The Counter-Clockwise Hour

Two years ago, when I was sixteen, I lived in a house that had always felt too quiet. My family had moved to a small town in the middle of nowhere, and our home was an old farmhouse with creaking floorboards and a basement that smelled of damp earth. I was the kind of kid who read ghost stories before bed and checked under my bed for monsters even though I knew they weren’t real. But I wanted them to be real. I wanted proof that there was more than just the mundane world.

It was a cold autumn evening, and we were having dinner in the dining room. The clock on the wall, an old pendulum thing that had been there since before we moved in, ticked steadily. My mother was talking about her day at the hospital, my father nodded along, and my younger brother, Lucas, was kicking my chair. I was trying to ignore him, focusing on my mashed potatoes. At exactly 8:00 PM, I noticed something odd. The clock’s minute hand was moving the wrong way. It ticked backwards, slowly, like a second hand. I blinked, but it kept going. I thought maybe the battery was dying, but it was a wind-up clock. I mentioned it, but my parents just shrugged. ‘Probably a glitch,’ my father said, and we finished dinner.

At 8:30, I got up from the table, my stomach full. I walked down the narrow hallway to the bathroom to wash my hands. The hallway felt longer than usual, the walls closing in a bit. The bathroom was at the end, opposite the linen closet. I remember the light flickering as I entered, but I thought nothing of it. I turned on the tap, and the water ran cold, too cold. I washed my hands, and as I was drying them, I yawned. A wave of exhaustion hit me like a brick. I could barely keep my eyes open. I stumbled out of the bathroom, heading to my room, which was just past the bathroom on the left. As I crossed the threshold, a sharp beep pierced both my ears, like a malfunctioning microphone feedback, but higher pitched. It made me wince and clutch my head.

I looked up, my eyes scanning the ceiling, and that’s when I saw it. Hanging from the corner of the room, just above my bed, was a man. But not a man. It was a thing that looked like a man, but it was too thin, with limbs like twigs. It was upside down, its head pointing toward the floor, its hair brushing the dust. Its face was pale, almost translucent, and its eyes were black voids. It was looking at me. Its mouth opened, but instead of a scream or a word, a low hum came out. I felt the hum in my bones. I tried to move, but my body was frozen. The beep in my ears intensified, and I felt a pressure behind my eyes.

I could only stare. The thing began to lower itself, its long fingers reaching toward me. I wanted to scream, but no sound came. I felt a cold hand touch my shoulder, and I jolted awake. I was on the floor of my room, the ceiling above me. The clock on my nightstand read 8:31. The thing was gone. I was shaking, drenched in sweat. I told my parents, but they said it was a night terror. But I know what I saw. And I’ve never told anyone the full story, because I’m afraid they’ll think I’m insane. But now, whenever I look at a clock, I check to see if it’s moving backwards. And if it is, I don’t look up.