The Jasper Clock Tower

It was the first day of the new school year in the town of Blackwood Hollow, a place where autumn arrived early and the fog clung to the cobblestone streets like a persistent memory. I, Lena, worked the night shift at the local mill, and my routine was as fixed as the town’s old clock tower, which had a face that seemed to watch you no matter where you stood. Every morning, after seeing my two boys off to school, I’d crawl into bed, and at 11:00 AM my alarm would yank me from sleep, giving me just enough time to shower, throw on some clothes, and drive to the foundry where my husband, Marcus, worked. We’d share a hurried lunch, and then I’d return him to the roar of the furnaces and drive home, my shift at the mill beginning at 4 PM.

But that September morning, something was wrong. As Marcus left for work, he kissed my forehead and said, “Don’t forget to set the alarm, Love. The kids go back today, and I need the car at noon.” I nodded, but sleep was already pulling me under. I remember thinking, ‘I’ll just close my eyes for a second,’ and then the world went black. When I woke, it wasn’t to the shrill beeping of my clock, but to a voice—a voice that was not human. It was a horrible, scraping rasp, like a nail being dragged across a rusty iron gate, and it shouted directly into my ear, “WAKE UP!”

I bolted upright, my heart hammering, my skin prickling with cold sweat. The voice seemed to linger in the air, and my bedroom felt… wrong. The light through the curtains was too dim, the shadows in the corners too sharp. I looked at the clock on my nightstand: 11:00 exactly. Not 10:59, not 11:01—11:00, as if time itself had been waiting for that moment. A chill ran down my spine. Someone—or something—had been in that room with me, and it was not of this world. I laughed it off, blaming my lack of sleep, but as I stood to head to the bathroom, the hair on my arms stood up. I could swear I heard a faint, wet whisper: “You shouldn’t have slept.” But I dismissed it, thinking it was the wind.

That evening, after picking up Marcus and having our rushed lunch, I dropped him back at the foundry. As I drove home, a strange unease settled over me. The streetlights flickered as I passed, and the radio, which had been playing a cheerful pop song, suddenly let out a burst of static that morphed into a low, guttural moan. I turned it off, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I told myself it was just the old wiring in the car, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. When I got home, the house was quiet. Too quiet. The boys were at their after-school program, and Marcus wouldn’t be home until later. I decided to take a nap before my shift, but as I lay down, the same raspy voice filled my ears, not shouting this time, but whispering, “Time’s up.” I sat up, but there was nothing, just the ticking of the wall clock, which seemed louder than usual.

I tried to shrug it off, but the events of the day had rattled me. Over the next week, the alarm clock never failed to ring at 11:00, but I always set it. However, the voice returned on the first night of each new month, always at the moment I was about to drift off, always whispering something different: “He’s coming,” “The tower knows,” “Don’t look at the clock.” I began to dread the first of the month. My sleep grew ragged, and my coworkers at the mill noticed I was on edge, dropping things, jumping at shadows. Marcus grew concerned, but I couldn’t tell him the truth—he’d think I’d lost my mind.

Then, on the night of October 1st, the voice shouted so loud I fell out of bed, and this time, it wasn’t just a warning. It was a command: “GO TO THE TOWER.” My body moved as if possessed. I threw on my coat, drove through the fog to the town square, and stood before the Jasper Clock Tower, its enormous clock face looming over me. The hands were frozen at 11:00, just as they had been for as long as anyone could remember. I don’t know why, but I felt an inexplicable pull, like I was supposed to go inside. The tower’s door was always locked, but that night, it was ajar. I stepped in, the smell of dust and decay filling my nostrils. A spiral staircase led up, and I climbed, my footsteps echoing in the hollow silence. At the top, I found a room with a massive clockwork mechanism, but in the center, where the pendulum should have been, hung a human-shaped figure, wrapped in black cloth, its arms outstretched as if begging. I screamed, stumbling backward, but the figure began to move, turning its head toward me. Under the cloth, I could see a ghastly face—pale, gaunt, with eyes like burning coals. It spoke, not in the raspy whisper, but in a clear, cold voice that cut through the air: “You are the new keeper. You alone have heard me. You will never miss the alarm again.”

I ran, not stopping until I was in my car, speeding home. I didn’t tell Marcus, but I knew my life had changed forever. From that night on, the voice never spoke again, but I always woke at 11:00 AM, exactly, even without the alarm. I had become a slave to the clock, bound to the tower, and though I still live my life, I fear that one day, I will be the one hanging in that clockwork room, waiting for the next person who forgets to set their alarm.

Now, two years later, I still haven’t missed setting the alarm. But deep down, I know the truth: the tower will always claim its keeper, and the alarm is the least of my worries.