The Broken Clock (Horror) - White, Lexus
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In the corner of the old house, there it sits - an antique clock, its face cracked and its hands frozen in time. It's the kind of clock that seems to have a story to tell, but no one dares listen. It's been there for as long as anyone can remember, its tick-tock silenced, but its presence... unsettling. The moment you step into the room, you feel it - the weight of something watching, something waiting, something that has been trapped between moments, caught in a loop that refuses to break. They say the clock hasn't worked for decades, that it stopped the day something terrible happened in…mehr

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In the corner of the old house, there it sits - an antique clock, its face cracked and its hands frozen in time. It's the kind of clock that seems to have a story to tell, but no one dares listen. It's been there for as long as anyone can remember, its tick-tock silenced, but its presence... unsettling. The moment you step into the room, you feel it - the weight of something watching, something waiting, something that has been trapped between moments, caught in a loop that refuses to break. They say the clock hasn't worked for decades, that it stopped the day something terrible happened in that house. Some people say it was the night a tragedy struck - a life lost, a family torn apart. Others whisper that it was the clock itself, that it somehow held the key to something far darker than anyone could understand. But no one dares speak of it for long. The house is cursed, and so is the clock. The first time I stayed in that house, I barely noticed it. Just another piece of forgotten furniture. But there was something about the way it stood - so still, so silent - that made my skin crawl. I couldn't help but look at it every time I passed, its broken hands staring back at me like a warning. It wasn't until later, in the dead of night, when the house had settled into an eerie quiet, that I noticed the change. The ticking. At first, it was faint - just a whisper of a sound that echoed through the halls, like a distant memory trying to resurface. I told myself it was the house settling, the pipes creaking, anything but the clock. But as the hours passed, the sound grew louder, sharper. The tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock - but it wasn't just the clock. It was something else. Something unnatural. The rhythm was wrong, distorted, as though it was trying to force its way through time itself. I tried to ignore it. I told myself it was nothing, that my mind was playing tricks on me in the dark. But then, the next morning, I found the clock had moved. Just a little. But enough for me to see that the hands weren't as they had been the night before. They had shifted - just slightly. That's when I realized the truth: the clock wasn't broken. It was... waiting. Waiting for something to happen, waiting for someone to acknowledge it, waiting for the moment when it could take back what it had lost. As the days dragged on, the clock's presence grew unbearable. The tick-tock echoed through the walls, even when I wasn't near it. It seemed to pulse with life, the sound taking on an eerie, almost menacing quality, like the heartbeat of something watching, waiting for me to slip. I started to see things - shadows in the corners of my vision, fleeting glimpses of figures standing just beyond the reach of the clock's ticking. They were there one moment, gone the next, as if the broken hands of time had bent reality itself.
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