[Keys jingling, slow footsteps on marble] Every courthouse got a man like Earl. Been mopping those same floors since '82. Earl don't talk much. But last Tuesday, he talked to me. He said, "I got keys for every door in that building. Every door 'cept one." He does his rounds at midnight. Third floor, then second, then first. But he says at 11:59, he hears it start. Above him. Footsteps. On the fourth floor. There ain't no fourth floor. That's just the clock tower. He said the first time he went up to check, his flashlight died at the top of the stairs. And in the dark, he heard breathing. And ticking. Even though that south clock don't tick no more. Second time, he brought his cousin Leroy. Leroy made it ten steps into the clockwork and froze. Said he saw boot prints in the dust. Fresh. Big. And they stopped right at the edge of the southern window, looking down at the tree. Earl told me last week, he found a set of keys on the floor under the south clock. Old keys. Rusty. Not his. And they were warm. He left 'em there. Says some doors ain't meant to be opened. And some justice... don't stay buried just 'cause you poured concrete over it. If Earl don't show up for work next week... you'll know why he kept that south door locked. [Keys drop, echo, clock stops at 9]
