The Red Glow of 3:07

It was the summer I turned thirteen, and my family had just moved into a creaking old house on the edge of a dying town called Ashford. My room was at the end of a long hallway, and the previous tenants had left behind a strange collection of things: a broken clock, a stack of yellowed newspapers, and a single, dusty floor lamp that I was forbidden to use. But I had a nightlight shaped like a crescent moon, and my digital alarm clock cast a stubborn red glow no matter how many times I tried to cover it with a sock.

On the third night, I woke up at exactly 3:00 a.m. I didn’t know the time yet, but I felt it — a cold prickle on the back of my neck, like someone had breathed on me. I was lying on my side, facing the wall, where a water stain had formed a shape that looked like a crying face. My heart began to thud against my ribs. I told myself it was just the wind, or the house settling, but the feeling grew stronger, pressing into my back.

I decided I had to look. I turned my head, millimeter by millimeter, until the edge of my vision caught the doorway. There was something there. A figure, tall and thin, with long hair that hung in strings, covering its face. It was standing perfectly still, just inside the threshold. My throat closed up. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. I could only stare as the red glow from my clock painted the figure’s bare feet and the hem of a white dress that seemed to float slightly, as if it wasn’t quite touching the floor.

The figure just stood there, for what felt like five long seconds. The air around me turned cold, and I could hear my own blood rushing in my ears. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, I let out a scream — but it wasn’t my voice. It was a high-pitched, echoing shriek, like a recording of a girl being played at half speed. The sound seemed to stall in the air, hanging there with me.

A moment later, my mother burst into the room, flicking on the overhead light. The figure was gone. The room was empty, except for the red glow and my mother’s face, pale with worry. She said I was just having a nightmare, but I knew what I saw. I didn’t sleep in that room for a week.

The next time it happened was a month later, on a Friday night. I had finally mustered the courage to sleep in my own bed again. I set a rule for myself: if I woke up, I would not look. But at 3:00 a.m., the red numbers on my clock lit up the room, and I felt the familiar weight of a gaze. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, and I counted my breaths. Then I heard a whisper, not in my ears, but inside my skull: ‘You can see me.’ I didn’t sleep after that.

The third time, I tried to play it cool. I left my phone recording all night, aimed at the doorway. In the morning, the video showed nothing — just a dark rectangle — but at 3:07 a.m., there were three seconds of static, and a faint voice that sounded like my own, saying, ‘Don’t forget me.’

The last time was last night. I had grown used to the pattern, and I had decided I would not be afraid. When I woke at 3:00 a.m., I turned to face the door, sitting up in bed. There it was, the figure, now closer than before. It was right by my nightstand, and I could see its face through the hair: a girl, maybe fifteen, with hollow eyes and a grin that was too wide. She raised a finger to her lips, as if to shush me. Then she pointed at my clock — which read 3:07 — and mouthed, ‘Time’s up.’

My mother came in when I screamed, but I wasn’t alone anymore. The girl was gone, but in her place, on my pillow, was a small, rusted key. And now, as I write this at 3:00 a.m., I hear a scraping sound coming from inside my closet door. The key fits. I’ve already tried it. The door is locked from the outside, and I’m afraid to know what’s waiting for me on the other side.