The Constant at 3:07 AM

Mira had always found comfort in the predictable rhythm of her life in the coastal town of Ashford. Her days were filled with the scent of salt and the cry of gulls, and her nights were peaceful, filled with dreams of the ocean. But a month before her wedding to Daniel, the peace was shattered. The dreams began subtly, a feeling of being watched, a whisper of cold air on her neck. Then they grew bolder. She would dream of a figure, tall and thin, standing at the foot of her bed, its face obscured by shadow. She would try to scream, but her voice was a silent void. She would try to move, but her limbs were lead. And then, she would wake, heart pounding, at exactly 3:07 AM.

One night, the dream was more vivid than ever. She felt the weight of the figure on the mattress, saw the indent of a body beside her, though she was alone. She forced her eyes open in the dream, and this time, she saw the curtains ripple, as if a breeze had passed through, though the window was closed. She tried to call out for Daniel, but no sound came. She woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The clock on her nightstand glowed 3:07. She reached for her phone, her fingers trembling, and tried to call her mother. Her throat was constricted, as if an invisible hand was wrapped around it. No sound escaped. Desperate, she dialed Daniel’s number. He answered on the second ring, his voice groggy. ‘Mira? What’s wrong?’ The moment she heard his voice, her own returned, and she sobbed, ‘Something is in my room. Please, call my mom. I can’t move.’ Daniel stayed on the line, his calm voice a lifeline, until her mother burst through the door, switching on the light. The room was empty, of course. But Mira felt a lingering presence, a cold spot near the window.

Her mother, a pragmatic woman who believed in the power of a good night’s rest and the healing properties of chamomile tea, insisted Mira sleep in her room. Mira reluctantly agreed, but as she passed her brother’s room, she noticed the door was ajar. Her brother, Alex, was a heavy sleeper, but he was sitting up in bed, staring at the wall. ‘Alex?’ she whispered. He didn’t respond. She tapped his shoulder, and he flinched, turning to her with wide, terrified eyes. ‘There was a man,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘In the corner. He was just standing there.’ Mira’s blood ran cold. She ran to the door, flicking on the hallway light. The corner of Alex’s room was empty, but the mirror on his dresser was tilted, reflecting the bed. She could see a faint, dark smudge on the glass, like a fingerprint, but it disappeared as she stared.

They spent the rest of the night in the living room, the TV on for company. Mira couldn’t shake the feeling that they had brought something with them. The next morning, she called the local priest, Father O’Malley, a kind man with a booming laugh. He agreed to bless the house. As he walked through the rooms, sprinkling holy water, he paused in Mira’s bedroom. ‘This room,’ he said, frowning. ‘There’s a stain here. Not one you can see, but I can feel it. Has there been any recent construction?’ Mira shook her head. The house was old, but well-maintained. Father O’Malley handed her a small, silver cross. ‘Keep this on you. And if it happens again, try to remember the face.’

That night, the dreams returned. But this time, Mira was lucid. She knew she was dreaming, and she forced herself to stay calm. The figure stood before her, and she forced herself to look at it. It was a man, gaunt, with hollow cheeks and eyes that were black pits. His lips moved, but no sound came. He raised a hand, and in it was a photograph. It showed a woman in a white dress, her face torn, the eyes scratched out. Mira tried to reach for it, but her hand passed through. The figure smiled, a terrible, thin smile, and then it dissipated. She woke, and the clock read 3:07. But this time, she could move. She jumped out of bed, and the cross on her nightstand was warm to the touch. She picked it up, and it was glowing faintly. She rushed to Alex’s room, where she found him standing by the window, his face pressed against the glass. ‘He’s outside,’ Alex whispered. ‘He wants to come in.’

Mira looked out. In the moonlit garden, she saw a figure, the same gaunt man, standing perfectly still. He was pointing at something on the ground. Mira followed his gaze and saw a small, weathered box, half-buried in the soil. She ran outside, ignoring the cold that seeped through her nightgown. She knelt and dug with her bare hands until she unearthed the box. It was locked, but the lock was rusted, and it broke easily. Inside, she found a old, sepia-toned photograph and a lock of black hair tied with a ribbon. The photograph was a wedding portrait. The bride was a beautiful woman with a serene smile, but the groom’s face was scratched out, leaving only a dark void. The back of the photo had a date: June 14, 1937. And an inscription: ‘Until death do us part – and even then.’

Mira’s wedding was set for June 14. Exactly a month from now. She looked up at the house, and in the window of her room, she saw the figure again, watching her. It raised a hand, and she could have sworn it was waving. She clutched the photograph, her mind racing. She knew what she had to do. She went inside, took the ribbon and the photo, and burned them in the fireplace, watching the edges curl and blacken. As the last flame died, she felt a chill pass through her, and she heard, just for a second, a distant, sorrowful sigh.

Since that night, the dreams have stopped. The figure has not appeared again. But sometimes, when she passes by the mirror, she catches a glimpse of a reflection that is not her own, a tall, gaunt shape lingering just behind her. And on the night before her wedding, as she lay in bed, she found the cross on her nightstand had turned to dust. She smiled, and for the first time in weeks, she slept without fear, knowing that she had broken the curse. But as she closed her eyes, she murmured, ‘Until death do us part.’ And in the darkness, she heard a whispered reply, ‘And even then.’