3:33 AM

It starts on a Tuesday.

Not a Monday, because Mondays are basic. Mondays are predictable. But a Tuesday at 3:33 a.m.? That’s when the universe gets weird. When the cosmos smirks, cracks its knuckles, and leans in close to whisper, Let’s mess with this one.

Sam jerks awake. Not a gradual rouse, but an adrenaline spike, fight-or-flight kind of wake-up. His heart’s a wild animal in his chest, clawing to get out. His pillow is soaked, sweat sharp and sour, the stink of fear mixed with the mildewed tang of old nightmares. The taste in his mouth—metallic, like biting a rusted nail.

He glances at the clock. Red numbers stab the dark. 3:33. It’s too neat, too perfect. A punchline without a joke.

He thinks, Huh. Weird.

Then he goes back to sleep.

The next night, it happens again. Same time. Same heart-racing panic. Same copper taste and sticky pillow. By the third night, it’s a ritual. His body jerks awake, heart hammering, like a boxer hitting the mat, and the universe holds up the sign: 3:33 a.m.

Sam buys blackout curtains, swallows over-the-counter sleeping pills. Chases them with whiskey like he’s auditioning for a country song. Nothing works. His body has decided it’s now the human equivalent of a faulty alarm clock.

By Thursday, his desperation spills into Google’s search bar. “Waking up at 3:33 a.m.—what does it mean?”

The internet, as usual, vomits answers.

• "Witching hour.”
• “Demons.”
• “Stress. Go see a therapist.”
• “It’s a sign from the universe. Listen to your spirit guides!”

Some blog, all Comic Sans and bad Photoshop, claims 3:33 is a thin spot in reality, a tear in the fabric of existence. That’s when they are watching.

Sam closes the laptop, not because he believes it, but because his pulse is doing this jittery double-beat thing, and he can’t stop noticing his hands shake.

That night, he wakes up again.

3:33.

But this time, there’s something there.

Not someone. No shape he can name or face he can describe. Just a smudge in the corner of the room, darker than the dark around it. A void inside a void. The kind of thing you’d squint at and think, Coat rack? Chair? Nope, just the boogeyman.

He blinks, and it’s gone. Just shadows. A trick of tired eyes.

Still, when he breathes, the air feels heavier. Thicker. Like a room full of smokers at a poker game, except there’s no smoke. Just the sense of being watched.

The next day, Sam is useless. His coworkers talk, laugh, and their voices dissolve into static. His head’s a radio dial stuck between stations, all crackle, no clarity.

This is how it starts. That’s what he thinks.

Because his dad had this. The middle-of-the-night pacing, the muttering about locks and shadows. His dad, who smelled like bourbon and sweat, mumbling about how they were watching. His dad, who stood in the garage one night, took the revolver out of the drawer, and put a red period at the end of his story.

At the funeral, the priest said words. Sam couldn’t remember them. What he remembered was his mother’s crying, the way it sounded like something breaking open. And the coffin. Sam had stared at it, thinking, You’re free now.

But now, here he is.

The same fucking thing. Like a goddamn curse.

Waking up at 3:33 a.m., staring at the dark, waiting for the dark to stare back.