The air is pungent, and the smell of mildew and rotting wood fills the room. The door creaks closed slowly in warning, turn around while the option is still available. It is pitch-dark, and the only illumination comes from the milky white moon. The floorboards are soggy, sinking into the ground like quicksand with every step. It is silent, the faint tick of the clock hands is the only sound that can be heard. The clock is barely visible in the very far corner of the room, a dark shadow impersonating a ghastly figure. There is an obstacle course to get to it, furniture splayed all over, armchairs flipped over with stuffed intestines pooling onto the floor. Curtains cling on the windows for dear life, ripped and stained, what used to be an ivory white now resembles a murky lake color. 

Beer cans with jagged holes from teenagers shotgunning at parties lay on the leaning table. In some spots; the faint sound of music from previous parties can be heard, the heat of a hundred bodies dancing all over each other. Their spirits are left here creating a warm, almost comforting atmosphere. Let loose, they whisper. Grab a drink. The clock is glistening, an inviting smile to come forth. It has no visible damage, somehow still accurately telling the time. It sits telling its story, I have seen it all, heard it all, experienced it all, and I survived. Here I am still standing, it ticks confidently. 

The floorboards creak dangerously, enticingly, with each step towards the clock. The walls seem to get thinner, the air muggier and harder to breathe. Everything is closing in on this clock, it booms. TICK, TOCK, TICK, TOCK. Laughter, music, screams, wails, and conversations pool out of this clock. With every tick and tock, its story unfolds. The story of the house, and all of the rooms, are explained by this clock. It opens a portal to what used to be. Green LED bulbs in all the lamps, people leaning against the walls, passed out on the floor. The abandoned, forbidden house on the end of the street. Left to rot, ignored by passing strangers who live in luxurious suburban homes down the street. But LOVED by all the burnouts, the teenage kids looking for trouble, a home for the homeless. This clock prevails in representing all of the glory this house holds. It’s absorbed every bit of euphoria from the human beings who have entered. A part of them is always in this house, in that clock.