Marked by the Hour

I moved into the old farmhouse in late October, just before the clocks fell back. The days were short, the nights colder than they had any right to be, and everything creaked — the floors, the windows, even the shadows. The air inside smelled of old paper and extinguished candles. Dry and bitter, like something unfinished.

The house came cheap, and I knew why. Not haunted exactly, but unsettled. The kind of place with too much history and not enough insulation.

The real estate agent had said, “You’ll hear things. It’s an old house, that’s all.” She smiled like she was selling a lie she’d practiced.

I didn’t mind. I needed the isolation. A breakup, a job burnout, and the kind of burnout you don’t bounce back from with a single vacation had made solitude seem like salvation. I told myself I’d write again. Start over.

But starting over is rarely that clean.

The first night, I woke up at 3:17 AM. No sound. No movement. Just awake, like something had switched me on. The kind of alertness that stabs into your brain like a pin. My chest was tight. I chalked it up to the stress of moving. Too much caffeine. City noise withdrawal. The room was cold in a way that clung — not just temperature, but texture. The kind of cold that coats your teeth.

Second night — 3:17 AM. Eyes open. Pulse drumming. Still no sound. Still nothing out of place. But I started to get that feeling — the one where you know someone’s watching. Where silence isn't empty, just waiting.

I made a note of it in my journal.

Oct 31. 3:17 AM again. Can’t sleep. Something feels wrong. Like the house is breathing.

By the end of the first week, I’d stopped pretending I was there to write. I spent my days chopping wood I didn’t need, taking long walks I barely remembered, and obsessing over the nighttime.

I began recording sounds at night. Just to prove to myself there was nothing. I'd place my phone on the bedside table, hit record, and listen in the morning.

For five nights, nothing. A few clicks. A heater groan. Silence.

Until the sixth night.

I pressed play as I made coffee, half-tuned out — until I heard it. A faint scraping sound. Then a whisper. Soft. Too soft to make out, but undeniably there.

I leaned in, volume maxed. The voice came again, clearer this time.

“I can’t sleep.”

It wasn’t mine. The voice was higher, thinner, like a child’s or someone sick.

I checked the time stamp — 3:17 AM.

The coffee pot hissed behind me, but I didn’t move. The whisper had been too close, too intimate — like breath against the skin of my ear.

I searched the entire house. Every room, every crawlspace, every corner. Dust and spiderwebs and the occasional mouse dropping, but no signs of another person.

That night, I set up two phones. One in my bedroom, one at the far end of the hallway. Both recording.

I couldn’t sleep. Not just because I was freaked out. But because that voice had sounded lonely. Not malicious. Not ghostly, even. Just… tired. Sad.

3:17 came and went. I lay rigid in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

In the morning, I listened to the hallway recording first.

Nothing.

Then the bedroom one.

The same whisper. Just one sentence.

“It’s hungry.”

That night, I left every light on in the house. Put salt on the windowsills, because why not. Taped a cross to my headboard, even though I hadn’t been to church in years.

Still, I woke at 3:17. Not to a sound, but to a presence. Like the air itself had shifted.

I sat up. Listened.

Nothing.

Then, a creak from the hallway. Not the kind an old house makes randomly. This was measured. Like footsteps.

I grabbed the baseball bat I kept under the bed and crept to the door.

Opened it slowly.

Nothing. Just the hallway stretching out, the light bulb at the end flickering once, then steady.

I was about to turn back when I saw it.

A small bowl of milk. Sitting in front of the attic door.

I hadn’t put it there.

I crouched. The bowl was pale ceramic, blue-rimmed. Not chipped, not dusty — it caught the hallway light with a faint shine. The milk was fresh. No skin, no sourness. Still. Almost too still. When I picked it up, it made the faintest sound — a hush and shift of liquid against clay, startling in the silence.

The attic had been sealed shut since I arrived. Nailed, not just locked. I’d figured it was full of insulation or bats or rot.

But the bowl was fresh. Ceramic, blue-rimmed, not from any of my boxes.

Next to it was something worse — a drag mark. Something wet had been pulled toward the door.

Blood? Water? I couldn’t tell.

I knocked.

No answer.

I stood there for what felt like ten minutes before retreating to the kitchen. I didn’t sleep again.

The next day, I called the real estate agent. I didn’t mention the voice or the bowl or the dragging. Just said I had some questions.

She sounded tired. “Look, if you’re going to ask about the attic—”

“I am.”

“There’s nothing up there. We had it sealed. It’s safer that way.”

“Safer for who?”

Silence.

Then — “Just… leave it alone. If you want out of the lease, we can talk. But some places don’t forget. You understand?”

No. I didn’t.

But I hung up.

I bought a crowbar at the hardware store and opened the attic that night.

The nails screamed as I pulled them out, one by one.

When I pushed the door open, the smell hit me. Dust. Mold. And something older. Something sweet rotting into bitter. Like apples left too long on a windowsill.

The attic was empty, except for a low wooden box in the center.

I approached it slowly. Lifted the lid.

Inside — a small bed. A child's blanket. And bones. Tiny ones. Arranged neatly.

And next to them, a crumpled photo. A girl, maybe six, in a yellow dress, standing in front of the farmhouse.

On the back, someone had written —

“Sherisse. 1963. She wouldn’t eat.”

That night, I left a bowl of milk by the attic door.

Not because I believed. But because some part of me did.

3:17 came.

This time, I didn’t wake in bed. I was already up, sitting in the hallway, waiting.

The house held its breath. Even the heater didn’t hum. The bulb above me buzzed once, then went silent.

The door creaked open by itself.

And something came out.

Not a ghost. Not a monster.

A shape. Pale, flickering at the edges like bad film. No eyes. No mouth. Just presence.

It hovered near the bowl. The milk made no sound as it moved — but a ripple crossed the surface, slow and reluctant, as if disturbed by breath, not touch.

Then it turned toward me.

Spoke in that same high, whispery voice.

“I can’t sleep. It’s always hungry.”

I wanted to speak. To ask what it was.

But my voice caught.

The shape tilted its head, like it heard something behind me.

Then it was gone.

I haven’t left the house.

Not because I’m trapped.

But because I understand now.

There’s something under this house. Something old. Something that feeds not on blood or flesh, but on need. On the hollow spaces inside us.

And someone has to feed it.

If you don’t, it feeds anyway.

I don’t sleep at 3:17 anymore.

I leave the bowl.

Sometimes milk.

Sometimes something worse.

Last night, I recorded again.

The voice was louder this time.

Not a whisper.

Not a child.

“Thank you.”