"The Clockmaker’s House"

An old house with shattered stained-glass windows and a crooked chimney stood in the forgotten Dalemar village, hidden by thick fog and mossy trees. It had once belonged to the renowned clockmaker Elias Grinwell, whose creations were said to be as precise as the heartbeat of time itself. The house was left to rot after Elias's mysterious disappearance fifty years ago. At midnight, whispers of ticking sounds emanated from its crumbling walls. No one dared go near — not because of the sounds, but because time behaved strangely around it.

People claimed to lose minutes — even hours — walking past. A former postman claimed to have witnessed a younger version of himself sprinting through the front gate before disappearing. Even after the children had left, their shadows would continue to creep unnaturally toward the house, as if they were trying to enter again.

Mara Alden was unaware of any of this when she received the property from a distant relative. She was a modern woman who was skeptical, and she was open to the idea of finding a quiet spot to get away from her hectic city life. She was handed the keys by the village mayor, a thin man who rarely blinks, who also gave her a warning: "Wind no clocks here." Ever.”

Mara scoffed at it. The first few days passed without a hitch. She spent her time cleaning, exploring, and taking photographs of the antique furniture, which smelt of dust and dry wood. The clocks captivated me the most. There are hundreds of grandfather clocks, pocket watches, cuckoo clocks, and wall clocks with celestial carvings in a variety of states of disrepair. Despite having solidly rusted mechanisms, some ticked faintly. Mara discovered a door hidden behind a bookshelf one night. It led to a stone cellar full of clocks in excellent condition, complete with flawless glass, polished brass gears, and harmonious pendulums. At the center stood a tall, black clock with no hands. Under it, a plaque read:

“The Heart of Time. Do not awaken.”

Mara was naturally intrigued. She was no fool — she didn’t touch it. However, she was unable to stop thinking about it. She had a dream that night about a pale, bespectacled Elias Grinwell with a golden wire-sewn mouth. When he extended his hand, his fingers beat like a metronome. She woke at exactly 3:33 a.m. to find all the clocks in the house ticking in perfect unison.

She noticed that her reflection blinked later than she did the following morning. She made an attempt to call a friend, but the call didn't work. Her phone’s time kept jumping — forward, then backward. She noticed a humming in her ears, like the sound of many tiny gears grinding beneath the skin of the world.

Mara decided to leave. She went to her car after packing her bag. But the village was gone when she stepped outside. Or perhaps it never existed there at all. Instead, the house was on a gray plain that seemed to go on forever. A crimson sky swirled above like paint in water. The house grew taller behind her, and its windows blinked like eyes.

She then heard the clock ticking. Not from the house — from her. Her heartbeat had become mechanical. Tick. Tick. Tick.

In the hope that she was dreaming, hallucinating, or losing her mind, she dashed back inside. However, the house had changed. Behind her, the rooms changed. Halls extended infinitely, then collapsed into themselves. Paintings aged rapidly on the walls, decaying into dust. Her own reflection began to grin back at her, even when she didn’t.

She discovered the Heart of Time, a black clock, once more in the maze's center. It had hands now. They spun faster and faster in opposite directions. Elias stood beside it. His mouth was still sewn shut, but his eyes pleaded. He pointed to the base of the clock. At Mara's feet, there was a silver gear that was missing. She picked it up for no apparent reason. Her mind was filled with memories that weren't hers as her fingers closed around it: wars that hadn't happened yet, children she hadn't had, birthdays she hadn't celebrated, and the moment of her death, when she was pulled into a sea of clock faces and drowned in a matter of seconds. “No,” she whispered, dropping the gear.

The house started to shake. Walls cracked. Broken watches. The ticking soon became a roar. The broken glass let out shadows that covered her body and drew her toward the clock. Then — silence.

Mara opened her eyes and found herself back in her car, parked in front of the house. The village was there. They sang. Her phone read 9:12 a.m., which was the same time she had arrived. Had it been a dream?

She drove away without looking back.

She never spoke of it to anyone.

She began to notice things, however, back in her city apartment, months later. Her microwave always reset to 3:33. Her cat would hiss as if someone or something were standing in the empty spaces and stare at them. She aged slower than she should have. She still looked 25 when she turned 40.

Worst of all, she could hear the clock ticking once more every night at midnight. From beneath her floorboards.

When she went back to her apartment one day, all of the clocks were gone. A single, tall, black clock without hands took their place. At its base, a plaque read: "Mara, welcome back. Time was missing you.