Mornings in Hale's neighborhood were quiet.
Not peaceful—just quiet, in that way empty places are. The kind of silence that didn't comfort, but instead made you aware of how alone you truly were.
It was late September, 1996. The sun was mild, dragging itself lazily into the sky as Hale stepped out of the house. The streets around him wore decay like skin—rusting fences, torn posters clinging to telephone poles, and crooked trees whose shadows fell across sidewalks like tangled webs. A paperboy cycled past him, newspapers thudding dully against porches, like forgotten messages from a dying world.
Hale adjusted the straps of his faded brown backpack and began the walk toward school.
He didn't talk much. Didn't need to. He was one of those kids who moved just under the radar—never failing, never shining. Average in most ways, but... strangely composed. Most teachers knew his name, but never remembered his face. He wasn't invisible. Just unnoticed.
He had a few friends—people to sit beside, people to nod at during class changes—but none close enough to notice the weight pulling at his eyes. The darkness beneath them. The way he stared too long at clocks, at mirrors, at people.
His school, St. Amelia's High, was a building that had long forgotten its own history. The lockers were an ugly green and creaked like old bones when opened. The floors echoed everything—footsteps, whispers, laughter that didn't feel real. Rumors about the west wing being haunted were popular among freshmen, but no one really believed them.
Hale didn't believe in ghosts.
At least, he didn't used to.
In class, he liked psychology the most.
Not because of the textbook. Because of the people.
Mr. Cawley, their teacher, had a voice that droned like a malfunctioning fan, but he liked asking uncomfortable questions. Hale found comfort in discomfort.
That morning, Mr. Cawley wrote a single word on the board:
FEAR.
"Tell me," he said, "what's your earliest memory of being afraid?"
The room tensed. Some students chuckled nervously, others looked down. Hale didn't laugh. He scanned the room.
Beside him, Marla Quay—a girl who normally spoke too much—bit her lip and stared at her desk. Her pen tapped her notebook erratically. Evan blinked twice in a row and rubbed the back of his neck.
Hale smiled faintly.
He noticed everything.
And yet... he had no words for what was happening to him.
Ever since that night—the clock, the reflection—his world had shifted. Slightly. Wrongly. Like a picture tilted just off-center.
Mirrors didn't reflect him properly. There was a delay now. Barely a second. But enough.
Teachers sometimes skipped over him during roll call, even when he answered.
Sometimes, he would wake up fully clothed in bed—mud on his shoes, no memory of the walk home.
But worst of all...
was the ticking.
The clock in his room no longer measured time. It measured something else.
Its ticks changed speed. Fast, slow, fast again. Like it was syncing to his heart. Or trying to teach it a new rhythm.
He had removed the batteries.
Twice.
It still ticked.
At lunch, Hale sat beneath the old cypress tree at the far edge of the schoolyard. His notebook was open, pages filled with meaningless lines—half-dreams, forgotten fragments.
A hallway with no end.
A voice that sounded like his mother's.
A clock with no hands, only eyes.
Across the grass, Evan waved from a cafeteria bench, holding up a juice box.
Hale blinked out of his trance and walked over.
"Man, you look like shit," Evan said, grinning. "You sick or something?"
"Didn't sleep."
"Again?"
"Yeah."
"You sure you're okay?" Evan tilted his head slightly, half-smiling but clearly trying to read Hale's face more than usual.
"I'm fine," Hale said, voice flat.
Evan frowned, just a flicker. "I read somewhere... chronic insomnia can screw with your memory. Like, wipe it clean."
That line landed hard.
Erase stuff.
The words clung like spiderwebs in Hale's brain, catching all other thoughts.
That night, the house was silent.
His aunt—who'd raised him since he was twelve—was working late again at the city archives.
Hale sat at his desk, pretending to finish homework. The same vinyl record from before spun on the player near the window—warped, playing a loop of static and melody that didn't quite resolve.
He glanced at the clock.
9:41 PM.
Tick.
Too slow.
Like a dying heart.
He got up and touched the glass.
Cold. Colder than the wall behind it.
The second hand jumped forward... and stopped.
His breath hitched.
Tick.
But the sound didn't come from the clock.
It came from behind him.
He turned.
Nothing.
Silence.
Back to the clock.
3:12 AM.
His stomach dropped.
He checked his wristwatch.
9:43 PM.
Looked back.
Still 3:12.
The same time he always woke up, breathless.
Something was wrong.
He was being messed with.
Or maybe... losing it.
Or maybe none of this was real.
Maybe he just needed sleep.
Right?