The 3 o'clock hour
The 3 o’clock hour
The silence was deafening as Mason sat alone in his bedroom. Sitting in a tattered wingback chair placed in the far corner of the room. As always, he silently waited, though the lack of sleep began to take its toll, he dares not close his eyes now. Mason Hemmer had always been an outgoing person, full of life. However, six months ago he purchased an old Victorian era home built in 1798 just north of Boston. The house had been on the listings for years, and the price was just too good to pass up. But, the home was so big, and being a bachelor he thought it would be a great idea to turn the old house into a bed & breakfast. Two weeks after the renovations had started, Mason began experiencing strange occurrences in the house.
As the days went on, the events in the house became more prevalent. However, the prior occurrences paled in comparison to the night of August 26th. It was almost 3:00 am when Mason fell asleep on the couch in the den. Other than himself, the house was completely empty and quiet, and as he lay there resting quietly, the temperature in the room began to drop drastically. Feeling the chill, Mason woke from his sleep. The cold was so prevalent in the room, he could see his own breath. He sat up on the couch wondering why it was so cold, he knew it was at least 65 degrees outside, where was the cold coming from. Then, it sounded as if someone was walking down the hallway toward the den. Mason got up from the couch and ran over to lock the door, thinking it was an intruder. As the footsteps moved closer to the door, Mason backed away and began looking for something he could use as a weapon, and then he grabbed the fireplace poker.
With poker in hand, he was ready, that’s when he heard the footsteps stop right in front of the door. The pounding of his heart was echoing in his ears, but he stood firm and waited for something to happen. As he stared at the door intently, the wood in the center of the door began to move, he rubbed his eyes thinking he was hallucinating. He looked at the door once again, and every fiber in his body was chilled to the bone with fear. It looked as if a face was trying to push its way through the wood as if the door was made of thin rubber. Mason closed his eyes as tightly as he could.
“This can’t be happening, I must be dreaming!” he said.
He opened his eyes hoping it was gone, but it was still there, and Mason’s blood run cold as it began to call out to him in a deep foreboding voice.
“Mason, Mason!” Three chimes from the grandfather clock that stood in the den, Mason knew the 3:00 am hour had come. With his voice ragged with fear, he screamed at the entity to leave. Gripping the poker in his right hand, he backed up all the way to the far wall of the room. Then, he began to see hands trying to push through the door, Mason couldn’t take it any longer, and in desperation, he threw the fireplace poker at the entity. As it hit the door, the images pulled back as if they were never there. Thinking it was over, he took a long deep breath and wiped the sweat from his face. However, he knew it wasn’t over when the screams came, deafening screams echoing throughout the house, reverberating as if they were coming straight out of a tomb. As the screams continued, the entire house began to shake violently. The shaking was so intense, things began to fall off shelves, and pictures were falling off the walls. With his hands pressed tightly against his ears trying to shut out the screams, he slowly slid down the wall and sat on the floor, hunkered down. The shaking, and the screams seemed like they were never going to stop when suddenly the entire house went silent.
Mason slowly pulled his hands away from his ears, teary eyed and shaking, he got to his feet and looked around the room, wondering what had just happened. But then, he heard the chimes, it was 4:00 am. He couldn’t believe that this hell had went on for an entire hour. From that night on, Mason sat and waited for the 3:00 o’clock hour every single night. Unable to let go of the house as if it were hanging on to him, he endured the hell that always came at the 3:00 o’clock hour.
V.M. Tackett
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