The Clock Stopped at 3:07

The night it started, I thought it was just a coincidence.

I had fallen asleep on the couch, the TV still on, when a sharp click jolted me awake. I glanced over at the old clock on the wall—the one my grandmother left me. Its second hand had frozen, pointing straight at the seven.

The time was 3:07 a.m.

I got up, tapped the glass, even changed the batteries the next morning. The clock worked fine again. I didn’t think much of it.

Until the next night.

At exactly 3:07, I woke again. Not to a sound this time, but to a feeling—like someone was standing in the room, watching me. My skin prickled. The clock had stopped again.

I told myself I was imagining it. Stress, lack of sleep, maybe too much coffee before bed. But the third night, when it happened again, I couldn’t brush it off so easily.

3:07.

Every night, I woke up at the exact same time. The clock always frozen. The house always too quiet, like it was holding its breath.

By the fourth night, I was wide awake, waiting for it. My phone said 3:06, then 3:07. Right on cue, the clock stopped.

And that’s when I heard it.

A faint knock. Three times, slow and deliberate. Coming from the hallway outside my bedroom.

I froze, my ears straining. The knock came again—three times. I forced myself out of bed, my legs trembling, and opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

But at the far end, near the attic door, something caught my eye. A shadow darker than the rest, clinging to the wall. It seemed to ripple, like smoke.

When I blinked, it was gone.

The next morning, I considered leaving the house. Maybe staying at a hotel, or calling a friend. But this was my home. Running didn’t feel right.

Instead, I dug through an old box of my grandmother’s things, hoping for some clue about the clock. In the bottom, wrapped in yellowed paper, I found a note written in her handwriting.

It said only one thing:

“Don’t let it in after 3:07.”

My stomach dropped. What did that mean? What was “it”?

That night, fear gnawed at me as I sat awake, clutching the note in one hand and a flashlight in the other. When the clock clicked to 3:07, my heart jumped into my throat.

The knocking started again. Louder this time.

Three knocks. Pause. Three knocks.

And then… a voice.

“Let me in.”

My blood turned cold. The words were soft, almost pleading, like a child begging. But there was something wrong about the tone—too flat, too hollow.

“Let me in.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering the note. Don’t let it in.

The knocks grew violent, shaking the doorframe. My flashlight flickered. The air in the room grew icy cold.

And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

The silence was deafening. The clock started ticking again.

I sat there shaking until the sun came up.

Over the next week, it happened every night. Always at 3:07. Always the knocks, the voice. Always begging to be let in.

I tried everything—prayers, salt at the door, even moving the clock out of the house. But nothing changed. It wasn’t the clock. It was me.

One night, exhausted and trembling from lack of sleep, I lost my patience. When the knocks came, I shouted back, “Go away!”

For the first time, the voice changed.

It laughed.

A dry, rasping laugh that crawled under my skin. Then it whispered, “Soon.”

That was worse than the knocks. Worse than the voice. Because it meant waiting.

Now, every night, I lie awake at 3:07. I don’t wait for the knocks anymore—they always come. What I wait for is the moment when the voice will stop asking. When it will stop waiting for permission.

Because deep down, I know one night, I won’t have a choice.

One night, at 3:07, the door will open.

And whatever has been waiting all this time… will finally come in.