The House on 6th Street Only Exists at 3:13 AM

The House on 6th Street Only Exists at 3:13 AM

by[Javid khan]

There’s a story that floats around our town. You hear it from insomniacs, bartenders, graveyard shift workers, or teens daring each other behind gas stations. They say there’s a house on 6th Street that only appears at exactly 3:13 AM. Not before. Not after. It’s not on Google Maps, not in the county records, and if you go looking during the day, all you'll see is a cracked sidewalk where weeds grow tall.

I never believed it—until last night.

I work nights as a delivery driver. I usually cruise empty streets with podcasts on low volume and caffeine pulsing through my veins. On Thursdays, I finish around 3:00 AM, and I take the long way home to avoid Main Street construction.

That’s when I passed 6th and Delaney—a corner I’ve driven by a hundred times. And that’s when I saw it.

It wasn’t there before.

A two-story Victorian house stood silently on the lot, nestled behind an iron gate. Gas lanterns flickered on its porch, casting a warm orange glow that didn’t match the sterile white streetlights surrounding it. The windows were lit, curtains drawn, and smoke drifted lazily from the chimney.

It looked… lived in.

The digital clock on my dash read 3:13 AM. Then clicked to 3:14.

I blinked.

The house was gone.

Not faded. Not dimmed. Gone.

I didn’t tell anyone the first time. It felt like a trick of exhaustion. Maybe a hallucination. But I set an alarm the next night. And the next. And on the third night—I saw it again.

Exactly at 3:13 AM.

This time, I got out of the car.

The iron gate creaked as I pushed it open. The grass didn’t crunch underfoot, even though it looked frosted. My breath misted, even though the air felt warm. I climbed the porch stairs and hesitated at the door.

It opened on its own.

Inside was candlelit and… clean. Antique furniture. A grandfather clock ticking softly. A table with one chair. And on that table—a silver platter, with a letter placed on top.

I picked it up. The handwriting was elegant.

You have five minutes. Choose wisely. Only one guest per night. You may:

Ask any question. You will receive the true answer.

Request any truth. You will be shown it.

Take nothing, and leave untouched. You will be spared.

But know this: Once you choose, the House remembers.

The candle flames flickered as if something was breathing behind me. I turned—nothing.

I glanced at my phone. 3:16 AM.

Two minutes left.

I was trembling now. Heart hammering. But one thought rose above the fear.

My brother.

Jason had vanished five years ago. No note. No signs of struggle. Just gone. Police suspected he ran off. I never believed that.

I whispered, “Where is my brother?”

The house reacted.

The windows shook. Every candle extinguished except one on the table. The room went ice cold. A mirror on the far wall fogged up—and a scene appeared.

Jason.

He was in a windowless room. Pale, thin. Alive.

Then I saw the man behind him. Wearing a smile too wide for his face. Standing still. Watching.

The mirror cracked.

My phone buzzed—3:18 AM.

Then the floor dropped out from under me.

I woke up in my car. Engine still running. Clock flashing 3:19 AM.

The lot was empty. No house. No gate. Just a vacant lot surrounded by chain-link fencing and "For Sale" signs.

I drove home in silence. The image of Jason haunted me. Not just that he was alive—but that he was somewhere that thing still was.

The next day, I returned during daylight. I brought bolt cutters, a camera, flashlights, holy water—hell, anything that felt vaguely protective.

Nothing. No trace. The dirt was undisturbed.

I scoured the internet. Found scattered mentions from forums, Reddit threads, a deep-dive on an abandoned blog:

“Only one guest per night.”

“One wrong question, and you don’t leave.”

“The House remembers.”

One post chilled me:

“If the House shows you what you seek, it may come looking for something in return.”

That was three nights ago. I haven’t gone back.

But last night, I woke up at 3:13 AM. Not to an alarm—just suddenly wide awake.

My phone buzzed.

No notifications.

Just a missed call.

“Unknown Number — 3:13 AM.”

Then it rang again.

The screen flashed. No name. Just an old-style house emoji.

I didn’t answer.

This time.

But I think it knows I saw.

And I think next time…

It won’t wait for me to come to it.