The alarm clock

The day I found myself.

• Fiction

								
A few months ago, I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night to the jarring ring of my alarm clock. The sudden intrusion of noise into the stillness of the night sent a cold shiver down my spine. In a confused state of mind, I thought maybe I had set it for some strange hour by mistake. Quickly resetting it, I went back to sleep, only to be jolted awake again the next night by this exactly alarming sound.
This time, it was at 3 a.m. I couldn't help but think my family was playing some kind of trick on me, or, even spookier yet, that something else might be going on altogether. The idea of a ghost screwing with my sleep sent shivers down my spine. But over the passing nights and the continuation of ringing, I realized that wasn't a prank; my alarm clock was broken.
Determined to solve the problem, I scrutinized the clock closely, studying its settings and cords. It was as if the thing were alive, as though some sort of karmic retribution guided its every move. And then, my persistence paid off: I found the culprit-a broken mechanism inside that made the alarm ring at random, regardless of what time it had been set to go off. With frustration and relief both mixed together, I replaced the clock, finally able to sleep, the haunting ringing gone.
Lying in bed the next night, I was awakened to the sound of 'beep beep beep'. This time, however, there were no batteries inside the alarm clock! Scared and confused, I sat up. The sound reverberated across the room as if it had a life of its own. I felt my heart racing and a cold chill running down my back.
I looked around the darkened room, shadows dancing on the walls in the soft light of my lamp. The air was heavy. Then, there was something even weirder out of the corner-a dark shape beyond the reach of the light. It was as if the darkness was coagulating into something. My heart began to pound.
"Is anybody there?" I called, my voice shaking. The beep beep beep continued relentlessly and eerily.
In a blink, the shadows moved, and I saw outlines of a girl with long hair and a torn dress. Her eyes wide open, with deep sadness and urgency, seemed to bore into my very soul. I didn't know whether she was real or just something from my head.
"Help me," she whispered softly. I felt somehow connected to her, like I should know her.
Just then, the alarm grew louder, drowning her voice. I sprang from bed onto the cold floor. Stepping closer toward her, the shadows started pulling back, revealing old photographs scattered on the floor—pictures of families and places from my childhood.
Find me," she urged, pointing to a picture of some park I used to go to. My mind just swirled with questions: what could this mean?
The steady beeping still echoed in my head as I knew that I needed to find this girl and somehow figure out the mystery behind her. I had to know her story and perhaps find some part of myself through that.
The next day, I went to the local library, in search of clues about the park. After hours of searching through old newspapers, I found one sad story of a girl lost, maybe taken from a picnic at the park. Of course, she was never found despite everybody's effort. Immediately, a chill ran down my spine-could she be the ghost girl?
Scared and thrilled at the same time, I gathered my friends Mia and Jake and showed them my find. Equipped with the photo and a flashlight, at dusk we went to the park. It looked just about the same-beautiful but strangely silent. Walking down those familiar paths, I told them the story that I had uncovered, and they listened to every word.
When we finally came to the old oak tree from the photo, I could feel some energy around it. I asked my friends to help me search this area; with each scoop of soft earth, excitement built up. Jake's spade suddenly hit something hard. We washed off the small, weathered box, replete with dirt and leaves.
Inside were trinkets: old toys, a locket, and a diary belonging to the girl. As I opened the diary, aloud I read her dreams, her fears, and her deep wish to be found. With each word, I connected with her more and more, reminding me how memories should be cherished.
My friends and I knew we needed to do something to commemorate her memory, so we held a small ceremony of remembrance under the oak tree: speaking kind words, sharing our own childhood stories, and carefully placing trinkets back in the box for a burial beneath the tree. As we finished, the air around us felt lighter, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves.
The ghost girl suddenly appeared in front of me again, this time smiling softly. "Thank you," she whispered gratefully. And immediately, there was that feeling of warmth within my heart, knowing she was at peace now. And for the first time in weeks, my alarm clock wasn't heard on that night.
In that moment, I understood that by helping her, I had rediscovered a part of myself—compassion and the importance of remembering those who came before us. But I knew I still needed to uncover the full story 
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