The Clock on the Wall Stood Still

On the first day of 2008, I was fourteen, and my idea of a thrilling New Year’s Eve had been watching the ball drop on my parents’ old TV before they left for a party. My shift babysitting the Millers’ twins had ended at midnight, and I was slumped in the passenger seat of my mother’s minivan, the heater struggling against the January chill. We were still in the Millers’ driveway when my mother’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, her brow furrowing, then let out a low sigh.

‘That’s your sister again,’ she said, not looking at me. My sister, Cora, was two years older than me, and she was babysitting for the Hendersons, a family that lived about a mile down the winding country road. It was a big, old farmhouse, the kind with peeling paint and a wraparound porch that always made me think of something out of a gothic novel.

‘She’s called four times since midnight,’ Mom continued, her voice strained. ‘She says there’s something in the house. Sounds.’ I sat up, a prickle of unease running down my spine. ‘She wants me to come over, but I’ve already been there twice. I told her it’s just the old house settling, but she won’t listen.’

She finally turned to face me, and I saw a flicker of something I hadn’t expected: worry. ‘I’m not going back out there tonight, not with you in the car. But you… you’re not afraid of a few creaky floorboards, are you? I thought maybe you could go stay with her for a little while. Just until the Hendersons get home.’

I should have said no. I had a strange, heavy feeling in my gut, like a warning I couldn’t name. But I was fourteen, and my sister needed me, and Mom was looking at me like I was the brave one. So I nodded and said, ‘Sure, Mom. I’ll go.’

She dropped me off at the end of the Hendersons’ gravel driveway, the headlights cutting through the fog that clung to the ground like a second skin. The house loomed ahead, all dark windows and crooked angles. I walked up the path, my boots crunching on the frozen gravel, and let myself in through the back door, which Cora had left unlocked for me.

Inside, the kitchen was dim, lit only by a single bulb over the sink. The clock on the wall was ticking softly, but when I glanced at it, the hands seemed frozen at 1:13. I shook my head, telling myself it must have just stopped. Cora was in the living room, huddled on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her face pale and her eyes wide.

‘Kenny,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. ‘Thank God you’re here. I thought you’d never come.’ She clutched my arm, and I felt her trembling. ‘It’s been going on since midnight. Footsteps upstairs, right above me. Doors opening and closing on their own. And the whispers… kenny, I heard my name.’

I tried to reassure her, telling her it was just the wind, just the old house. But even as I spoke, I heard it too: a soft creak from the hallway, like a floorboard settling under a heavy weight. Cora flinched, burying her face in my shoulder. ‘See? It’s not my imagination.’

We sat there for what felt like an hour, listening. The sounds seemed to move around us—a thump in the dining room, a whisper of breath behind the curtains, the rustle of fabric in the hallway. Cora was crying now, silent tears streaking down her cheeks, and I felt a cold dread seeping into my bones.

Then, as if from very far away, I heard a woman’s voice, soft and sorrowful, singing a lullaby. It seemed to come from the direction of the upstairs hallway. Cora looked at me, her face a mask of terror. ‘That’s not from the TV,’ she said. ‘It’s coming from the bedroom at the end of the hall.’

Against my better judgment, I decided I had to see what was making the noise. I needed to prove to myself, and to Cora, that it was nothing. I told her to stay put, that I’d be right back. She grabbed my arm, begging me not to go, but I pulled away. I crept up the stairs, my heart hammering in my chest. The hallway was dark, but at the far end, a sliver of light came from beneath the bedroom door.

I pushed the door open slowly, and there, standing in the middle of the room, was a woman in a long, white nightgown. Her back was to me, and she was rocking gently, still singing that lullaby. The room was freezing, and my breath puffed out in visible clouds. I tried to speak, to ask who she was, but my throat was tight.

Then she turned. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken, and her skin had the waxy sheen of something that had been dead a long time. I took a step back, but my foot caught on the doorframe, and I stumbled. She looked at me with a sadness that was somehow worse than malice, and she whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

I turned and ran, down the stairs, through the living room, grabbing Cora’s hand and dragging her out of the house into the cold night air. We didn’t stop until we were standing on the road, gasping, our breath fogging the air. The house was silent behind us, but I knew it wasn’t empty.

We never spoke of that night to anyone. Cora refused to ever babysit again, and I couldn’t blame her. A few weeks later, my family moved to another town. But sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I think about that woman in the white nightgown, and the clock on the wall that stood still at 1:13. And I wonder if she’s still there, waiting for someone else to make the same mistake I did.