It was 3:13 and the church bells were ringing. They rang from dawn to dusk, every fifteen minutes, a few minutes before the hour, the half-hour, or the quarter-hour, day after day.

"That's it!" cried Jane. She slammed her laptop closed and stormed out the apartment, down the stairs, out the doors, down the street, around the corner, across the intersection, and through the doors of the church. "That's it!" she cried.

"And with your spirit," said the congregation. Slowly, the congregation began to process the intrusion and the deviation from the script. They began to absorb the fact that a pajama-clad woman was storming to the dais. "Oh, uh, or maybe not," they said.

"Where's the bell guy? Who controls the bells?" Jane demanded, having reached the altar.

The altar boy, dumbfounded, dropped the incense, which clattered to the floor with a puff of sickly sweet smoke.

"It's all automatic now," explained the priest. "The last bell guy hooked it up to the clock ten years or so ago. Went and obsoleted himself, he did."

"And with his spirit," the congregation intoned.

"Who's the clock guy then?" Jane asked, still seething. "Who controls the clocks? The bells chime at the 13th, 27th, 43rd and 57th hour of every hour and I demand to know why. Bring me the clock man!"

There was a rustling from the choir box as an old tenor propelled himself to his feet. "I'm the clock man," he said, "but it's the clock woman you want! My job is simply to to ensure that the clock never runs late - a task I attend to faithfully. If it's running early, blame the clock woman!"

"She has passed," said the priest, gesturing remorsefully with his expansive sleeves. "May she rest in peace."

"And with her spirit," said the congregation.

By that time, the police had been called and Jane was tackled to the ground and dragged out the side door, just as the clock struck 3:27.

...

Morals: