Every evening at precisely 10:07 PM, the old clock in the abandoned library of Elmsworth Hollow would chime. No one had heard it for decades, not since the last librarian, a reclusive woman named Eleanor Voss, vanished without a trace. The town had long forgotten about the library, its crumbling stone walls overgrown with ivy and its windows cracked from years of neglect. But every night, the clock struck, as if someone—something—was still watching. The first time it happened was on a rainy Thursday in October. A young college student named Clara, researching local folklore for her thesis, had wandered into the library out of curiosity. She found the front door slightly ajar, as if someone had left it open just moments before. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of aged paper. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. She wandered through the rows of books, their spines cracked and faded. In the far corner, she noticed a small wooden table covered in a thin layer of dust. On it sat a single book, its cover worn and unmarked. As she reached out to touch it, the clock chimed. The sound echoed through the empty hall like a ghostly whisper. She froze, heart pounding, but no one else was there. Just the sound, and the feeling that something had just stirred in the shadows. Clara opened the book. Its pages were filled with handwritten notes, some in elegant script, others in frantic, jagged strokes. The entries spoke of a secret society that once met in the library, a group of scholars who dabbled in the unknown. One entry caught her eye: "On the seventh day of the seventh month, the veil thins. We must be ready." The date was written in the margin, and when she checked the calendar, it was the next day. That night, Clara returned, determined to uncover more. The clock struck again at 10:07, and this time, the room felt colder. She noticed that the dust on the table had been disturbed, as though something had moved across it. She flipped through the book and found a new entry, written in the same hand: "They are waiting." As the days passed, the events became more frequent. The clock rang at 10:07 every night, and each time, the library seemed to shift slightly. Books rearranged themselves, the temperature dropped, and the scent of lavender filled the air. Clara began to see things—shadows moving where there should be none, whispers in languages she didn’t understand, and once, a flicker of a figure standing in the doorway. One night, she found a map hidden inside the book. It showed the layout of the library, but with an additional wing that hadn’t been there before. The map was dated 1923, the year Eleanor Voss disappeared. As she traced the lines, she realized the hidden wing led to a sealed room. The final note in the book read: "Beware the seventh hour. The past is never truly gone." Curiosity overpowered fear. She spent the next few nights trying to find the entrance, following the map’s directions. Finally, she discovered a narrow passage behind a bookshelf, concealed by a heavy curtain. Inside, the air was damp and cold, and the walls were lined with strange symbols. At the center of the room stood a pedestal, upon which rested a mirror. It was not a normal mirror. When Clara looked into it, she saw not her reflection, but a different version of herself—older, wearing clothes from another time. The mirror whispered her name, and when she stepped closer, the image shifted. She saw Eleanor Voss standing beside her, holding the same book. Then, the mirror cracked down the middle, and the room went dark. The next morning, the library was empty. All the books had vanished, and the clock had stopped at 10:06. Clara was found outside, trembling, muttering about "the ones who wait." She refused to speak of what she saw, and soon after, she disappeared too. To this day, the clock still rings at 10:07, and those who enter the library report the same eerie sensations. Some say they hear a woman's voice calling their names. Others claim they feel watched, even when alone. The town has tried to close the library, but the doors always reopen, as if something—someone—has taken possession of it. And every night, at exactly 10:07, the clock strikes again.