Chapter 2 – The Watcher's Clock
Julian woke to a muffled thud, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. His eyes snapped open, the remnants of a dream clinging to him like cobwebs. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. The dim light of early morning filtered through his blinds, casting long shadows across his cluttered desk.
3:07 a.m.
The pocket watch sat in front of him, still, like a cold heart on his desk. His hand hovered over it, fingers trembling just slightly as he picked it up. The weight of it felt different now. He glanced at the time, then at the cracked glass. His reflection—distorted, fractured—was staring back at him. The briefest moment of panic gripped him. It wasn't just the clock.
A knock at the door startled him, and he almost dropped the watch.
"Julian?" It was Imogen's voice, muffled, but unmistakable. "You up?"
He quickly shoved the watch into his drawer and stood, brushing himself off as though he could shake off the last remnants of his unease. "Yeah, I'm up," he called back, trying to sound casual. "Come in."
The door creaked open. Imogen stepped inside, her expression tense. She was wearing the same jacket from yesterday, but her eyes were wide—alert.
"You were right about Darren," she said quietly, her voice low, as though she were afraid someone might overhear. "I went to his room this morning. It was empty. But there's more. The door was locked from the inside, but the window was open. I found something strange. Some kind of… residue." She paused, clearly wrestling with the words. "It's not something I've ever seen before."
Julian felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine. He could see it now, the way her eyes darted, like she wasn't sure what she was dealing with. That unease from earlier—that shadow at the edge of his vision—flared again, and the room seemed to thrum with the hum of something just beyond reach.
"What kind of residue?" he asked, though he didn't want to know.
Imogen reached into her jacket and pulled out a small vial. Inside, a strange dark liquid swirled, glowing faintly under the weak light.
Julian recoiled, his breath catching in his throat. "What is that?"
"I don't know," Imogen admitted. "But it felt… wrong. Like it didn't belong to this world."
Julian's pulse quickened. That same creeping sensation slithered under his skin. The Veil. He couldn't explain why, but the thought felt right, even though it didn't make sense. His mind was spinning again, flashing back to the clock's backward tick, the voice in the mirror.
"Where did you find this?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"On the floor next to Darren's bed," Imogen said. "But… that's not all." She leaned in, lowering her voice. "The mirror in his room. It wasn't right. The reflection—it looked like it was moving. It wasn't his."
Julian stiffened. Not his. His mind briefly flashed to the window, the reflection of himself that had been too perfect, too wrong. A chill settled in the pit of his stomach.
"Imogen, I need to see it," he said, grabbing his jacket.
She raised an eyebrow. "You sure you want to go down this rabbit hole?"
"I'm already in it," he replied quietly. "I just don't know how deep it goes."
The walk to Darren's dorm felt like a blur, the world around them too quiet. The air was thick with an electric tension, as though something was waiting to snap. Julian tried to push the unease out of his head, but it kept coming back, like an itch that wouldn't stop.
When they reached the dorm, Julian's eyes immediately locked onto the window of Darren's room, the one Imogen had mentioned. The curtains were drawn, but there was something about it—something off. He stepped closer, heart thudding in his chest.
"Should we—" Imogen started, but Julian was already reaching for the door.
He didn't wait for her to finish. The door opened with a soft click, and the familiar smell of stale air and dust hit him. Imogen followed closely, glancing around nervously.
The room was exactly as she'd described it: locked from the inside, the window cracked open just enough for the chill air to filter through. There was no sign of Darren, no note, no message. Just emptiness.
Julian's gaze landed on the mirror hanging on the far wall. His breath hitched. It was a simple, old mirror—nothing special—but as his eyes met its surface, the world seemed to ripple. The reflection was distorted, the edges warping unnaturally. For a split second, it looked like the mirror was breathing.
"Julian?" Imogen's voice pulled him out of his stupor.
He tore his eyes away from the glass, heart racing. "We need to check the edges," he muttered, moving toward the mirror.
He ran his fingers along the frame, his breath shallow. The surface felt wrong. Not cold, not smooth—there was an odd resistance, as though something was pushing back.
And then, as if on cue, a soft click. The mirror shifted, almost imperceptibly, revealing a faint carving in the wood. Julian leaned in, inspecting it closely. His stomach dropped.
It was the same symbol—the same mark he'd seen on the pocket watch. A fractured line, twisting and curling like an anchor.
He turned to Imogen. "We're not alone here."
A soft sound came from the corner of the room—a faint scraping noise, like nails against wood. Julian froze.
"Did you hear that?" he whispered.
Imogen nodded, her face pale. "What is it "
"I don't know yet," Julian said, his voice grim. "But I'm getting a feeling we're about to find out."
The scraping continued.