The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes three times, pulling me from a dreamless sleep. I lie still, listening to the echo fade into silence, wondering what woke me. My bedroom is dark except for the red glow of the alarm clock—3:01 AM. The witching hour, my grandfather used to call it. The time when the veil between worlds grows thin.
Something scratches against my window. Probably just the maple tree out front, its
branches reaching like bony fingers in the autumn wind. But there it is again—more
deliberate this time. Not a branch. I push back the quilt my mother made for my tenth birthday, the one with the lighthouse
patterns that's now frayed at the edges, and swing my feet to the cold hardwood floor.
The house creaks as I stand, as if protesting my movement at this ungodly hour. Three
weeks back in Merrick Bay, and I still haven't adjusted to the symphony of noises this old
Victorian makes. In my apartment in Boston, the only sounds at night were the
occasional siren and the hum of the refrigerator.
The window reveals nothing but darkness when I pull back the curtain. The streetlight at
the corner flickers, threatening to give up its fight against the night. Then I see him—
Martin Keene, my sixty-five-year-old neighbor, standing in his yard wearing pajama
bottoms and what looks like a suit jacket. No shoes. His white hair is wild, catching the
dim light like a halo. "Shit," I mutter, grabbing my robe from the hook on the door. I haven't spoken more
than a dozen words to Martin since moving back, just the obligatory wave when
collecting mail or taking out trash. He's lived next door for as long as I can remember,
even when this was my parents' house. Before the divorce. Before the newspaper job fell
through. Before everything. The front door sticks—it always has—and I have to put my shoulder into it to get it open.
The night air hits me like a slap, carrying the salt smell of the bay mixed with the earthy
decay of fallen leaves. Martin is now at the edge of his property, staring up at the sky and
gesturing with one hand as if conducting an invisible orchestra.
"Martin?" I call, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet neighborhood. "Martin, are you
okay?"
He doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge me at all. As I approach, I can hear him speaking, his words carried away by the wind before they reach me. I step onto his lawn, the wet grass soaking through my slippers.
"Martin," I say again, closer now. "It's Eliza. Eliza Harmon. From next door." He turns then, his eyes reflecting the meager light like a cat's. For a moment, he looks
straight through me, and a chill that has nothing to do with the autumn air runs down
my spine. "It's the forgotten hour," he says, his voice surprisingly clear and strong. "They don't
want us to remember, but I do. I remember everything."
I take his arm gently. His skin is ice cold. "Let's get you inside, Martin. It's freezing out
here."
"Did you know," he says, allowing me to guide him toward his house, "that there used to
be twenty-five hours in a day? They stole one. Right out from under us."
I make a non-committal sound, the same one I used to make when interviewing
someone who was clearly lying but whose quote I needed for a story. The door to
Martin's house is ajar, warm air spilling out into the night. The interior smells of coffee
and something else—something medicinal.
"Here we go," I say, leading him to an armchair that looks well-used, the fabric worn thin
on the armrests. "Why don't you sit down while I make you some tea?"
"Don't need tea," he mutters, but sits anyway, suddenly looking exhausted. "Need to
remember. It's important."
I glance around the living room while Martin settles. It's cluttered but clean—stacks of
books on the coffee table, a collection of antique fishing lures displayed in a case on the
wall, framed photographs everywhere. One catches my eye: a group of men standing on
the dock, the bay behind them. They're all smiling except for one—a young Martin,
maybe thirty, looking directly at the camera with an expression I can't quite place. Fear?
Anger?
The photo reminds me of one Grandpa kept in his wallet—him and his fishing buddies
after a record catch, all sunburned and grinning except for Old Man Winters (Cassie's
grandfather, come to think of it) who always looked like he'd just bitten into a lemon.
Grandpa would pull that photo out whenever he told the story about the time they
caught a tuna so big it nearly capsized the boat. The story changed a little each time—
sometimes the tuna weighed 300 pounds, sometimes 500. Mom said he was full of it, but
I believed every word.
