The Last Chime of the Clock

The university’s Applied Sciences building was a labyrinth of pale corridors and humming fluorescent lights, but by night, it transformed into a silent tomb. I had taught there for three years, and in all that time, I never stayed past seven—until the night the clock in the main lobby began to chime thirteen times. It was a common joke among students, a story told to scare freshmen: ‘At midnight, the grandfather clock rings thirteen times, and if you hear the last chime, you’ll never leave.’ I laughed it off, but that night, as I graded papers in my third-floor office, the clock started. One, two, three… twelve. I waited for the thirteenth, but it never came. I packed my bag, and as I walked down the stairs, the air grew thick with the smell of burnt sugar—like someone had lit a candle in the stairwell. I paused, listening. The building was empty, or so I thought. The smell grew stronger as I reached the ground floor, and I saw a faint, flickering light coming from the basement door—a door I knew was always locked. My heart pounded, but curiosity got the better of me. I pushed the door open, and the smell of burnt sugar enveloped me, and I saw a figure—a woman in a white dress, her back to me, holding a lit candle. She turned, and her face was blank, featureless, and she whispered, ‘You heard the chime.’ I didn’t remember running, but I found myself outside, gasping, the door slamming behind me. The next morning, the janitor found me asleep in the parking lot, and he said, ‘That old clock hasn’t worked in years.’ I never stayed late again, but sometimes, when I leave the building at dusk, I smell burnt sugar, and I hear a faint chime in my head—a thirteenth chime that never was.