Tick, tick, tick

"Toot toot toot toot toot..."

Alex turned off the alarm, the time showing seven in the morning. He got up and walked to the window, pulling back the curtains as the morning light streamed into the room, dispelling some of the gloom of the dream.

He entered the small bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face, the icy shock jolting him awake. "Just a dream... but why so strange?"

After washing up, he changed into a dark gray sweater, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and prepared to leave. Today he had a course in Occult Studies – "Rituals and Taboos", an elective he had been looking forward to, taught by a professor Edward Gray. He locked the door and headed towards the academic building.

The class was on the third floor of the Philosophy Hall. The room wasn't large, wooden desks were arranged haphazardly, and faded diagrams of occult symbols hung on the walls. Alex sat in the back, opened his notebook, and began taking notes. Professor Edward Gray was a gaunt middle-aged man with thinning gray hair and a slow, deep voice. He lectured, "Rituals are the bridges between humanity and the unknown, but taboos are often used to protect humanity... Some things, once touched, cannot be undone."Alex wrote down "Taboos," but his mind flashed back to the dream of the night before. He wondered if that photo counted as one of the taboo existences from occult studies.

The professor continued, speaking of forbidden items in ancient rituals, such as "mirrors that must not be gazed into at night" and "stone tablets that must not be touched", as well as taboos in ancient tribes. He looked up, his gaze falling on the window, the shadow of the Philosophy Hall reflecting on the glass, reminding him of the tapping he'd read about in that thread.

The class continued until dusk, the setting sun streaming into the classroom, painting the wooden desks red. Alex gathered his notes and left the Philosophy Hall, the ticking sound still echoing in his mind. He walked back to his dorm, his footsteps resounding on the cobblestone path, a faint, strange odor lingering in the air.

Back in his dorm, Alex pushed open the door. The room was dim, the desk lamp still on. "Didn't I turn it off?" He approached the desk, put down his backpack, and his gaze fell on the drawer. The lock was intact, but the edge of the drawer seemed to protrude a little more than it had last night, as if something was pushing against it. He frowned, sensing something was wrong.

He remembered these stuffs he had locked in the drawer last night, and a sense of unease washed over him. "Things from the Other Side?" He pulled a hammer from his backpack and gently turned the key. The lock clicked open. He took a deep breath, steeling himself: "Whatever comes out, I'll smash it..." He slowly pulled open the drawer, hammer raised, ready to strike.

The drawer slid open, but there was no monster lunging out as he had expected. He looked down, his brow furrowed – several runes-tones were gone, leaving only a pile of gray-red powder, like crushed remnants. The Polaroid photo was still blank, lying at the bottom of the drawer, its edges yellowed. But the watch – its corroded case was trembling slightly, and its hands had begun to move slowly, the ticking of the second hand clearly audible.

Alex put down the hammer, picked up the watch, the hands on the dial pointing to six forty-seven, synchronised with the time on his phone. "It was stopped last night..." hHe turned the watch over, the inscription "To J, 1963" still blurred, but the ticking was growing louder, as if echoing in his ear.

Alex took the powder from the drawer, wrapped it in a paper towel, then put the photo and watch back in, preparing to lock it again. But just then, a low voice came from deep within the drawer: "Hey, kid."

He froze, unable to help asking, "Who's there?" He stared at the drawer, the voice clear and hoarse, as if coming from inside the watch. "Where are you?" He squatted down, leaning closer to the drawer, but the voice was silent, only the ticking of the second hand echoed. "A hallucination?" But the voice was too real, as if someone was speaking in his ear.

He stared at the watch, tentatively asking, "You?" He picked up the watch, the second hand still ticking, looking as ordinary as any antique watch. "Or the photo?" He looked at the blank Polaroid, a strange feeling arising in his heart – the whispering in the dream, the changes in the drawer, it all seemed to be hinting at something.