Mia loved the clock her grandmother gave her. It was a small, delicate thing with silver hands and a melodic chime. "It's special," her grandmother had said. "It always tells the truth." At first, Mia didn't understand what that meant. But one night, as she studied in her room, the clock struck midnight—and she heard the chime say, "Someone is at the door." Confused, she looked outside. The street was empty. She shrugged it off as her imagination. The next night, the clock chimed again, this time at 10:00 p.m. It whispered, "Don't open it." Mia's heart raced. Moments later, her doorbell rang. She peered through the peephole and saw nothing but darkness. The bell rang again, harder, more insistent. She backed away, the clock's warning echoing in her mind. By the third night, she was too scared to sleep. At 3:00 a.m., the clock didn't chime; instead, its hands began spinning wildly. The air grew cold, and Mia's breath fogged in the dim light. Then, the clock spoke one final time: "It's already inside." Mia turned slowly, her stomach sinking. Behind her, a shadow rose from the corner, stretching impossibly tall. The last sound she heard was the soft ticking of the clock, counting down.