"That was the day," Martin says, following my gaze. "The day it happened." "What happened?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know. He leans forward, eyes suddenly clear and focused. "The forgotten hour. When time...
slipped." Then he blinks, confusion crossing his face. "I'm sorry, who did you say you
were?" "Eliza Harmon. I live next door." "Harmon?" His brow furrows. "Any relation to Jack Harmon?" "He was my grandfather." Martin sits back, something like recognition dawning. "Little Lizzie. Jack's
granddaughter. You used to collect sea glass on the beach."
I haven't been called Lizzie in twenty years, not since Grandpa died. The name brings
back a flood of memories—the smell of his pipe tobacco, the rough feel of his hand
holding mine as we walked along the shore, the way he'd lift me up to see inside tide
pools.
"That's right," I say, surprised he remembers. "I didn't think you knew who I was back
then."
"I knew." He nods slowly. "Jack and I were... acquaintances." The way he hesitates makes me think there's more to that story, but his eyes are growing
heavy, the momentary clarity fading.
"Martin, why were you outside? It's the middle of the night." He waves a dismissive hand. "Sometimes I get confused about the time. Side effect of
the medication." His gaze drifts to the window. "Or maybe not. Maybe I'm the only one
who isn't confused." I should leave. Go back to my cold bed and try to salvage what's left of the night. I have
to be at the Merrick Bay Gazette by nine, though God knows there's rarely anything in
this town worth reporting. Last week's headline was about Mrs. Peterson's prize-winning
zucchini.
But something about Martin's words, or maybe the look in his eyes when he mentioned
my grandfather, keeps me rooted to the spot.
"What did you mean about the forgotten hour?" I ask.
He studies me for a long moment, as if deciding whether I'm worthy of an answer. Finally, he sighs. "Your grandfather would have told you to leave it alone. Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved."
"My grandfather was a journalist before he was a fisherman," I say. "He taught me that
every mystery has an answer if you dig deep enough."
"And look where that got him." Before I can ask what he means, his head drops to his chest, and a soft snore escapes
him. Just like that, he's asleep. I stand there awkwardly for a moment, then grab the
throw blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over him. On my way out, I close
his front door firmly, making sure it latches.
The walk back to my house seems longer somehow, the shadows between the
streetlights deeper. I glance up at the sky, but there are no stars visible tonight, just a
thick blanket of clouds promising rain. Or maybe snow—it's been cold enough the past
few days.
Inside, I lock the door and lean against it, suddenly exhausted. The grandfather clock in
the hallway reads 3:17 AM. Only sixteen minutes have passed since I woke up, but it feels
like hours. I should go back to bed, but I know sleep will elude me now. Instead, I make my way to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While waiting for it to boil, I
find myself staring out the window toward Martin's house. All the windows are dark. No
sign of the strange old man who wanders his yard in the middle of the night talking
about stolen hours.
The kettle whistles, making me jump. As I pour the hot water over a tea bag, I try to
dismiss Martin's ramblings as the product of age or medication or both. But something
nags at me, a memory just out of reach. I carry my tea to the living room and curl up on the couch, pulling my grandfather's old
afghan around my shoulders. The house feels too big for just me, too full of ghosts.
Coming back was a mistake, but I had nowhere else to go after the divorce. After the
Boston Globe let me go. After everything fell apart.
Though sometimes I wonder if coming back was inevitable—if all roads would have led
me here eventually. Like the town had some kind of gravitational pull I couldn't escape.
Which is ridiculous. I hate this place. Always have. Haven't I? My gaze lands on the bookshelf across the room, specifically on the leather-bound
journals my grandfather kept. I've been meaning to go through them since I moved back,but something always stops me. Fear, maybe. Fear of what I might find. Fear that the man I idolized was just as flawed and broken as everyone else.
But now, with Martin's words echoing in my head—"They don't want us to remember,
but I do"—I find myself standing, crossing the room, pulling down the journal dated
1991. The year before my grandfather died. The year I turned five. The pages are yellowed, the handwriting familiar yet strange—like seeing an old friend
after many years. I flip through, scanning entries about fishing conditions, town gossip,
weather patterns. Nothing unusual. Until October 17.
Something happened today. Something I can't explain. Won't try to here, in case someone finds this. But M.K. saw it too. We're not crazy. Time isn't what we think it isM.K. Martin Keene? I flip to the next entry, dated October 19. There's nothing for the 18th.
