3:15 AM

The clock did not tick loudly.

It did not need to.

The room lay submerged in the tar of night, existing only when the clouds shifted and allowed a thin blade of moonlight to enter through the window. It reached halfway across the floor and stopped, as if unwilling to go farther.

At the center of the room, a boy lay on his bed.

His eyes were closed.

The darkness was not.

Air scraped down his throat. Each breath came shallow, reluctant, as though the room were rationing oxygen. His fingers twitched against the bedsheet. The blanket tangled around his legs.

He was not alone.

Not in the way a person fears being alone.

He stood beside the bed.

He could see himself.

The body on the mattress trembled faintly, jaw tight, chest rising too quickly. A shape hovered near it—not fully formed, not fully absent. It did not move forward. It did not move back.

It simply waited.

The door to the room stretched farther away, shrinking toward a vanishing point that did not belong inside four walls. The edges of the room bent inward.

The shape leaned closer.

Not touching.

Almost.

3:16

Sweat gathered at his temples. The body on the bed clawed weakly at the sheets. The heart inside it struck against bone with frantic insistence.

The shape gained density.

Not larger.

Closer.

He tried to look away.

He could not.

3:17

He fell back into himself.

The ceiling snapped into place above him.

Air rushed in violently. His eyes opened. The door stood exactly where it should be.

Nothing had moved.

Nothing had changed.

His throat burned. His chest ached.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his head toward the bedside table.

Red digits cut through the dark.

3:17

It was always 3:17.

This was not the first time.

Rihaan had lived in Shibika for less than a year. The town had been kind enough. Quiet. Ordinary.

The house was something else.

The first week had been uneventful. The second week, the nights began to thin. Sleep no longer felt like rest. It felt like crossing a border.

He noticed the pattern gradually.

Not 3:16.

Not 3:18.

Always 3:17.

At first, he blamed routine. A body waking at the same hour. A habit.

But habits do not watch you.

For six months, he remembered nothing of ordinary dreams. No wandering thoughts. No nonsense images. Only fragments remained—corridors without end, lights that flickered without source, footsteps that matched his own but were never visible.

And the door.

There was always a door.

He never reached it.

When he woke, his body felt as though it had been running. His muscles ached. His shirt clung to his back. The exhaustion was not from fear.

It was from resistance.

As if something required effort to hold back.

As if waking up was not escape—

only interruption.

He sat upright in bed.

The room appeared ordinary.

The clock read 3:17.

It shifted.

3:18.

He drew a slow breath through his nose.

“Again,” his thoughts murmured.

“You’re alone again.”

“Nobody knows,” he answered silently.

The house did not respond.

His pulse steadied slowly. He reached for the water bottle beside him and emptied it without pause.

The quiet returned.

Not peaceful.

Just waiting.

He moved to his study table. Books lay open, marked heavily in ink. The lamp cast a circle of controlled light. Outside the window, the night remained vast and indifferent.

He began to study.

It was easier to face pages than sleep.

6:00 AM

The alarm rang.

He was already dressed.

Since moving into the house, his mother had stopped waking him. There was no need. The bathroom floor was damp when she entered. He had showered before dawn.

Elina paused in the hallway.

She carried exhaustion carefully. Ebony hair pulled back. Eyes lined not by age, but by absence of rest. She dressed fully, even inside the house—fabric covering her arms, her neck, her skin.

As though the air itself should not touch her.

She prepared breakfast quietly.

“Rihaan, breakfast is ready.”

Her voice carried through the house without effort. Sound did not travel far there. It felt absorbed before it reached corners.

Conversation was minimal. Necessary words only.

He ate. Packed his books. Left.

At the doorway, tying his shoes, he heard the ring of a bicycle bell.

He looked up.

Sarman pushed his cycle uphill toward the house. Night-shift fatigue clung to him, but he wore it lightly. He worked at a printing press. Studied between shifts. Spoke little of either.

As he approached, the house seemed to settle.

Not warmer.

Less tense.

He rested a hand briefly on Rihaan’s head.

“School?”

Rihaan nodded.

Sarman stepped inside.

Rihaan walked down the road.

He did not look back.

He did not need to.

The sensation followed him regardless.

The house watched.

Not with anger.

Not with hunger.

With patience.

Everything appeared normal.

And that was the most unsettling part.

Because something had already begun.

And it was not finished with him.

“Rihaan,” Samar's voice echoed through the hallway, “party at my place tonight; wanna join?”

Rihaan, silent and confused, just shook his head and walked off. His fist clenched the strap of his bag. No eye contact, just the brisk movement.

“Why do you even ask?”

“He won’t show.”

“He thinks he’s better than us.”

“Samar exhaled. “He doesn’t think that.”

“Then what?”

“He’s just… not like us.”

“Who cares? He doesn't care about us. Why should you?”

“Samar, just f*ck him; he is a dork.” "A boy," he said, agitated.

“Samar, that guy is a freak. Please don't invite him for our sake,” said a girl.

“A freak, you say! Did you hear her, Rihaan? You are a freak now.” Said Rihaan's conscience.

