I didn't believe in omens.
Or curses.
Or clocks that whispered.
Until the day I moved into the house at the end of Block 13.
It was raining when I arrived. Not a soft drizzle, not a romantic mist—just rain like the sky wanted to drown the city. The street was long, the buildings pressed together like teeth, and every step toward that final house felt like walking into a throat that didn't want to swallow.
Block 13 was narrow, one of those forgotten streets at the fringe of the city map, like a smudge the cartographer chose not to erase. Most houses were crumbling, some abandoned. But the last one—House 13-7—looked newer than it had any right to be. Too new, too clean, like a fake set in a real neighborhood.
The landlord didn't meet me in person. The key was left under a black flowerpot, just as the email had said. A single note was taped to the door:
"Don't forget to cover the clock."
There was no clock in sight.
I stood there for a full minute, shivering, water pooling around my shoes. Then I entered.
---
The house smelled… clean. That surprised me. Clean, with something underneath. Not rot. Not mold. More like silence—if silence had a scent.
One-bedroom, one bath, tiny kitchen. All furnished, all too sterile. No dust, no fingerprints. Even the windows looked like they'd been polished that morning.
There were curtains on all the windows but no clocks on the walls. I walked around three times before I found it.
It was in the living room. A wall-mounted antique clock, pendulum style, the kind you see in movies about haunted grandmothers. It didn't tick. The second hand didn't move. The pendulum hung limp. It was as still as death.
But the hands pointed to 13:13.
I frowned. "There's no such thing as thirteen thirteen," I muttered.
The moment I said it, the clock ticked.
Just once.
I jumped. Silence followed. No second tick. The hands hadn't moved.
I grabbed an old towel from my bag and tossed it over the clock. As the note said.
I laughed, weakly, trying to break the tension.
It didn't work.
---
That night, I dreamed of footsteps.
Not mine.
Not inside the house.
Outside. Soft. Careful. Like someone tiptoeing past every window.
I sat up at 2:37 a.m., heart hammering. The clock was covered. I hadn't removed the towel.
But when I stood, I felt something cold under my foot.
A puddle.
Rainwater, I thought. Had to be.
Until I looked down.
There was no leak. The ceiling was fine. Windows shut. But a perfect circle of water shimmered on the floor beneath the clock.
I didn't sleep again.
---
Classes started two days later.
I was majoring in literature at the local university. New city, new apartment, new everything. The orientation was a blur of names I didn't remember and faces I didn't trust. People asked where I lived.
When I said "Block 13," the mood shifted.
"Seriously?" a girl asked, her eyes widening. "Like... the end of Block 13?"
I nodded. "House 13-7."
She blinked twice. Didn't say another word. Neither did anyone else.
That night, I Googled the address.
Nothing.
No crime. No deaths. No stories.
But under a forgotten Reddit thread titled "Weird Stuff in [CITY NAME REDACTED]", someone had posted two years ago:
"Anyone else ever see the guy who watches from the 13-7 window? My friend says the house is empty. But I swear I saw him. Twice. He looks like you. Exactly like you."
The post had zero replies.
I shut my laptop and stared at the covered clock.
The hands were pressing against the towel.
---
I tried to be normal.
I went to class. I joined study groups. I answered texts from my mother, telling her everything was fine. I didn't mention the puddles. Or the dreams.
Or the voice.
It started on the seventh night.
At exactly 13:13—one thirteen in the afternoon—I was eating instant noodles in front of the tiny TV when the towel fell.
Just fell.
I froze. My breath caught. The clock's hands were back to 13:13, unmoving. But this time, I heard it.
Whispers.
Too faint to understand. Too soft to follow. But definitely from the clock.
I covered it again.
The whispers stopped.
But now I was afraid to leave the house at that time.
Afraid to see what would happen if I didn't cover it.
---
Two weeks passed.
And then came the reflection.
I was brushing my teeth. The bathroom mirror fogged slightly, though I hadn't used hot water. I wiped it.
And I saw myself.
But not just myself.
In the reflection, behind me, was a man.
He looked like me. Same hair. Same jawline. Same scar on the chin from when I was seven.
But his eyes were hollow.
And his hands—
—were covered in blood.
I turned. No one was there.
I ran into the living room, pulled the towel from the clock.
13:13.
Tick.
Just one.
I covered it again, shaking.
---
I stopped attending classes.
I stopped replying to anyone.
The only person I messaged was the landlord. I demanded answers.
His reply came after four hours:
"Do not speak to the reflection. It is not you. Cover the clock. Never watch yourself at 13:13."
I threw my phone across the room.
That night, I didn't sleep.
I sat on the floor, back against the fridge, staring at the towel-covered clock, counting every second in my head. 3600 seconds in an hour. 780 seconds until 13:13.
When it came, the air changed.
Thickened.
Time stopped.
And I heard footsteps inside the house.
---
The door didn't open. But someone entered.
He walked past the kitchen. Through the hallway.
Into the bathroom.
I stood, heart exploding in my chest.
I reached for a knife.
But all I saw in the hallway mirror…
…was myself.
Covered in blood. Grinning.
Holding the knife I was now gripping.
---
When the moment passed, I was alone again.
The puddles were back.
So was the whisper.
This time, it said a name.
Mine.
Not once.
Thirteen times.
---
I tried to leave.
I packed my bag, ran outside, made it halfway down the block—before I saw it.
Myself.
Walking toward me from the other end of the street.
Same face.
Same clothes.
But smiling.
Like he knew something I didn't.
I ran back inside.
Locked the door.
And screamed when I saw my reflection waiting for me.
Inside the living room mirror.
---
I haven't left the house in three days.
I don't think I can.
The whispers are louder. The towel doesn't stay on.
The clock ticks more than once now.
The mirror reflections linger longer.
I don't know what it wants.
Or what I want anymore.
But tomorrow, at 13:13…
…I think I'm going to ask.