The Thirteenth Chime

The summer I turned seven, we drove eleven hours from our cramped apartment in Ohio to my great-aunt Cora’s farmhouse in the Missouri Ozarks. The house was a sagging Victorian relic, its porch beams bowed like old shoulders, and it smelled of mothballs and dried lavender. My parents, desperate for a week away from their bickering, dumped our bags in the guest room—a narrow chamber with a single window that overlooked a cemetery plot where three generations of Cora’s family were buried. My sister, Lily, claimed the far side of the bed, and I was left by the window, where the gauzy curtains rippled even when the air was still.

On the third night, after Aunt Cora had told us stories about her youth—dances in the barn, a lover who vanished—I lay awake, counting the headstones outside. A soft vibration tickled the glass, like a finger tapping. Then a voice, low and honeyed, slinked through the screen: “Daniel… Daniel…” No one called me by my middle name, not even my parents. But this voice sang it like a hymn. It was a young woman’s voice, warm and lulling, as if she were tucking me into a dream.

I slid off the mattress, my bare feet whispering across the pine floor. The voice came from the hallway, threading under the door. I eased it open, and a draft cool as river water rolled past. The corridor was dark, but a faint glow pulsed from Aunt Cora’s room at the end—a room she’d forbidden us to enter. The voice grew clearer: “Come, Daniel. I’ve been waiting.” I stepped inside. The room was cluttered with trunks, a spinning wheel, and a full-length mirror propped against the wall. Moonlight slanted through the curtains, and in the mirror I saw not myself, but a girl—maybe sixteen, with a lace dress and hair like dark moss. She smiled, and her reflection seemed to lean closer.

“You see me,” she said, her voice now as tangible as a touch. I nodded, unable to speak. She pressed her palm against the glass, and I mirrored the gesture. The glass was cold, then warm, then as pliant as skin. “I was the thirteenth chime,” she whispered. “The one they forgot.” Her eyes darted to a grandfather clock in the corner, its pendulum frozen at 11:59. “They locked me away for loving the wrong boy, and I died here, counting the minutes.” She began to hum a lullaby I’d never heard, but it fit in my bones.

“What do you want?” I finally managed. Her smile grew sad. “To finish the chime. To be remembered.” She traced a pattern on the glass, and the mirror rippled. Behind her reflection, I saw a coffin, a wedding dress, and a noose. I stumbled back, but my hand stuck to the mirror. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I only need you to say my name. Say it, and I’ll be free.” I shook my head, but my mouth opened against my will. “Mary,” I croaked. The clock’s pendulum swung, and the chime began—twelve, thirteen—but the last tone was a scream. The mirror cracked; shards spun; and the girl’s face split into a grin that was too wide. Then everything went black.

I woke in my bed, the morning sun harsh on my lids. Aunt Cora stood over me, her face pale. “You were sleepwalking,” she said, but her hands trembled. “You were in my room, talking to that damned mirror.” I tried to speak, but my throat was raw. Across the room, Lily was packing, her back turned. I never told anyone else. But now, every night at 11:59, I hear that lullaby, and in any reflective surface—a store window, a puddle, a spoon—I see her, waiting, tapping, mouthing my middle name. And I know the thirteenth chime didn’t set her free. It bound me to her, a new bell in her silent clock.