Stolen Time

Ever since he got back from his hike three days ago, he swears he can hear the faint ticking of a clock. At first, he brushed it off as a trick of the mind, but days later, the ticking grew louder and closer. His friends told him he was just tired and stressed out about work. Things got stranger when he began to catch glimpses of a figure that’s always afar.

By day five, the ticking was unbearable, a sharp rhythm pulsing in his skull. The figure was closer now—standing in his yard, tall and bent, its face a blank clock with spinning hands. He found scratches on his arm, Roman numerals counting up: I, II, III. Each night, a new mark. Each night, the figure crept nearer.

He remembered the cave from the hike, the old pocket watch he’d taken. It sat silent on his counter, but the ticking came from everywhere else. On the seventh night, he woke to it standing over him, metal limbs creaking, clock face screaming midnight. The last scratch—VII—bled as its cold hand gripped him.

“You took time that wasn’t yours,”

It rasped, and the ticking stopped.