The Broken Wristwatch

The old farmhouse in Crowsfield had been our home for eight months when the incident occurred. It was late September 2016, and my partner, Lena, had already turned in, exhausted from her shift at the mill. I was upstairs with our twins, Mara and Ezra, having a movie marathon in the loft, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by stale popcorn.

We’d grown accustomed to the house’s oddities: the faint scratching in the walls, the dripping faucets that would start on their own, the occasional cold spot in the hallway. But the downstairs study was the room I despised most. It had a heavy, suffocating atmosphere, and every time I stepped inside, I felt watched. The kids refused to go in there alone, even in daylight.

That night, as I was about to start another film, I realized my reading glasses were still on the desk in the study. Just as I pushed myself up, a thunderous crash echoed from below. I froze, listening. Lena was a heavy sleeper; she rarely got up at night. I assumed it was her stumbling in the dark, knocking over a stack of books. But a nagging unease settled in my stomach.

I told the kids to stay put, that I’d check it out and grab my glasses. As I descended the creaky wooden stairs, the moonlight filtering through the windows cast long, distorted shadows. The study door was ajar, and inside, total darkness. I reached for the light switch, but nothing happened. The bulb must have burned out.

I felt my way along the wall, my fingertips brushing against the wallpaper, until I reached the desk. My hand closed around the familiar shape of my glasses. As I turned to leave, the floorboards beneath my feet gave a low, groaning sigh. I stepped back, and my foot nudged something on the floor. I bent down and picked it up: a wristwatch, its glass shattered, the hands frozen at 3:07. It wasn’t mine; neither Lena nor I owned a watch.

A cold draft swept through the room, and I heard a soft, rhythmic ticking, like the measured beat of a heart. It seemed to come from the watch in my hand. I shoved it into my pocket and hurried back to the loft, my heart hammering. The kids looked up, their eyes wide.

‘What was that noise?’ Mara asked.

‘Probably just a raccoon downstairs,’ I lied, forcing a smile. But my mind raced. The watch felt heavy, as if it were pulling me toward the floor.

I tried to forget it, but over the next few days, strange things happened. The watch would appear in different places: on the kitchen counter, on the bathroom sink, even on my pillow. Each time, its hands had moved a little further past 3:07. I began to hear that ticking everywhere, a low, persistent sound that no one else could hear.

One night, I woke to find the watch on the nightstand, its gold face reflecting the moon. I picked it up and saw the time: 3:15. A voice, barely a whisper, seemed to emanate from the watch: ‘You have to wind me.’ I dropped it in terror.

Lena stirred. ‘What’s wrong?’ she murmured.

‘Nothing,’ I said, my voice shaky. ‘Just a nightmare.’ I hid the watch in a drawer and tried to sleep, but the ticking grew louder, like a drumbeat in my skull.

The following day, the kids came down with a strange illness: high fevers, hallucinations. They spoke of a man in a long coat standing in the corner of their room, his face obscured, his hands trembling as if he were cold. The doctor found nothing wrong, but their condition worsened.

I knew it was the watch. I searched the house, but I couldn’t find it. It seemed to have vanished. Then I remembered the desk in the study. In a mad desperation, I tore the study apart, my hands shaking as I rifled through drawers and papers. Nothing.

On the third night, I woke to find the children standing at the foot of my bed, staring at the wall. They were muttering in unison, a single phrase repeating: ‘Time is broken.’ I followed their gaze. There, on the wall, was the watch. It had been nailed there, its hands glowing faintly.

I lunged for it, but as my fingers touched the glass, a searing pain shot through my body. I felt as though I were falling, and the room swirled around me. I saw flashes: a man hunched over a desk, his face twisted in anguish, clutching the watch. He had been a watchmaker, obsessed with stopping time to save his dying wife. He had succeeded, but at the cost of his sanity. He had become trapped in a loop, forced to witness their last moments forever.

The vision faded, and I was back in the study. The watch lay on the desk, untouched. I took a deep breath, picked it up, and wound it back to 3:07. The ticking stopped. A profound silence filled the house.

I returned to the loft, where the kids were sleeping peacefully, their fevers gone. I placed the watch in a box, wrapped it in cloth, and buried it in the backyard. As I drove the shovel into the earth, I could have sworn I heard a faint, grateful sigh.

We moved out a month later, but sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I still hear that ticking. And I wonder if the watch has found a new owner.