The Clock in My Room Only Ticks on the 13th

The Clock in My Room Only Ticks on the 13th

There’s an old wooden wall clock in my bedroom.

It belonged to my grandfather — heavy, antique, with gold-rimmed hands and Roman numerals. It stopped working nearly eleven years ago, and we never got it fixed.

But I kept it.

Mostly because of nostalgia.

That was… until I turned twenty-three.

And the 13th of that month changed everything.

---

First Incident — The Awakening

It was exactly midnight.

I had just turned off my light, ready to sleep.

And then…

tick... tick... tick.

I sat up.

The sound was soft. Rhythmic. Familiar.

I looked at the wall.

The clock's hands were moving.

Not fast. Not slow.

Just... like a normal, working clock.

Except — we never replaced the batteries.

---

I walked up to it.

Touched the glass.

Still cold.

I opened the back — no battery.

And yet, the hands kept moving.

---

At 12:13 AM, it stopped again.

Exactly when the minute hand touched 13 minutes past midnight.

The next day, I told my father.

He froze.

> “That clock was your grandfather’s. He died on the 13th.”

> “Of which month?”

> “All I know is… his final words were,

‘Don’t trust the 13th. That’s when time speaks.’”

---

Second Incident — The Pattern

Next month.

Same thing.

13th. Midnight.

Tick... tick...

I started documenting it.

Every month, exactly on the 13th, at midnight, it ticked for 13 minutes.

Then silence.

No other day. No other moment.

Only the 13th.

---

I invited a friend over.

He thought I was pranking him.

Until he saw it himself.

> “Bro... this is haunted. That’s not normal.”

We checked it thoroughly.

No hidden wires. No sensors. No devices.

Just an old clock.

And a mystery.

---

Third Incident — The Reverse

It happened in October.

The 13th came.

Midnight arrived.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

But this time…

The hands moved backward.

Second by second, the clock unwound itself.

The longer I watched, the colder the room became.

And at 12:13 AM…

The clock chimed.

It had never chimed before.

---

I backed away.

And in that instant…

My phone buzzed.

A notification.

An email from my old Gmail — the one I hadn’t used in years.

Subject: “Do you remember what you did on the 13th?”

There was no sender.

And inside the email…

Only a picture.

Of me.

Asleep.

Taken just minutes ago.

---

My heart pounded.

I ran out of the room.

Slept on the floor of the lounge.

But even there…

At 1:00 AM…

I heard a whisper:

> “Time is just a door.”

---

Researching the Date

I began researching.

13th dates across months.

Family events. Deaths. Patterns.

That’s when I found it.

My grandfather wasn’t the only one who died on the 13th.

His father also passed on the 13th.

And his father before him.

All of them.

Died exactly 13 years apart.

---

Guess what year I’m in?

Year 13.

Since my grandfather’s death.

---

Last Incident — The Visitor

The latest 13th — just last month.

I didn’t sleep.

I waited.

Midnight struck.

The clock began ticking.

This time… not just ticking.

It ticked faster.

Second hand racing.

Then stopped.

At 12:13…

It chimed once again.

And the glass cracked.

---

And then I saw it.

In the mirror across the room.

A man.

Standing under the clock.

Dressed in old clothes. Pale face. Eyes… like mine.

He didn’t speak.

He just pointed at the clock.

And vanished.

When I looked back —

The hands were spinning wildly.

And then fell still.

---

Now…

Today is the 12th.

Tomorrow… the 13th comes again.

I don’t know what will happen.

But I feel something building.

Like time is warning me.

Preparing me.

Counting backward.

And when it reaches zero…

I don’t think it’s the clock that will stop.

I think…

It’ll be me.