They say time heals all wounds.
But some clocks only count the ones that never stop bleeding.
---
It came to me in a velvet box. No return address. No note.
Just a package left on my doorstep at midnight.
Inside, a silver pocket watch gleamed—polished, pristine, untouched by time. But when I opened the cover, unease crawled up my spine like cold fingers.
The dial had thirteen hours.
Not twelve.
Thirteen.
The thirteenth hour was marked in crimson. A thin red line, hand-painted.
Still wet when I touched it—though the brush that painted it must've dried decades ago.
.
---
I didn't take it straight to the attic. I've learned better.
Instead, I placed it in a salt ring in my study and waited.
Every cursed object reveals itself eventually. Most are patient.
This one wasn't.
At exactly 1:00 a.m., the hands ticked forward on their own—past midnight, past twelve—and landed on the thirteenth hour.
And somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock chimed.
Thirteen times.
I don't own a grandfather clock.
---
Then came the dreams.
Not sleep. Not really. I'd blink, and suddenly I was standing in an endless hallway, walls lined with broken clocks. All ticking out of sync. Some upside down. Some counting backward.
Time didn't pass there. It twisted. Folded. Ate itself.
At the end of the hallway stood a door. Always the same.
Iron-bound. Heavy. Slightly ajar.
Always ajar.
I never stepped through.
But something on the other side whispered my name.
---
I ran tests. Blessed metals. Runes. Iron filings. Mercury seals.
The watch resisted them all.
It wanted to be opened. Touched. Wound.
And when I gave in—just once—the lights in the house snapped off.
No warning. No flicker. Just sudden, absolute dark.
Only the ticking remained.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Then silence.
And then—thirteen chimes.
---
The next morning, time stopped. For me.
Not metaphorically.
My phone froze. Clocks spun or shattered.
The sun hung frozen in the sky. No wind. No birdsong. Only the hush of a world held still.
But I could move.
So could the pocket watch.
It ticked normally. And every time it reached the thirteenth hour, I'd lose another memory. A face. A date. A feeling I couldn't quite place.
It fed on time—my time.
And I was running out.
---
I knew what it wanted. Not just to unravel me.
It wanted to replace me.
To make me part of its ticking labyrinth—one more whisper in the gears.
But I don't go easy.
---
On the seventh day, I brought it upstairs.
Salt circle. Black mirror. An hourglass filled with powdered bone.
I timed the ritual to avoid the thirteenth hour.
But the watch ticked faster as I worked.
The air grew thick. Heavy. My breath tasted like metal and rot.
When I inked the final sigil, the cover sprang open.
Inside—where there should've been an inscription or photo—was a mirror.
Small. Round. Silver.
"In it, I saw myself—older, hollowed out. A stranger with my face."
It smiled.
I slammed the cover shut, poured molten wax over the hinges, and pressed the binding seal.
Whispered the old words. The ones Elias taught me.They cost a tooth—and two years I'll never get back.
.
The watch screamed.
But it didn't tick again.
---
Now it rests in a box lined with mirror dust and coffin nails.
Far corner of the attic.
Behind the screaming doll.
Left of the mirror that breathes.
I check it every night.
And sometimes, when I get too close, I hear something.
Not a tick.
Not a chime.
A whisper.
Buried deep in the gears.
Counting.