Don’t Look Into Her Eyes

THE GIRL WITH TICKING EYES

I live in a small town in Indiana. Quiet place. Nothing much happens here, except for whispers—stories no one likes to repeat when the sun goes down.
Behind my school, there's a crumbling orphanage. The roof has collapsed in some parts, windows are shattered, and vines twist around the structure like it’s trying to strangle what’s left. Nobody goes near it. Not even the stray dogs.

One afternoon, my older cousin, Mason, dared me to sneak in. He was always like that—loud, cocky, and stupidly brave. I didn’t want to look like a coward, so I waited until after school and went there alone.

The air inside was damp, like wet wood and mold. My flashlight flickered as I stepped over broken toys, rusted bed frames, and stained curtains swaying with no wind. The silence was too loud.

Then I saw her.

A little girl stood at the end of the hallway, half-hidden in the shadows. She wore a gray dress, torn and filthy. Her skin looked pale, almost bluish, and her hands hung limp at her sides. But it was her eyes that froze me in place.

They weren’t eyes. They were clocks. Old-fashioned ones with glass covers, brass rims, and ticking hands that slowly turned with each passing second.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
She stared at me. Unblinking.

I ran. I didn’t look back until I was outside, gasping for air, heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing ticking sounds, faint at first, then louder. I turned on the lights. Checked every corner. But there was nothing. When I finally drifted off, it was almost morning.

I woke up with fresh scratches down my arms. My mirror was fogged, though the air was dry. On the glass, smeared in something brownish-red, were the words:
Your time is close. Now.

I told Mason. He laughed, called me a drama queen, and said I probably scratched myself while dreaming.
That night, at exactly 2:13 a.m., I heard footsteps. Soft. Measured. Like a barefoot child walking slowly across the wooden floor.

Tick.
Step.
Tick.
Step.

The noise stopped outside my room. I held my breath, too scared to move.
Then came a whisper.
“I see you.”

I bolted upright. Switched on the light.
No one.
But on the wall, scrawled in the same brown-red substance, were three words:
Twelve. Hours. Left.

I didn’t go to school the next day. Mason stopped answering my texts. I called his phone. Straight to voicemail. Around noon, I went to his house. His parents said he never came home after football practice. The police were already there.

That evening, I returned to the orphanage.

Not because I was brave, but because I knew she had taken him.

This time, the doors weren’t just unlocked. They were wide open, waiting.

Inside was darker than I remembered. The ticking was louder, coming from every direction. I followed it down the same hallway. And there she was. Same dress. Same pale face. Same ticking eyes. Only now, she wasn’t alone.

Mason stood beside her, face blank, arms hanging by his side. His eyes were closed. His skin looked waxy.

“Give him back,” I said, my voice trembling.

She tilted her head. Her eyes spun faster.

Tickticktickticktick—

“You came too late,” she whispered. Her voice sounded like gears grinding against rusted metal.

Suddenly, the clocks in her eyes stopped.

The hallway around me twisted. The walls bent inward. My ears filled with screaming, not hers, not Mason’s, but dozens of voices, crying, pleading, begging.

I shut my eyes.

When I opened them, I was in my room.

I checked the clock. 2:13 a.m.

The ticking started again.

I turned on the lights. Mason was sitting on the edge of my bed, smiling. But something was wrong. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. And then I noticed.

His eyes were ticking. Just like hers.

“Too late,” he whispered, voice hollow.

The mirror fogged behind him. A message formed slowly.

You should have stayed away.

Then, I blacked out.

When I woke up, I was in the orphanage.

Only it wasn’t abandoned anymore. It was clean. Bright. Filled with children laughing, running. But none of them had normal eyes.

They all had clocks ticking inside their sockets.

I ran to the doors. Locked. Windows bricked up. I was trapped.

One of the children walked up to me. A girl in a pink dress. She smiled.

“Time doesn’t move the same here,” she said. “But you’ll get used to it.”

The ticking echoed around me, steady and endless.

Outside, the town went on. They never found Mason. They never found me.

Sometimes, late at night, people hear ticking from behind the orphanage walls.

And sometimes, a new name appears on the fogged glass in the front room mirror.

Maybe yours will be next.

When her eyes tick, time runs out.

THE END....

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