Life in the digital age means a constant influx of apps, each vying for our attention. So, when I noticed a new app, named “Twelve” on my phone one dreary morning, my initial thought was a forgotten download from a sleep-deprived night. The app’s icon was unassuming: a black clock, its hands eternally pointing to midnight.
Tapping it out of sheer curiosity, I was met with an abyss of blackness. A single, chilling line of text surfaced: “You are now bound. Await the twelfth hour.” I tried laughing it off, dismissing it as a silly game or perhaps the result of a friend’s prank. But the app defied deletion, resisting all attempts.
The true oddity began that night. At the stroke of midnight, my phone vibrated with an intensity I’d never felt before. The app had a message for me: “Look behind you.” Hesitantly, I did, and my TV—previously off—sprang to life. It played grainy, distorted images: my childhood home, my first school, places I hadn’t thought about in years.
Every subsequent night brought a new instruction. Some were innocuous, like “Whisper your favorite memory.” Others were unsettling: “Sing your deepest secret out loud.” When I refused, every device in my home blared my confessions on repeat until, in sheer desperation, I relented.
As days turned into nights and nights back into days, a pattern emerged. With every passing command, the tasks grew more menacing.
“Place a candle by your window and do not sleep.” Doing as instructed, I spent the night watching figures cloaked in darkness gather outside my window. They never entered, never moved closer. They just stood, their attention unwaveringly fixed on the candle’s flame.
However, one message made my blood run cold: “Do not turn around, no matter what you hear.” The night that followed was torturous. Soft, mournful whispers encircled me, voices from my past urging, pleading, demanding that I look. But fear kept me anchored, my gaze forward.
The climax of my torment was a message I hadn’t expected: “Say goodbye.” Panic took over. I barricaded myself in my bedroom. The night was an endless cacophony of knocks and voices. Each voice was unmistakably familiar: my long-deceased grandmother, a childhood friend I hadn’t spoken to in decades, even my mother from just across the hall. They beckoned, cajoled, and sometimes angrily demanded I open the door. But dawn came, and the noise ceased.
The next morning, as I looked at my reflection, a horrifying realization dawned. I was younger. Not by a lot, but noticeably. The app’s once static clock icon now moved, but counter-clockwise. As days turned into nights, my reflection revealed a steadily regressing version of me. My recent memories began to fade, replaced by recollections of my younger years.
Now, the app’s twisted commands dictate my life. They bind me to a cycle of terror, anticipation, and relentless regression. Desperate to break free, I’ve sought help, but to no avail. Everyone perceives me as the age I appear, with no recollection of the years I’ve lived.
With every midnight that the clock approaches, I inch closer to my birth. And as I pen this, I can’t help but wonder: when the clock reaches the moment of my birth, will I simply cease to exist or will I be trapped in a loop of horrors I’ve already endured?