Zsófia Solti
The rain fell heavily as I stood in front of the old house at the end of the street. Dark clouds covered the sky; the only light came from the weak glow of the moon behind them. The house looked abandoned, yet one window on the second floor was lit by a faint orange light.
I should have walked away. But curiosity pulled me closer.
The wooden gate opened with a long, painful creak, and I slowly stepped inside the garden. Dead flowers covered the ground, and the cold wind carried the smell of wet earth and smoke. The house stood silently before me, tall and dark like a sleeping monster. When I pushed the front door open, it slammed shut behind me immediately. I froze.
The hallway was narrow and dusty, with faded paintings hanging crookedly on the walls. Somewhere deep inside the house, I heard the slow ticking of clocks.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound guided me toward the first room. It was gloomy, with a large fireplace burning in the center. The fire filled the room with a suffocating heat, making sweat run down my face. Dozens of clocks hung on the walls, ticking at different speeds. Some were loud and aggressive, while others made soft clicking sounds that almost whispered through the room. The windows were small and hidden behind enormous dark curtains. Very little light entered the room, making me feel trapped, as if I had been locked inside a prison. I tried opening the door behind me, but it would not move. For a moment, I thought I saw a shadow moving near the fireplace. “Who’s there?” I whispered. No answer came.
Only the ticking clocks. Suddenly, one of the clocks stopped. Then another and another. The room became silent. A cold chill ran through my body as I noticed words scratched into the wall beside the fireplace: Time never leaves this house. Before I could understand the message, I heard a child laughing somewhere upstairs.I quickly left the room and followed the sound.
The second room was strangely different from the first. It looked like an old children’s bedroom. Toys were scattered across the floor, and the bluish-yellow walls made the room feel calm and friendly. A small wooden horse stood near the bed, while dolls sat quietly on dusty shelves. For a moment, I felt safe. I could almost imagine children running through the room, laughing and playing together. But then I noticed something strange. Every toy was covered in dust except one. A small music box sat open in the corner, playing a soft melody.
Slowly. As I walked closer, the laughter stopped. The music box suddenly snapped shut by itself. I stepped backward in fear, and that was when I saw it. A little girl stood near the window. Her pale face was hidden behind tangled black hair, and her gray dress looked torn and dirty. She pointed silently toward the hallway before disappearing into the darkness. I ran out of the room without looking back. At the end of the hallway stood another door. Unlike the others, this one was slightly open.
I pushed it carefully and entered a narrow library filled with towering bookshelves. Thick dust covered the ancient books, and the room smelled of smoke and damp paper. A single candle burned on a small desk, even though nobody was there. The floor creaked beneath my feet. Then I noticed an old journal lying open beside the candle. The pages were yellow and fragile. Most of the writing had faded away, but two sentences remained clear: The house feeds on fear. Those who enter become part of it forever.
My heart pounded violently. Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me. Slow, heavy. I turned around, but nobody stood there.The candle flickered wildly as freezing wind entered through the cracked window. Then every bookshelf around me began shaking. Books crashed onto the floor while whispers filled the room.
“Stay…,Don’t leave, You belong here…”
I ran toward the hallway, but the house had changed. The walls seemed longer now, twisting into endless darkness. The ticking of the clocks returned louder than before.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound surrounded me from every direction. Then I remembered the little girl pointing toward the hallway. There had been another door beside the children’s room. A hidden door. I forced myself through the darkness until I finally found it — a small wooden door almost invisible against the wall. I opened it quickly and discovered a narrow staircase leading underground. The air below was freezing cold. At the bottom of the stairs stood a tiny hidden room filled with broken clocks. None of them moved. In the center of the room rested a single black clock larger than all the others. Its hands moved backward. On the wall behind it were hundreds of names scratched into the stone.
Victims, people who had entered the house and never escaped. Suddenly, the black clock stopped ticking. The entire house became silent. Then the front door upstairs slowly creaked open. I did not wait another second. I ran through the hallway, past the library, past the children’s room, past the burning fireplace, and finally out into the storm outside. The door slammed shut behind me with a deafening crash. Breathing heavily, I looked back one final time. The light in the upstairs window disappeared.
And the house became dark again.