in a gesture that seemed to be more a justification of her own suffering, rather than any message of thanks to the departed.

The solicitor took a breath that whistled in his nose before he continued to read aloud.

“These timepieces were created specially for you, and they provide a unique insight: the inner dial counts down the final twelve hours of your life.”

The two sons’ brows creased in frowns that were nearly identical, though neither of them would ever admit it. They glanced at their respective wrists, and almost at the same moment, they saw that the fine hands upon the inner dials had moved by a single position.

The mental calculation was straightforward. Sixty subdivisions, to mark out twelve hours of sixty minutes each, so each subdivision represented twelve minutes. And the solicitor had been out of the room for almost fifteen.

With a flash of realisation, the elder son tore the watch from his wrist. The puncture mark revealed was only a pinprick, a vivid red-pink dot.

“Be assured that the neurotoxin is undetectable and untreatable, and that death will be virtually instantaneous and completely painless.”

The two men in dark suits entered the room now, and a dazed part of the younger son’s mind realised that they were bodyguards for the solicitor himself. But the man was speaking again.

“The measure of a person, I have always thought, is how they use the resources they have within the time they have left. Each of you now possesses a fortune, and none of you will see another sunrise. My final message and request to you is this: spend your inheritance, and your time, wisely.”

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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