The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 103 : The Thirteen Hour Clock // Charlotte’s Web

Episode Date: November 24, 2025

Lot 103 : The Thirteen Hour Clock // Charlotte’s WebI Own A Magic Clock That Gives Me Two Extra Hours A DayConsigned by: Domenic Eagle Starring Mike ThomsApril ConsaloTrevor ShandMark Lapointe https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14g2fsr/i_own_a_magic_clock_that_gives_me_2_extra_hours/ Charlotte’s Web Narrated by Gwyneth Glover Featuring Stephen Knowles as The Antique Dealer Theme music by The Newton Brothers Additional music byCO.AG ([e-mail]) Clement Panchout Vivek Abhishek SUBSCRIBE to them on YOUTUBE: / vivekhsihba  LIKE them on FACEBOOK:  https://rb.gy/nhgn0iFollow them on Spotify/ iTunes/ Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/rxdcjqt Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Q equals age. Welcome. Mind the step. Oh, you've brought the weather in with you. Come warm your hands. You're just in time for a little more time than the law allows. This is lot number 103. We call it the 13 hour clock.

Keep your fingers off the hand, please. It does keep its own counsel. It arrived to us in a plain parcel from a catalog house, the sort that sells flat-packed dreams and little Alan Keys. Arkansasiner said it never kept less than time, only... Before we begin, I want to point out some of the customers whose names have been etched in brass on this beautiful plaque I had made above the front desk.

These are some of the members of the inner circle of the antiquarium. We go by The Obsidian Covenant Recent initiates include Carrie Jesse Ballesteros Allison Hamby Hirschman

Galen Amy Jameson Foxluck Angela Johnson and Chase White We are ever appreciative of your devotion to

The Order Go to the obsidian covenant.com to receive the sacrament. Sounds harmless enough, right? Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on. When I first opened the package, I felt bamboozled. I found something completely unlike the product I'd seen in the IKEA store.

A clock with the number 13 unwillingly wedged between 12 and 1. As I would soon learn, it was exactly as intended. The amusement of my girlfriend. Later, we found herself slumped on the sofa, binge-watching episodes of the office way past midnight. Every few minutes, I glanced at the IKEA clock and chuckled to myself. I was bemused at the 13 numbers, crammed uneasily and unevenly around the outer perimeter. Silly sardines in a tin can.

There was nothing silly about what happened when the clock struck 13. and the lights of my house followed suit, as to the lights of every house outside my window in rapid secession. I sprinted from room to room in a frenzy calling for Raya, but there was no answer. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, I ran into the street. My neighborhood had been plunged into darkness, and it was no isolated event. Even as I headed farther into the town, I found no signs of life. Not a light, not a car on the road, not a soul.

I started to scream maniacally, succumbing to the terrifying concept of being perpetually alone in an icy, lifeless version of Earth. I truly thought the world had ended. Just as suddenly it stopped. Everything sprang back to life. I'd returned home at that point, and I was sitting on the sofa, had my hands. The light suddenly returned. So did the office. And so, most reassuringly of all, did Raya.

A horrifying hour in an apocalyptic world. Suddenly made sense. I met Frozen. What's up with you? Is Michael Scott making you cry? Oh. Critically searched for an explanation, overwhelmed with relief at my girlfriend's sudden reappearance.

I just an isolated incident, but no such luck. D-World. The analog office clock froze on the number one. IKEA clock would be ticking past 13. The only thing other than me, with motion in that dimension, with my thoughts in that husk of an office, I hide the deserted city from a high-rise window. And that was when I recalled my conversation with Raya the day before.

I love the clock, but on a serious note, you've asked for a replacement, right? Why? I've always wanted extra hours in the day. Extra hours in the day. I sparked something in my mind. I remembered the employee I'd met in IKEA on my lunch break a few weeks prior Jacob

How does your delivery service work? Ah, no room in the car for everything you want, sir? It's not that. No time. You know what? I used to be like you. I always hated that phrase. Making time.

What an impossibility. A suggestion often spouted by people with fewer responsibilities. As I stared at an inexplicably lifeless city from my office window and caged in that pause moment for an hour, everything came together. The mysterious man had done this to me. He'd deliberately give me the clock. That's always the case, right? It's always the unnerving shopkeeper. And yet, I still decided to use the clock to my advantage.

I'm greedy. The soundless, motionless world I had her during those two ex-exemptive. Extra daily hours never ceased to horrify me, but I saw that fear as a price for such an amazing gift. A gift that afforded me time to finish work, exercise, read, and so on. The true price became terribly clear after two years of enjoying the fruits of my labors. The list of life improvements seemed endless. I'd been promoted to vice president of the company at which I worked. I was in the best physical health of my life.