Spoke with M.K. today. He wants to tell people, but I convinced him to keep quiet. Some things are better left alone. Besides, who would believe us? We barely believe it ourselves. My journalist's instinct prickles at the gap in dates. In my experience, when someone skips a day in their record-keeping, it's usually because something happened they don't want documented. Or something they're afraid to put into words.
The next few entries are mundane again—complaints about the price of bait, notes
about a leak in the roof that needs fixing. Then, on October 31:
It happened again. The forgotten hour. This time I was ready. I recorded everything I could. The evidence is in the attic, in the old sea chest, along with grandfather's watch. If anyone finds this and wants the truth, that's where to look. I close the journal, my heart pounding. The grandfather clock chimes four times, startling me. I've been reading for almost an hour.
The attic. I haven't been up there since I was a child, sneaking around during family
gatherings, discovering dusty treasures while the adults talked downstairs. The entrance
is in the ceiling of the upstairs hallway, a pull-down ladder that always stuck halfway. Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm climbing the stairs, then reaching for the cord that
dangles from the attic door. It comes down easier than I remember, the hinges
surprisingly quiet. The ladder unfolds, and the musty smell of disuse wafts down..I hesitate at the bottom rung. This is ridiculous. I'm chasing the ramblings of an old man and cryptic journal entries written by my grandfather over thirty years ago. I should go to bed, get some sleep before work.
Instead, I climb. The attic is exactly as I remember it—low-ceilinged, with exposed beams that I have to
duck under. Moonlight filters through the small round window at the far end, casting
long shadows. Boxes and old furniture create a maze in the limited space. I pull the chain on the bare bulb hanging from the center beam, and harsh yellow light
floods the room. The sea chest isn't hard to find—it's against the wall directly under the
window, its brass fittings dull with age. I kneel before it, running my hand over the
carved lid. A mermaid and a ship, the details worn smooth by time and touch.
The latch is stiff but gives way with a firm push. Inside, the chest is mostly empty—a few
old maps rolled and tied with faded ribbon, a small wooden box that rattles when I lift it,
and beneath these, wrapped in a piece of velvet, something round and heavy. I unwrap it carefully. It's a pocket watch, gold or brass, with an intricate design etched on
the case—waves crashing against a lighthouse. My grandfather's initials are engraved on
the back: J.H. With a click, the case opens. The face of the watch is unlike any I've seen before—instead
of twelve hours, there are thirteen. And the hands are stopped at the thirteenth hour.
The forgotten hour. A floorboard creaks somewhere in the house below, and I freeze, the watch clutched in
my hand. I'm alone in the house—I know I am—but suddenly I don't feel alone. The air in
the attic seems thicker, harder to breathe. The light from the bulb flickers once, twice. And then I hear it—the sound that woke me earlier. Not scratching at my window, but
tapping. Deliberate. Rhythmic. Like a code.
One-two-three. Pause. One-two-three. It's coming from the round window just above the sea chest. I stand slowly, the watch
still in my hand, and approach the window. The glass is cloudy with age and grime, but I
can make out a dark shape on the other side. A branch, maybe. Or a bird. I reach out to touch the glass.The light bulb explodes with a pop, plunging the attic into darkness except for the thin moonlight coming through the window. In that silver light, I see a hand pressed against the glass from the outside. A hand with too many fingers.
I stumble backward, tripping over the sea chest and falling hard on my tailbone. The
watch flies from my grasp, landing somewhere in the darkness with a metallic clatter. My
heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. There's no way someone could be at that window. It's at least twenty feet off the ground,
and there's no tree close enough, no way to reach it without a very tall ladder.
The darkness presses in, thick as tar. The air feels electric, charged with something I
can't name. The dust tickles my nose, and somewhere in the rafters, something skitters
across the beams. A mouse? Please, God, let it be a mouse. I scramble to my feet, no longer caring about the watch or my grandfather's secrets. All I
want is to get out of the attic, out of this house with its creaks and groans and impossible
hands at impossible windows. The ladder seems miles away. I half-crawl, half-run toward it, banging my head on a
beam in my haste. Stars explode in my vision, but I keep moving. Just as I reach the
hatch, the tapping starts again. One-two-three. Pause. One-two-three. But it's not coming from the window anymore. It's coming from directly above me, from
the roof itself.
