The Ticking of the Broken Clock

The sound of tick-tick, tick-tick reverberated through the old house in the stillness of the night. It began softly, almost disappearing into the background, but gradually became more audible. With her heart racing in her chest, Mita sat up in bed. Just a few weeks prior, she had moved into this house in the hopes of finding calm and a fresh start. But there was a strange vibe tonight.

The living room was the source of the noise. She was aware that the clock, which had a wooden frame and brass hands, was old and had never been functional. Or not till now, nonetheless.

Drawn tight under the covers, she asked herself, "Why is it ticking?" The house had been silent for days, and in an odd way, the emptiness was soothing. But now, she couldn't get rid of the cold that the ticking seemed to be sending through the silence.

Her bare feet finally touched the chilly hardwood floor as she gently got out of bed. The ticking went on, unceasing, unrelenting, like if it were contacting her, urging her to approach. Breathing deeply, Mita entered the corridor where the moon's soft light created unsettling shadows on the walls.

As she reached the living room, her eyes fell on the clock. It sat on the mantle, exactly where she had placed it when she moved in. The hands, frozen at 11:59 for as long as she had known, were now moving. Tick-tick, tick-tick.

Mita scowled. How is this possible to be occurring? She had examined it multiple times; it was defective. Here it was, though, continuing to tick as though it had never stopped.

She stepped closer, her fingers grazing the cold wood of the clock as her curiosity overcame her. The clock went on, but now there was something more; a faint sound that was concealed behind it. A murmur? It is not possible.

She leaned in, her ear almost touching the clock. “Mita...” The voice was barely audible, but it was there, unmistakable. Her breath caught in her throat. She pulled back, staring at the clock in disbelief. Was she imagining things?

Suddenly, the ticking grew louder, more frantic. The hands spun wildly, faster and faster, as if time itself was unraveling in front of her. Panic surged through her, but she couldn’t move. She was frozen, rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on the clock.

“Mita...” the voice called again, clearer now. It wasn’t coming from the clock anymore. It was coming from behind her.

Slowly, she turned around, her heart racing. The room was empty, but the air felt heavy, as if someone—or something—was watching her. The temperature dropped, a cold breeze brushing past her even though the windows were closed. Her breath came out in visible puffs, the atmosphere thick with an unsettling presence.

“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice shaking.

No answer.

The clock stopped ticking. The silence that followed was deafening, almost suffocating. Mita’s mind raced. Was she losing it? Was this house haunted?

Just as she was about to step away, the ticking resumed. But this time, it was different. Slower. Deliberate. And then, the whisper again: “Come closer.”

Every instinct in her screamed to run, to leave this place and never look back. But she couldn’t. She was drawn to the voice, to the clock, as if something was pulling her deeper into its mystery.

With trembling hands, she reached out and touched the glass face of the clock. The moment her fingers made contact, a surge of energy shot through her, cold and sharp. The room spun, and she stumbled back, her vision blurring. The last thing she saw before everything went dark was the clock’s hands stopping once again, at 12:00.

When she woke, the house was still. The ticking had stopped. But Mita knew, deep down, that something had changed. She was no longer alone in this house. The clock, broken as it seemed, held a secret—a connection to something beyond time, beyond life.

From that night on, the ticking never truly stopped. It was always there, faint in the background, a constant reminder that time, though broken, could still reach across the veil of the unknown.