I was always well-rested, in which I had so much more time for my wife, Rea. I think was very wrong. Something foggy in my mind. A terrifying truth that incessantly alluded me. Even with an additional two hours per day, the strain of parenthood was immense. I would get as much work done as possible at 13 o'clock, so as to carry more of the parenting burden, but it didn't seem to be enough. Raya was tired More than that

She was graying I'm only 32 She groaned Craddling a silver strand of hair in her hands Distinguished Still so beautiful Being a mother is killing me Think much of it at the time

I gained my first gray hairs in my late 20s So I thought Ray had to be lucky in this She'd only just noticed her first one Obviously I didn't voice that thought aloud but still as the weeks went by there was a growing fogginess in my mind an ever-thickening cloud

it was more than tiredness from the pressures of fatherhood I was blind to something and that scared me I think the clock itself was disjointing my mind everything became all too clear after a hospital appointment about Bobby is three months old right

ran nodded to rubbing the bags beneath her eyes yep He's just so... Big. Why is he growing so fast, Dr. Hill? The doctor was just as bewildered as us, and that filled me with a haunting feeling. Something I'd been overlooking for weeks on end.

Raya, with aging far too quick, terror consumed me all at once in a roaring, relentless wave of emotion. Finally noticed my wife's wrinkles her numerous strands of gray hair. She'd aged about 20 years. Three-month-old Bobby? He looked like a full-grown toddler. Was the clock stealing time from them?

Well, we initially thought it could be progeria, but the test came back negative. So truthfully, we have absolutely no idea why Bobby is aging so rapidly. In your case, Ray, I'd say stress has affected your body. Ray and I decided it was time to move away from the city, so I bought a beautiful cottage in the country. I plan to work remotely.

as did she? Most importantly, on the day we left, I destroyed the IKEA clock. And yet, on the drive to our new home in the country, time still froze at what would have been 13 o'clock. Ah, listen, do you hear that extra beat? I'd wager the clock is about to make room for one more hour than promised. We'll wind it just once and see what comes loose. Give a message.

You just opened me the eyes. Is it what? And they're watching me still. The eyes. There's more of them out there. Good. You're still with me. Now, our tale resumes the moment the hand touched 13. The room went dim.

The street fell silent. And the world made a space where nothing should be. Shall we? And yet, on the drive to our new home in the country, Time still froze at what would have been 13 o'clock. My wife and baby vanished from the car, and the vehicle immediately halted. Every other car on the road froze too, littering the tarmac with ghostly hulks of metal. I found myself sitting there, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel in disbelief and fear,

as I surveyed the empty world which had been haunting me for over two years. Except it wasn't empty. At the edge of the tree line, beside the road, the shape moved. It looked like a stick insect on hind legs, frightfully thin, blending in with the oak trees which partially shrouded it from view. Then the creature scuttled into the road, spindling towards our car at a rapid pace. I screamed, opening the door and fleeing from the impossibly fast creature. Leaving between abandoned cars, I took a risky glance over my shoulder, screeching at the nightmarish creature with wobbly leaves. I had no hope of escaping. I thought about circling

back to the car and taking my chance by hiding out in there. But then I felt a sharp blade pierced my upper back to the gravel and spun around to hide the faceless monstrosity which hovered above me. There's punishment that I understood everything when I gazed upon the that it was time itself. And there's nothing more frightening than reckoning with a force far greater than you could ever hope to be fuse you in two years escaping time. Goulded me for escaping life. The words from the being to convey this fact, it had come from me because I had destroyed that clock.

I also understood that a stick-like form was an illusion. A physical image conjured to prevent my mind from imploding. It's not an impossibility, but drab circular parcel on my chest, and I gulped in terror knowing exactly what I would find inside. An insect disappeared down the road. I prepared to lumber back to the car. but something horrifyingly unexpected happened. A punishment for shirking time's gift to me, perhaps.

I didn't get the whole hour. In an instant, every car on the road surged in a motion. I ducked and threw my hands over my head as two vehicles swerved to avoid me. I swiveled my head to see a hundred yards up the road. Our red Toyota Yaris veering towards the trees. Memories of that day are hazing. I try so hard to forget it. My beautiful wife, gray-haired and aged beyond comprehension, lay lifeless on a stretcher.

The paramedics pronounced her dead at the scene, that years later never leaves me. A deep, unyielding grief, I made it to the hospital and survived, thankfully. A six-month-old boy, roughly six years of age in the eyes of the staff. With the years that followed, out of spite, I stopped utilizing the two extra hours. I watched my son grow at a horribly phenomenal rate. Many moments of joy were overshadowed by the terror of watching a child age more rapidly than their parent. I was haunted by what was to come.

