Three O'clock

We watch your universe implode every night at the same time.

At three o'clock.

It's always three o'clock.

Your phone will vibrate. That's how this all begins. With one simple, little movement. But one that sends echoes. When it vibrates, it shakes the entirety of your nightstand. Right through its core. Into the floorboards below. For a moment, you'll think that the world itself is slowing down to a grinding halt. And that every living creature on its surface will be cast off into a cold and uncaring universe.

You'll think that you're slipping away.

And maybe you are.

Because this is when the first miscommunication happens. Between your body and your mind.

Your mind will want your body to press against your bed. To hold onto the sheets for dear life. But your body won't listen. It'll jerk you out of sleep instead. Sit you up. Let you hold onto nothing.

The sheets will wrap around your legs. Your mind will plead to hold on. To just hold on--but your arm will reach for the nightstand. Your eyes will stare at the message sent to your phone.

Maybe this is fate. Maybe it's all a force of habit. Or maybe we've just whispered to you one too many times. But there's never a night where you don't reach for your phone.

There's never a night where you don't disappoint us.

In any event, the message is always the same.

[Don't answer the door.]

And then they come. The knocks. Three of them, on your front door. Three very polite and very patient knocks.

Knock knock knock.

Darkness. The light from your phone will cut off, and you'll be surrounded by darkness again. Sweat will form along the backs of your knees. Your legs will try to kick off the sheets, but they'll cling to you. Suffocating you. Or perhaps, holding you back. They'll become a tangled mess when you finally kick them off.

You'll sit on the side of your bed. You'll listen. There'll be the sound of your staggered breathing. Maybe you're just hearing things? We'll assure you. You're not.

Knock knock knock.

A white light will wash over the room again. The second message is always just one word.

[Don't.]

You'll text back, of course. Asking us who we are and what we want and who's at the door and why we're doing this. But we won't respond. The only answer you'll get from us is your own hollowed face, reflected by an eventually dark and uncaring screen.

Minutes will pass. Or maybe they're hours. Days, even. Who knows? Time is rarely considerate to those who are alone and afraid in unlit rooms. Your brain will try to tell you to go back to bed. But once again, your body won't listen.

Step by step, your legs will pull you out of the bedroom. Step by step--they'll push you through the hallway, into the living room. The floorboards will creak beneath your feet, each one screaming stop. Step by step. You'll walk to the front door. Step by step. You won't want to do any of this. Slivers of moonlight will slice through the open windows blinds. They'll cut you open. Expose you.

You'll think that you hear your footsteps being echoed in the shadows of your house. And you'll pretend not to hear our muffled fits of laughter. Step by step.

You really won't want to do any of this.

Knock knock knock.

And then we'll whisper, "Please let us in."

This is the fun part. The part where your body fails you. And where your mind fairs no better. You'll think all those delicious thoughts of yours. You'll think of calling out. Yelling. Shouting. Screaming every single profanity

you know. But what if the knocking would become less polite? Less patient? No. You should run away, you'll think. Run back to bed and throw the covers over your head and remember what your mind said--that this is all a dream. But you'll know the truth. You'll never be able to sleep. Or worse. You'll never wake up. Maybe morning won't come. Not unless you address this right now. Maybe all you'll have to do is creep over to the door and look through the peephole. But what will you see? And more importantly, what may see you? You'll think of calling for help. But who would believe you?

There's only you, you'll realize.

You'll think of screaming.

But what if.

Time is rarely considerate to those who are alone and afraid in unlit rooms. How long will you stand there frozen? Minutes? Hours? Days? Frantic thoughts will use up all the oxygen in your brain until they're left gasping for air. They'll suffocate. Struggle to live. Weaken.

They'll be vulnerable.

And then, from the shadows, we'll feast.

We'll feast on your dying thoughts. On your unused motions. We'll dine on your paralysis. On your fears and terrors. It'll be a delicacy of uncertainty. Of hesitancy. Until all you'll be left with is your staggered breathing, the knocking on the door, and an emptiness that amplifies your beating heart.

And we'll dance with its rhythm. We'll leave you hollow--alone and afraid, in an unlit room. This is how we live. Day will come, of course--too soon for our liking. But fear not. Before you'll know it, it will be three o'clock again. It's always three o'clock. And there will be a sound, like the earth itself grinding to a halt. David Novak