Every evening at exactly 8:17 PM, the clock in the abandoned library of Eldridge Hollow would tick forward, but the hands would never move. The town had long forgotten the library, its windows clouded with dust, its shelves empty save for a few brittle books that crumbled at the touch. No one knew who built it, or why it stood so defiantly against time, but every resident of the town had heard the story. The one about the librarian who vanished without a trace on the same day the clock stopped. No one could remember when the clock had first stopped, but it was said to have happened during the winter of 1943. A young woman named Eleanor Voss, the last librarian, had been seen walking through the halls, humming a tune no one recognized. She had left her desk and never returned. Her belongings were untouched, her coat still hanging by the door, as if she had simply stepped out for a moment. The townspeople searched for her, but she was never found. The library was locked and left to rot, its secrets buried beneath layers of silence. For years, the legend of the library remained just that—a tale told around fires on cold nights. But then, strange things began to happen. A local boy named Thomas, curious and fearless, claimed he had seen a shadow moving inside the library after dark. He described it as tall and thin, with a long, flowing coat. When he tried to enter, the door wouldn’t open. It was as if something—or someone—was keeping it closed. More stories followed. A woman who swore she heard whispers from the upper shelves, even though the library was supposedly empty. A man who found his old high school yearbook in the basement, though he hadn’t set foot there in decades. The townspeople began to talk, but no one dared to go near the library again. It became a place of hushed conversations and uneasy glances. Then came the night the clock started ticking again. It was a stormy evening, the sky dark with clouds that seemed to swallow the moon whole. A group of teenagers, including Thomas, decided to investigate. They had heard the rumors, but they also wanted to prove them wrong. As they approached the library, the wind howled through the trees, carrying with it a sound like distant laughter. The door creaked open before they touched it, as if expecting them. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and something else—something metallic, like rust. The clock on the wall ticked, slowly at first, then faster, until it matched the rhythm of their heartbeats. The teenagers moved cautiously through the aisles, their flashlights casting long shadows on the walls. Then, they saw it. A figure standing in the center of the main hall, silhouetted by the flickering light of a single bulb overhead. It was tall, wearing a long, black coat that seemed to ripple like water. The teenager closest to it stumbled back, gasping. The figure turned, and for a brief moment, they saw a face—pale, hollow-eyed, and eerily familiar. Eleanor Voss. She didn’t speak, but she pointed to the clock. Its hands were spinning wildly, the numbers blurring into a dizzying pattern. The teenagers ran, not looking back, but as they reached the edge of the woods, they heard the clock stop again. And this time, it didn’t start. The next morning, the town awoke to find the library completely empty. All the books had vanished, the furniture gone, and the clock now lying on the floor, shattered. No one could explain what had happened. Some said it was a trick of the mind, others believed it was the work of something older than the town itself. But Thomas, the boy who had gone in, never spoke of what he saw. He sat by the window, staring out at the library, his eyes distant. He would occasionally whisper to himself, as if talking to someone only he could hear. The townspeople noticed, but they didn’t ask questions. Some even avoided him, as if afraid of what he might say. Years passed, and the library was finally torn down, its foundations buried beneath new development. But sometimes, on quiet evenings, people swear they can hear the sound of a clock ticking in the distance. A slow, deliberate rhythm, counting down to something they don’t understand. And in the silence between each tick, they feel a presence watching, waiting, remembering.