The Clock

Nobody believes me, but I possess the unwavering knowledge that whenever that dreadful clock strikes 4 on the fateful day of July 19, a malevolent force unleashes its havoc upon us. I cannot fathom the reason behind it, nor do I possess the knowledge of its origin... but I am certain of its existence.

Ever since I arrived at this abode two years ago, my mother became infatuated with an ostentatious wooden timepiece, a beautiful artifact that eventually led to her tragic demise. It was my young sister Gretel who stumbled upon her lifeless body, the sheer horror of the scene etched into our minds forever. There she lay, amidst a crimson pool of blood, her neck grotesquely twisted at the base of the staircase.

No witnesses, no clues, were left behind to decipher the cause of her untimely passing. However, one memory remains vivid—I recall my mother calling me at precisely 3:50, inquiring about her expected arrival time. Engaged in trivial conversation, our dialogue was abruptly interrupted by the resounding cuckoo of the clock, signaling the arrival of 4 o'clock. My mother's voice ceased, replaced by a blood-curdling scream that pierced through the air. Authorities attributed the incident to an accident, but I harbored doubts. Placed under the care of my aunt, we sought refuge within her abode.

Night after night, nightmares plagued my sleep, tormenting me with echoes of my mother's desperate cries. Psychologists dismissed them as the manifestations of trauma, mere hallucinations. But during my sleepless nights, I witnessed an amorphous shadow emerge from that accursed timepiece... and the most dreadful experience of all was enduring the incessant tolling of the clock at 4 o'clock, the relentless chimes causing my ears to bleed. And yet, once the hour passed, my ears remained unscathed, revealing the truth behind my torment—it was all a figment of my imagination.

Desperate, I implored my aunt to remove the clock, but she dismissed my pleas, deeming it a test of resilience in the face of loss.

A year later, on that ill-fated July 19, tragedy once again descended upon our family. My dear sister Gretel was discovered lifeless, drowned in the pool.

Reviewing the garden surveillance footage, it revealed that at precisely 3:58, Gretel ventured into the garden, fixating her gaze upon the water's surface. At 3:59, she tied a rope around her delicate neck, fastening it to the lawnmower, and with unnatural strength, she propelled herself into the pool, her life extinguished as the clock struck 4 o'clock.

The weight of the machine dragged her down, severing her last gasps for air. I swore to my aunt that the clock bore responsibility for these tragedies, but she scoffed at my claims.

She subjected me to more psychologists, and the psychiatrists prescribed medications to quell my hallucinations. Throughout the remaining 364 days, I yearned for answers—what had befallen them, what snuffed out their lives—until this very moment.

Today, on July 19, with a mere three minutes left until 4 o'clock, I behold an abominable entity materializing from that wretched timepiece, slithering like a venomous serpent.

Today, it seems to have discovered me, and I have resolved to seize the cord from my aunt's bathrobe. As the clock reads 3:58, I will ascend a bench, fasten the cord to the chandelier and wrap it tightly around my neck.

Today, as the clock nears 3:59, I witness the presence of unfamiliar faces filling the house, and amongst them, my mother and sister gaze upon me, their eyes brimming with tears.

Today, as I hear each toll of the clock, signaling the arrival of 4 o'clock, I fight against my instincts. But alas, I succumb to my fate, relinquishing the bench, and like the pendulum of the clock, I hang in stillness, gasping for breath no more.