He swiftly overtook me and five years later my worst nightmare came to fruition. Bobby was an old man, dying on his bed in the cottage that I'd bought only several years prior when he'd been just a baby boy. By past, I grieved for months before I thought of that infernal clock again. I injured my wife and son in the blink of an eye. Bobbed of a life with my family. There is no greater horror than that. I suppose all that had a time had to come from somewhere.

It was an unthinkable price. Fueled by hatred, I rang the IKEA branch, fully intending to exact some form of retributive justice on the man responsible for my years of torment, but I received some ghastly news. Jacob went missing several years before he even stepped into the store. He wasn't even an employee at that time. Apparently, his family members, well, their teeth and ashes were found in the man's living room. It's clear that Jacob suffered the same punishment as me, but what happened to him?

Why did he return to the store to pass this horrifying curse onto an unsuspecting soul? Me in the same way. It still haunts me. At least I have no loved ones left for it to take. And I intend to keep it that way until my dying day. But life is seldom full of anything other than suffering. I'm not an old man, but the beauty of having extra time is that I've gained wisdom. I'm as a horror that comes for us all.

There's a legend that drifts through ghost forums and late-night threats. It's passed around between strangers like a dare. The kind of thing you hear about it too in the morning, and the lights are low and curiosity starts to outweigh, caution. They call it Charlotte's Web. Not the storybook one with talking animals and happy endings. This one is older. darker,

and said to be tied to the spirit of a young girl who died calling out for help. But no one answered. Over time, people started saying she could still be reached, that if you performed a certain ritual, you could speak with her, ask her questions,

even get answers. But there's a catch. Once you invite her, Her in, she remembers you. Here's how it's supposed to work. You'll need a mirror, a single candle, matches or a lighter, and a piece of paper. It has to be done alone,

and it has to be done at midnight. Make sure every light in your house is off. No electronics, no background noise, only silence, and your reflection staring back at you. Write your name on the paper, neat and clear. Set the candle in front of the mirror and light it. Watch the flame flicker. The glow should be just enough to see your eyes in the glass. Nothing more.

Then lift the paper toward the mirror and whisper three times, I need your help. Blow out the candle. Wait. If the air grows heavy or cold, it means she's near. You might hear scratching, faint at first, like fingernails tracing the edge of the mirror. That's your sign. She's listening.

If the candle relights itself, Charlotte has accepted your invitation. You may now ask one question. Only one. Write it on the same piece of paper and hold it up to the glass. When you lower it, you'll find a response written there. Some say the letters are carved into the page. Others say the words appear. in the fog of your breath on the mirror

when you have your answer thank her say her name once more then blow out the candle do not light it again and whatever happens

whatever you hear do not look into the mirror until morning knows who Charlotte was some say she died in the 1940s trapped in a burning house, trying to reach her parents through a locked door. Others claim she never existed, that the name is a lure, a mask used by something else entirely.

People online say if you break the rules, she crawls through the mirror. And when she's through, she leaves her mark. A handprint, a whisper. sometimes a smile maybe it's all superstition maybe it's just another internet story meant to keep you up at night

but if you ever find yourself alone at midnight with a candle and a mirror nearby and the urge to call her name remember this Charlotte always answers and she never forgets

avoid. Thank you for your patronage. Hope you enjoyed your new relic as much as I've enjoyed passing along its sordid history. It does come with our usual warning, however. Absolutely no refunds, no exchanges,

and we won't be held liable for anything that may or may not occur while the object is in your possession. If you've got an artifact with mysterious properties, perhaps it's accompanied by a history of bizarre and disturbing circumstances. Maybe you'd be interested in dropping it and its story by the shop to share with other customers. Please reach out to antiquarium shop at gmail.com. A member of our team will be in touch. Till next time, we'll be waiting for you.

whenever you close your eyes in the space between sleep and dream. During regular business hours, of course, or by appointment, only for you, our best customer. The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings, Lot 103. I own a magic clock that gives me two extra hours a day. Consigned by Dominic Eagle, starring Mike Tom. April Consolo, Trevor Shand, and Mark LaPointe, Charlotte's Web, narrated by Gwyneth Glover, featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer. Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand and Lauren Shand. Theme music by the Newton Brothers.

Additional music by Coag, Vivek Abyshech, Clement Panchout, Nicholas Redding, and Conan Freeman. The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings is created and curated by Trevor and Lauren Shand. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod. Call the Antiquarium at 646-481-7197.