He Came When the Clocks Stopped

Natalie heard it — not the stopping, but the absence. The ticking of the living room wall clock had become background noise over the years, like the distant hum of traffic or the occasional creak of the old apartment building. But that night, its silence was sudden and complete.

She turned in bed, glancing at the red digits on her nightstand: 2:17.

Then she heard the second one stop — the little brass desk clock in the hallway.

Tick… tick… nothing.

A chill ran through her. She sat up, her throat dry, as though the air had thickened.

Natalie lived alone. She had for almost three years since Liam’s disappearance. He had walked out one night after an argument—said he needed air—and never returned. No trace. No note. Just... silence. The same kind of silence now settling into her home like fog.

She pulled on a sweater and stepped into the hallway.

The dim light from the kitchen nightlamp barely reached the living room. The clocks—five in total—were her obsession. She never liked phones or digital screens. She collected antique timepieces from thrift shops. Some didn’t even work. But she kept them all wound, synchronized. Each one ticked a little differently, but together, they made the house feel alive.

Now, they were all silent.

Every. Single. One.

Her heart raced. She flicked on the hallway light. The hands on each clock were still.

She checked the small travel clock above the fireplace. 2:17.

The grandfather clock? 2:17.

The rusted railway station piece she’d found in a junkyard? 2:17.

Time itself had stopped.

The hairs on her arms rose.

And then… the knock.

Three sharp knocks on her front door.

Natalie froze.

No one knocked at this hour.

She stood in silence for what felt like hours, though no clocks remained to prove it. Her hand trembled as she approached the door. She didn't speak. She didn't ask "Who is it?" because deep inside her, something whispered: You already know.

She looked through the peephole.

Nothing. Only the dark hallway of her building.

But when she turned back, she screamed.

He was standing in her living room.

Not Liam. No. This wasn’t him. This… thing wore his face—his body. But it was off, like a wax figure made by someone who only heard what Liam looked like.

Its eyes were too wide. Its smile was too… empty.

“Natalie,” it said, voice smooth, hollow. “It’s been a long time.”

She stumbled backward. “Who are you?”

“You invited me,” it said, stepping forward. The lights flickered overhead. “When the clocks stopped. That was the deal.”

“No… no, I didn’t—”

“You waited for him,” the figure said, its face flickering with static, like a broken TV signal. “You kept time alive for him. You let it tick, always hoping he’d return. But tonight... you gave up. You let the clocks die.”

“I didn’t—!”

He walked past her, his feet soundless. “You didn’t have to say it. Hope only needs silence to die.”

She backed into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, pointing it at him. “Stay back!”

He tilted his head, amused. “You don’t remember the price?”

“What price!?”

“When time stops… I come.”

The lights went out.

And she felt it—everything stop.

The hum of the fridge ceased. The rustling of trees beyond the window vanished. Even the thudding of her heart grew distant.

In that moment, she felt suspended in a world that had no heartbeat. A world outside time.

“You’re not real,” she whispered.

“But I am,” he said. “I’m the pause between the seconds. The silence between words. The space between breath and death.”

He reached toward her.

And just before his cold hand touched her skin—

a sudden tick.

Then another.

She looked around, wide-eyed.

The clocks were ticking again. Slowly, softly.

The grandfather clock began to chime, its bells low and hesitant, like something trying to wake from a long dream.

“No,” he hissed. His face cracked. “You can’t restart it. You made your choice.”

“I didn’t stop them,” Natalie said, breathless. “You did. You wanted to come in. But I’m not letting you stay.”

She stumbled toward the desk drawer, pulling out a wind-up key. Her fingers flew from clock to clock, winding them furiously. As she turned each key, the ticking grew louder, stronger.

He shrieked—a sound like glass shattering and metal groaning.

The last clock—a tiny silver one Liam had once given her—was wound tight.

Time was alive again.

She turned.

He was gone.

It was 2:21 a.m.

The clocks were all ticking, louder than ever. She sat on the floor, trembling, breathing, listening to the sound of time—her time—moving again.

But as she closed her eyes, she didn’t notice the one clock above the fireplace.

Its second hand was still.

2:17.

Waiting.