The Cardboard Clock

The clock on the wall of the lodge room had stopped at 2:47 AM. I noticed it when I first entered, the second hand twitching uselessly against the cracked plastic face. I thought nothing of it, too tired from the overnight train from Munnar, too eager to collapse onto the rough sheets. The lodge was called the Nilgiri Rest House, a grimy establishment near Park Street, but it was cheap and private. I had lost my apartment key during the journey, and my landlord was unreachable, so this was the only option. I locked the door, drew the thick, musty curtains, and lay down. The last thing I saw before sleep was the clock, still frozen at 2:47.

I woke suddenly. The room was pitch black, and the air was thick with the smell of stale sweat and damp plaster. I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand—5:03 AM, still dark. I groaned, trying to get back to sleep, but a persistent sound grated at my ears. It was a low, rhythmic scratching, like dry leaves scraping against concrete. It seemed to come from the wall opposite the bed, a bare expanse of peeling paint. I turned on the lamp. The light buzzed, and the scratching stopped. I waited, listening. Nothing. I turned off the lamp, and the scratching resumed, louder now, more insistent. It wasn’t random; it was almost rhythmic, like a fingernail tracing a pattern—perhaps a word, or a countdown. I turned the light on again. Silence. I did this six times, each time the scratching started only in darkness.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to leave, but I was paralyzed by a strange curiosity. I knelt on the bed, pressing my ear to the wall. The scratching was directly behind my head now. I could feel the vibration through the plaster. I pulled back, and the scratching stopped. Then, from the wall, a voice—soft, muffled, but unmistakably human—whispered, ‘Count the ticks.’ I froze. ‘Count the ticks,’ it repeated, slightly louder, with a hint of impatience. I scrambled for my phone, dialing the front desk, but the line was dead. I felt a cold draft, and I looked up. The curtains billowed inward, even though the window was shut. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing closer. I grabbed my jacket and bolted for the door.

The corridor outside was dimly lit by a single fluorescent tube that flickered with a sickly hum. The carpet was worn, with a pattern of faded burgundy flowers. I ran to the staircase, but the door was locked from the outside. I tried the other doors along the corridor—all locked. I returned to my room, and the clock on the wall now read 5:15 AM. It was working again, but the second hand was moving counterclockwise. On the wall opposite the bed, where the scratching had been, there was a faint outline of a door, barely visible in the dim light, as if it had been painted over many times. I hadn’t noticed it before. The voice returned, this time behind me. ‘Open it.’ I whirled around, but the room was empty. The voice was coming from inside the wall, from the outlined door. ‘Open it,’ it said, ‘or I will count your ticks.’

I was shaking now. I recalled something from the old folklore of my village—about a clock that counted your breaths, and when it reached zero, you became its keeper. I had dismissed it as a ghost story meant to scare children. But now, I was in the heart of the city, in a modern lodge, and the old tale felt real. I knew I had to leave the room, but the corridor was empty and silent. I walked to the end, where there was a window overlooking a narrow alley. I could see the dim glow of a streetlamp, and the faint silhouette of a figure standing beneath it, looking up at me. The figure wore a long coat and a hat, and it didn’t move. I stepped back, and the figure vanished.

It was then I noticed the smell of old paper, like that of a library, and the faint sound of pages turning. I traced the smell to the staircase door. I pushed it, and it opened. I descended, expecting to find the lobby, but instead, I found a long, narrow corridor lined with doors, all identical. Each door had a small plaque with a number, but the numbers were out of sequence: 13, 7, 2, 19, 4… I walked forward, and the numbers changed as I passed: 8, 11, 5, 11… They were repeating. I stopped at a door marked with ‘2:47’. The same time as the clock. I reached for the handle, but it was scorching hot, and I yanked my hand back. The door swung open on its own. Inside was a room exactly like mine, but with a figure sitting on the bed, its back to me. It wore a long coat and a hat, like the one outside. It was motionless. I cried out, and it slowly turned its head. There was no face—just a blank, smooth surface with a clock drawn on it, its hands pointing to 2:47. The voice, now clear and close, said, ‘You’re late. I have to go. You take my place.’

The figure stood and walked past me, through the walls, and vanished. The room began to shrink. The walls closed in, and I felt a coldness seep into my bones. I ran, retracing my steps, but the corridor twisted and turned, and I found myself back in the room I had rented. The clock on the wall now read 5:45 AM. The outlined door was now a solid wooden door, aged and dark. I tried to open it, but it was locked from the inside. The voice, now from all around, said, ‘There is no escape. You only have to wait for the clock to strike 6.’ I looked at the clock. It was counting backward. 5:50, 5:55, 5:59… And then, the second hand stopped, and the clock began to spin wildly, faster and faster.

I grabbed my phone—the time on it was 6:00 AM exactly. The scratching started again, but this time, the wall began to crumble, revealing a dark passage. And from the passage, I saw dozens of figures, all with blank clock faces, stumbling toward me. I screamed, and everything went black.

I don’t remember how I got out. I was sitting on a park bench, the first light of dawn filtering through the trees, my clothes soaked with sweat. I checked my watch—it said 6:15 AM. But when I looked up, the sky was dark, and the stars were out. The park was empty, and the streetlights were all on. I pulled out my phone—it showed 6:20 AM, but the date was a week ago, the day I had arrived. I have been sitting here for what feels like hours, but the sun never rises. And every time I look at my watch, the minute hand jumps backward by one minute. I have had four cups of chai and a half a pack of cigarettes, trying to calm myself, but nothing helps. There is a plaque on the bench I’m sitting on. It reads: ‘In memory of the Clockmaker, who vanished in 1947.’ The wind is picking up, and I hear a faint ticking from the leaves. I am afraid to look behind me, because I know what I’ll see—a figure with a clock face, standing under the streetlamp, waiting for me to sleep so that I can take its place. I don’t know how long I can stay awake. I don’t know if I will ever see the sun again. But I do know one thing: never trust a clock that has stopped at 2:47.