The Clock’s Blue Face

Fifteen years ago, when I was twelve, I shared a cramped attic bedroom with my younger brother, Ezra. The house was an old Victorian that leaned slightly to one side, as if tired of standing. My father, a heavy man with a deep, resonant snore, slept in the master bedroom on the first floor, and his sounds traveled up the creaky stairs like a ghostly fog. Our bedroom door wouldn’t latch properly, so we always left it ajar, letting in a sliver of light from the hallway and the steady tick of the antique grandfather clock that stood in the foyer below. From my narrow bed, I could see its face through the gap, its blue numbers glowing softly in the dark.

That night, I woke from a dreamless sleep with a start, my heart pounding for no reason. The room was quiet except for Ezra’s soft breathing and the distant rumble of Dad’s snoring. I blinked, trying to orient myself. The clock’s blue face read 3:03 AM. Something felt wrong. A cold draft crept over my skin, though the window was shut. I turned my head slightly, and there it was: a figure stood beside my bed, just a foot away. It was tall, taller than any adult I knew, and clad in a flowing white gown that pooled on the floor. A piece of cloth wrapped its head completely, hanging down to its shoulders, obscuring any face. It was utterly still.

My first thought was Ezra, playing one of his pranks. He loved hiding in sheets and jumping out at me. But Ezra was smaller, and this figure was too tall. Plus, I could hear him breathing across the room. Annoyed, I whispered, ‘Ezra, cut it out. Go back to bed.’ The figure didn’t move. I waited a second, then repeated louder, ‘I said go to bed! We have school tomorrow.’ Still nothing. The clock ticked, and the snoring continued.

I reached out to shove the figure away, to prove it was just my brother being stupid. My hand should have hit the cloth, the body, but instead it passed through as if the air was thick liquid. A jolt of ice shot up my arm. I yanked my hand back. The figure tilted its head, as if curious. A faint sound came from under the cloth, like a whisper but not words—more like the rustle of dry leaves. I threw off my blanket and tried to scramble out of bed, but my legs were tangled. I fell to the floor, and when I looked up, the figure was gone. The room was empty. Only the blue glow of the clock remained, now reading 3:07.

I woke up the next morning with a fever and a bruise on my knee from the fall. I told my father about the figure, but he dismissed it as a nightmare brought on by his snoring. Ezra laughed and said I was seeing ghosts. But I knew what I saw. For weeks, I couldn’t sleep without the light on, and I always made sure the door was fully closed. The clock’s blue face became a source of dread. I would lie in bed, staring at the door, waiting for the figure to return. It did not, but I started noticing small changes. The clock would sometimes read 3:03 AM even when I woke at other times. Once, I saw the hands moving backward.

Years later, when I was in college, my father told me that the house had a history. An old woman had died in the attic bedroom, unmarried and alone. She had a habit of walking in her sleep, and one night she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. The clock had been her only possession, and it was said she loved it more than anything. My father had laughed when he bought the house, not believing in ghosts. But now, as I write this, I realize that the figure in the white gown was not a person at all. It was the ghost of that woman, standing by my bed, perhaps waiting for a chance to walk again. And the clock—it was her heartbeat. Every time it struck 3:03, she came closer. I haven’t visited that house in years, but I still dream of the blue face, and I wonder if she’s found someone new to watch.