The Last Hour of Night

The little village of Everglen was silent when the clock struck 11:59 p.m. Only the flickering streetlamps dared to break through the silence of the streets, which lay vacant beneath a layer of mist. As she gazed out of her bedroom window over the fog-covered town, Maya's mind kept returning to the whispers she had heard about "The Last Hour."

Some people said that a mystery person would show up in the last minute of the day and disappear just as the last chime of midnight faded.

A gentle, eerie wind blew through as the clock struck midnight, rustling the leaves and murmuring through the silent lanes. The mist grew thicker, turning the familiar street into a spectral version of its daytime self, and Maya felt a chill go up her spine. A faint silhouette appeared in the fog as she started to close the window.

A silhouette was there, hardly perceptible but definitely real—a dark-clothed man moving silently over the cobblestones. Although Maya couldn't see the eyes, she could feel them cut through the fog and lock onto her window as the figure's head slanted higher.

Her heart raced as the figure approached, each step quiet and exact, like if it were from a memory or a dream.

Maya couldn’t move, her eyes fixed on the figure as it approached the street lamp near her house. She dared to glance at the clock: 11:59, only a few seconds left. Suddenly, a thought struck her, whispering like a warning: “Do not watch the figure cross into the new day.” But her curiosity overpowered her fear.

The clock struck midnight, and the first chime echoed through the empty street, a chilling sound that hung in the air like a ghostly wail. The figure paused beneath the streetlight, its form dissolving slightly into the mist, as if it was both there and not there.

Maya held her breath, counting each chime, watching as the figure’s outline flickered with each passing second.

At the ninth chime, Maya noticed something unsettling: the figure’s form was becoming clearer, almost as though it was taking shape from the fog.

By the tenth chime, she could make out details—a face, though it looked neither alive nor dead. It held an expression of sorrow and age, as if bearing the weight of centuries.

The eleventh chime struck, and in that instant, the figure raised a hand, pointing directly at her window. Cold terror gripped Maya’s heart, but she couldn’t look away.

A whisper seemed to rise from the depths of the night, a voice neither loud nor soft, as if carried on the final breath of the wind: “Why did you watch?”

The twelfth chime echoed, and the figure vanished, leaving only the mist swirling around the lonely streetlamp. Trembling, Maya closed her window, locking it tight.

But as she turned to leave, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror—and there, standing behind her, was the shadowy figure, still pointing, its eyes dark and endless.