The Thirteenth Strike

The clock in my basement does not measure time. It un-measures it, its heavy pendulum

swinging. It swings in a rhythmic, counter-clockwise defiance of physics.

I found it behind a wall. It was encased in dust that smelled like old

copper and dried blood. Every twelve minutes, it strikes thirteen, a low,

vibrating hum that rattles my very bones. If you are enjoying this mystery,

make sure to follow. Yesterday, the reflection changed. My reflection did

not just mirror me. It leaned closer, whispering forgotten secrets. Secrets about my

own childhood I had long forgotten. Now, the furniture is shifting.