The Clock That Laughed at Midnight

The Greybriar Mansion had been empty for nearly a century, swallowed by vines and silence on the edge of town. The locals whispered stories about how the house had once belonged to a clockmaker obsessed with time, and how the old grandfather clock in the attic never ticked, yet never stopped watching.

Five friends, thrill-seekers and video bloggers, saw the mansion as their next viral adventure. There was Max, the bold leader; Sophie, the skeptic with a camera always ready; Liam, the joker trying to lighten the mood; Rachel, the quiet, sensitive one; and Jake, who found the house irresistibly creepy. They entered the mansion just as twilight bled into night, eager to capture the eerie stillness.

The attic was a thick, choking cavern of dust and cobwebs. There, standing tall and solemn, was the clock. It's dark wood was cracked and worn, its hands frozen at eleven fifty-nine.

"Should we wind it up?" Jake asked, half-joking, his fingers brushing the rusted key on the side.

Before anyone could stop him, Jake turned the key, the gears groaning as the hands moved-tick, tick-then stopping abruptly at midnight.

A terrible sound erupted from the clock. It was not ticking. Not chiming. It was laughter. Mad, sharp, and unnatural-a sound that seemed to gnaw at the edges of their sanity.

Time warped.

The attic stretched and contracted. Shadows flickered and twisted. And when they blinked, Jake was gone.

In his place, carved crudely into the clock’s wood, was a poem:

“Tick-tock, the shadows play,

One more soul has slipped away.

Wind me once and pay the price,

Time takes all, but never twice.”

Panic surged. They tried to leave, but the mansion resisted. Doors led back to the attic. Windows showed the same dying twilight outside. The house was alive, rearranging itself as if it were a beast with endless rooms.

Hours passed-or maybe minutes-and Sophie was next. Her disappearance was marked by another verse, this time scratched onto the dusty floorboards:

“Laughter rings, a cruel disguise,

Who will fall, and who survives?

Mirrors grin with silver lies,

Count the ticks before one dies.”

Liam laughed nervously, trying to brush off the horror. “Hey, maybe this clock just wants a joke before it finishes us off.”

But that night, when Liam made a joke, the clock laughed too-using his voice, a cruel mimicry from nowhere.

Then Rachel vanished, and Max was alone, heart pounding, every breath a desperate plea against the suffocating dread.

The clock ticked again, slower now. Its laughter echoed through the halls like a grim lullaby.

“Midnight’s joke is death in rhyme,

Welcome, fools, to borrowed time.”

Max realized the clock was not a machine-it was a trap. Time itself had become a predator, playing with its prey, savoring each terrified heartbeat before the end.

As the first light of dawn bled weakly through broken windows, the clock’s hands froze once more.

And in the silence, Max could only hear the faintest whisper of laughter, waiting for midnight to come again.