This time he was quiet, with no denying that he was not a part of them, and he was not interested in being one of them. He kept on walking, the voices fading behind him, until the only sound was his own breath and the crunch of gravel underfoot on the long, lonely path up the hill.

This house was situated on the highest area of Shibika and was only accompanied by an empty plot and a single path that connects this place with the other parts of this small town.

This plot was completely drowned in lush, invasive green plants and strange, long grass that were not part of these surroundings. He passed through it and reached the house. The house seemed to smile. The air shifted around it, not with relief, but with a quiet, hungry joy.

“You're back, Rihaan? Get changed; the snacks are ready in your room.” Elina said as soon as he entered the house. Elina was busy sewing something; she did not move her gaze, not even to look at the boy. As the boy thought.

“Look at her, Rihaan, just look at her... Does she even care about you?” Again, he spoke his brain to his soul.

“Can you get any more annoying?” Said Rihaan. He began walking towards his room directly instead of changing.

“Son, you have to change first. Be a good boy and get changed before you have your snack.” Elina, cutting a piece of cloth.

“And don't worry, you are not getting ignored; I'll just finish the work and be there in a minute.” Said Elina.

Elina knew what his son thought. Was it some kind of magic or the effect of something they've been through or motherly love? Our young boy nodded and began walking towards the washroom instead of to his room.

Sarman was asleep on the couch in the hall, with a book on his face titled 'The Haunting of Hill House' by Shirley Jackson.

With every passing second, the dusk was taking over the twilight. As Elina's work came to an end, the silence crawled back in again.

“Sarman. Wake up and go and get ready. It's time.” She shook him to wake him up.

She went to Rihaan's room, slightly peeping from the door. Just to check whether the lad is asleep or not. Rihaan sat at his study table, again, too concentrated to notice her mother's eyes from the door slit.

Elina enters the room. “So, how was your day at school?” she asks, anticipating the silence as the answer. And she was correct; Rihaan did not speak a word.

“You are safe here, son; everything has changed now.” Elina said. Rihaan looked towards her, smiled, nodded his head, and bit his tongue. He agreed but never believed it was true. His lips lied, but his eyes didn't.

"Don't you worry, Mother; everything is fine."

"Yeah, lie, lie to her face, and even if you didn't, nothing would change, you freak." Scoffed, his head.

"You need to speak up, my boy. If there's anything you'd like to talk about. Trust me, I'll listen to you." Her eyes, almost wet. Rihaan's smile never left his face.

"Mother, I'm hungry. When will the dinner be ready?" "I'll prepare the dinner." She wanted to stay. Rihaan, turned his head, looked at the clock, and the clock glitched... 7:45 PM

* jitter * 3:17 AM. Just for a second.

*jitter* 7:45 PM again.

His smile vanished all of a sudden, and a drop of sweat ran down his temples. "What was that?"

The silence, which he wanted to maintain, was broken by his own words.

"Did you say something?" Elina asked, standing at the door to his room.

"The clock—did you see that?" he answered.

"What happened, to the clock?" Elina

"It... it..., I guess the battery is dying; it just glitched, I guess." Rihaan again hid what he saw.

“Okay.” Elina stood there confused. And spoke to ease the weird tension of the situation.

"What do you want to eat tonight?"

"Anything." He said, before turning his head towards the books on the messy table.

Time: 8:40 pm.

The sound of the shower resonated through the house. It was Sarman.

"Time to eat," Elina called into the silence.

No one answered, but the house carried her voice to each of them, as it always did. Rihaan came down, in the kitchen. The sound of running water stopped, and Sarman came out in his towel, wiping water from his long hair.

He walked slowly to the kitchen and sprinkled the water from his hair on Rihaan.

Rihaan just looked at him and smiled; Sarman was taken aback. "Rihaan, you're still thinking about it, aren't you?" he said. Rihaan bit his tongue, without breaking the smile.

"What are you talking about? I don't understand. And anyways, I am happy we are here." He said. The food was served; nobody spoke a word after that. The only sound that was audible was the cutlery. Plates and spoons.

"You should let it go now." Sarman said, looking at Rihaan with pity in his eyes.

Time: 10:45pm By this time, he was on his bed, tired and reflecting on his day.

"Do youthink II should probablytell myy mother about the dreams and the coincidences?" Asked Rihaan himself.

"And make her believe that you are the problem?"saidd his conscience.

"Why do you think that?" Asked Rihaan.

"Tell me, have you ever made her happy? Ormadee her feel that you are not a burden, that you do not need herprotection?. She already suffered a lot because of you, Rihaan." His head almost screamed. The silence again took over again. And so, guilty and silent, he surrendered to sleep.

Clocks ticking....

3:12AM, and it begins....

3:12 AM

"Freak"

*Giggles.*

"They called you a freak."

The word slithered into Rihaan's slumber, not as a memory, but as a breath against his ear: "Freak."

His body locked—a curled fist of muscle and fear. Fingers nailed themselves to the pillow. The blanket over his legs was a dead weight he couldn't feel. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic prisoner, while his breath froze solid in his lungs.