I practically fall down the ladder, yanking the attic door closed behind me with such
force that dust rains down from the ceiling. I don't stop moving until I'm in my bedroom
with the door locked, huddled under the quilt like a child afraid of monsters in the
closet.
Sleep is out of the question now. I lie awake, listening to the house settle around me,
jumping at every creak and groan. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows. At
some point, it starts to rain, fat drops hitting the glass like tiny fists demanding entry. When dawn finally breaks, gray and sullen through the rain, I'm still awake. My alarm
goes off at seven, an unnecessary reminder that the world expects me to function today.
I silence it and drag myself to the shower, letting the hot water wash away the night's
fear if not its memory.
By the time I'm dressed and downstairs, the rain has stopped, though the sky remains
overcast. I make coffee stronger than usual and drink it black, needing the jolt. Throughthe kitchen window, I can see Martin's house. No sign of movement. No sign that anything unusual happened in the night.
Maybe nothing did. Maybe I dozed off reading my grandfather's journal and dreamed the
whole thing—the watch with thirteen hours, the hand at the window. Maybe Martin's talk
of a forgotten hour infected my subconscious, creating a waking nightmare. But as I rinse my coffee cup in the sink, I notice something on my wrist—a perfect bruise
in the shape of a handprint, fingers wrapping all the way around. And there are six of
them. I drop the cup. It shatters in the sink, a piece ricocheting up to nick my cheek. I barely
feel it. All I can focus on is the bruise, the impossible bruise that wasn't there when I
showered. The phone rings, making me jump. I stare at it for three rings before picking up, half-
expecting to hear tapping on the other end of the line.
"Hello?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears, thin and reedy. "Eliza? It's Cassie. Are you okay? You sound weird." Cassie Winters. My oldest friend. The only person in Merrick Bay who was genuinely
happy when I moved back. Now the town librarian, keeper of secrets both mundane and
arcane. "I'm fine," I lie. "Just didn't sleep well." "Join the club. Half the town's complaining about weird dreams last night. Must've been
the storm coming in." She pauses. "Anyway, I was calling to see if you're still planning to
come by the library today. You said you wanted to look through the old newspaper
archives for that piece you're writing?"
Did I say that? I can't remember. The past few weeks are a blur of unpacking boxes and
avoiding questions about why I'm back in Merrick Bay.
"Right," I say, playing along. "What time do you open?" "Nine, but I'm already here. Come whenever. I'll have coffee waiting." "You're a lifesaver." "So they tell me." She laughs. "See you soon." "Wicked good," I reply, falling back into the regional expression without thinking. "I'll
bring donuts from Mabel's."I hang up, relieved to have a destination, a purpose for the day beyond sitting in this house with its secrets and shadows. I grab my jacket and bag, deliberately not looking at the bruise on my wrist, and head for the door.
Outside, the world is washed clean by the rain, the air crisp with the promise of winter. I
walk quickly down the driveway, not looking at Martin's house until I reach the sidewalk.
When I do glance over, I see him at his window, watching me. He raises a hand in
greeting, and after a moment's hesitation, I return the gesture.
Just a normal morning in Merrick Bay. Just a normal exchange between neighbors. But as I turn to walk toward town, I can't shake the feeling that nothing will ever be
normal again. Not since I woke at three AM to the sound of tapping. Not since I found my
grandfather's watch with its thirteen hours. Not since I learned about the forgotten hour. And somewhere deep inside, in a place I don't want to acknowledge, I know that this is
just the beginning. That some mysteries, once disturbed, don't rest until they're solved.
Or until they consume those foolish enough to pursue them. The clouds overhead darken, and a gust of wind carries the scent of the bay—salt and
seaweed and secrets. I pull my jacket tighter around me and walk faster, trying to
outpace the shadows that seem to follow at my heels. But some shadows can't be outrun. Some shadows are cast from within.