The Midnight Habits of Room 14

I woke up at 6:57 AM on a Tuesday, which was odd because I was sure I had set my alarm for 6:45. The clock on the nightstand glowed 6:45, but it was silent. The little red numbers seemed to mock me, a digital deadpan saying ‘I did my job, you just didn’t listen.’ I tapped the top, and the display flickered, but nothing else. I checked the settings; it was set correctly. I sighed and blamed the cheap battery. Fine, I’d buy a new one.

The next morning, same thing. The clock showed 6:45, but no sound. I had triple-checked the alarm was armed the night before. I was starting to feel a prickle of unease, but I rationalized it away. ‘It’s an old clock,’ I told myself. ‘It’s time for a new one.’ So on Saturday, I drove to the electronics store and bought a sleek, modern alarm clock with a brick-like power adapter that plugged directly into the wall socket. It had a backup battery, digital display, and a backup power source. This thing was built to be reliable.

Monday morning, 7:02 AM. I shot awake, heart pounding. The new clock read 6:45, but again, no alarm. I checked the settings; correct. I checked the power; the adapter was loose in the socket. Maybe my cat, Pixel, had batted at it and nudged it out. He was a curious beast, always investigating cords. That had to be it. I plugged it in firmly, set the alarm, and resolved to watch him.

Tuesday morning, I woke up at 5:00 AM, alert for no discernible reason. The room was dark, but I felt a presence in the hallway. I held my breath. I heard soft, shuffling footsteps, like bare feet on carpet, moving past my door. The sound was unhurried, casual even. I listened as it faded towards the kids’ room. I lay frozen, my heart doing a drum solo. At 6:45, the clock was silent. When I finally got up, I saw the brick adapter had been unplugged and was sitting on top of the clock, neatly centered.

Wednesday morning, I woke at 5:15 AM to the same shuffling footsteps. This time, they paused right outside my door. I imagined a silhouette in the dim light of the hallway nightlight, but when I blinked, nothing was there. The footsteps resumed, moving away. At 6:45, silence. When I checked, the adapter was on top of the clock again.

Thursday, today, I woke at 5:38 AM. The footsteps were earlier, and they were not alone. I heard a soft, almost gentle whispering, like someone shushing a child. I got up, my legs shaking, and walked to the hallway. No one. I checked the kids’ room; my daughters were fast asleep, their chests rising and falling in the soft glow of their nightlights. I checked the clock; the adapter was unplugged and placed on top.

I stood in the kitchen, staring at the clock, my coffee forgotten. Something was wrong. Something was in my house, and it was playing a game with my alarm. But why? What did it want? And why did it never touch the kids? A thought crept into my mind, cold and unwelcome: maybe it was checking on them. Maybe it was making sure they were safe. And maybe, just maybe, it was the reason they were still breathing.

I decided to stake out. I set up my phone to record the hallway, aimed at the clock on my nightstand. That night, I barely slept, but I kept my eyes on the door. At 5:47 AM, I felt a chill. The footsteps started. I watched as the shadow of a figure slipped through the crack of my door, heading for the clock. I saw a hand, pale and thin, reach for the adapter. I saw it unplug, and gently place it on top of the clock. The figure then turned to my nightstand, and for a moment, I could have sworn it was looking at me. But its face was a blur, like my eyes refused to focus. It then glided to the kids’ room.

I bolted up, my heart thundering. I ran to the kids’ room, threw open the door. My daughters were safe, but there was a faint scent of lavender in the air, a smell I didn’t recognize. And on the wall, written in what looked like dust, were the words: ‘They are safe.’

I didn’t sleep after that. I just sat in the living room, watching the clock. At 6:45, the alarm went off, loud and clear. I almost jumped out of my skin. It hadn’t done that in days. I went to my bedroom and picked up the adapter, still on top of the clock. It was warm. I looked at the clock, and a new message scrolled across its tiny screen: ‘My watch is over.’