"Who—" he tried to say, but his voice was dust. "Who are you?"

Rihaan struggled to open his eyes, only to find himself standing in the corridor outside his room. It was filled with the darkness of the void. The air that filled the space was damp and cold.

His eyes strained against the nothing, searching for a line, an edge. And then he saw it. An impossible, undeniable. A window. Set in a wall that had never held one.

*tick* 3:14 AM

He began walking in that direction, the hollow voices constantly itching his ears. His bare feet knew the feel of these floorboards—the third one always creaked. He was ready for it. The creak never came. The silence of its betrayal was louder than any sound. His legs moved faster... faster... and faster until he was chasing the window, which seemed close, close enough to grab, and he put his head out to reach the outside world, or so he thought.

The corridor was stretching into infinity, and the window stretched along with it.

“Freak,” almost a hiss, over his ears. He froze. In the utter silence, the cold, the dark, he stood perfectly still, as if he waited…. Waited for all this to end with a snap. But alas! He was mistaken; the window began moving, it came closer… closer… and closer until he stood facing the window.

"That is me." He saw himself on his bed, crumpled and breathless. In that moonlit room, where the moon was covered by the clouds, casting a partial shadow. Again he can see himself struggle against the will of the shadow.

He stood there just for the instant when he saw the door to his room open from outside, but there was no evidence of it happening in the corridor. No creak, no push, no edge, not even an inch of light.

The window lunged. Not the glass, but the frame—a perfect, black rectangle eating the world. It didn't hit him; it passed through him. A shock of absolute cold, a sensation of being briefly detached from reality. And then it was gone. He was alone in the infinite corridor, the taste of static and soil on his tongue. The window had left nothing behind, not even the memory of a wall.

*tick* 3:15

He stood there all alone in that infinite corridor. The silence grew, and his childish part began anticipating an end, but he was wrong again. Another window bloomed, but this time, he stood right behind it. He took a step ahead and peeped.

"F..Fath...Father"

His father had him by the hair, smashing his head toward the table's edge.

Not once, not twice, but thrice, he banged his head on the edge of the table, then kicked his own son in the stomach after he lost consciousness.

Then his father walks toward Rihaan, who stood at the window, smiled, and walked through him, like air. Rihaan turns to find himself in their old apartment. His eyes now focused on his father, beating his mother frantically. He could hear her mother's cries for help, and he could see himself fallen, helpless and dead weight, on his mother.

A tear ran down his eye. He wanted to cry, he wanted to help his mother, but he only stood there, still and pathetic. As his father stood and took a baseball bat in his hand, he smashed his mother's head. Rihaan could not bear it; he closed his eyes. The sound of the bat hitting flesh didn't stop. It changed. Became the sound of his own heart, pounding against his ribs in the dark

*Tick* 3:16 AM

All of a sudden everything vanishes. Rihaan now stood beside his crumbling body. He can see the stress his body was under, and the sound of a creak attracts his attention.

The door to his room is opening. The same way it opened before. And there stood the figure of concentrated dark, a cut-out of nothingness. It was present, but it did not exist. It was an absence that had learned to stand up.

He saw 'it' creeping in from that corridor door, gradually becoming something from the tinted air of dark. It stood tall and reached its hand out to Rihaan.

The hand looked rotten, the smell of the air was of soil, and the air was getting dense every passing second. As the hand neared him, he walked, increasing the distance between him and the hand of the shadow. He eventually reached the end of his room, his back stacked on the wall. They hovered in front of his face, forcing him to close his eyes again.

As soon as he closed his eyes, all the hollow voices he heard were gone; the only sound was his heart and the sound of the breeze that filled the air. The room seemed empty now. As he opened his eyes, there was no shadow in the room.

And when he sighed, he felt a touch on his shoulder.

*tick* 3:17 AM.

*panting* He wipes off the sweat on his head\, his hair completely wet. He was tired\, and when he turned his head to look at the clock\, the color of his face turned white.

"Not again!" He exclaimed. But he wasn't able to speak clearly because his throat was dried up. Then he notices his hand, his hand already digging into his shoulder.

It hurt. Not like a bad dream. Not like fear. But like something that derived from the claws of it. Something real.

The pain was like it was cut, but there was no blood.

He would rather not look. Looking would make it real. However, the pain was a question his skin was already answering. He forced himself to look.

A bruise was there. Dark. New. Still forming. Five marks pressed into his skin. Engraved in his soul.

Fingers or the claws of those who see him.

He stared at it, hoping it would disappear.

It didn’t.

He looked around the room. The bed. The door. The walls. Everything was where it should be. Quiet. Normal.

Too normal.

Nothing had followed him out.

Nothing was standing there.

And yet something had touched him.

He tried to breathe. Slow. Controlled.

His heart didn’t listen.

This wasn’t a nightmare anymore. Nightmares stay in sleep. They don’t leave marks. This did.

The place he kept going back to every night was no longer satisfied with just a visit. Now, it was bringing pieces of itself back with him.