The Zero O’clock Hour by Alix Maria Taulbee

The Beginning 

It was the final day in December and the year was 1956. Jack Bowers and his lumber team were clearing up trees in Whispering Pines, Arizona. They all wanted to get the job done as each man had a family waiting for them at home. But the pay was double for working on holidays, and seeing that it was New Year’s Eve, they were sure to bring in the new year strong. 

Whispering Pines was nothing more than a forest nowadays. A century ago, it was a small mining town tucked in the vast forest mere miles from the New Mexico border. The town operated on its own terms and was off the grid in every way possible. It was left abandoned after some rare disease swept the land. Common during that time. What was remarkable was even after all these years, the town remained perfectly intact.

As Jack was removing the fallen pine branches from the ground and loading them into the pickup truck, he noticed something on the ground. A journal. He picked it up and brushed the leaves off the cover, running his hands over the aged leather. When he opened it, the pages had the wrinkling crunch of paper faced against the elements and time. Some of the black ink had smudged from the rain and was illegible to read, but for the most part, the journal was a story waiting to be read. However, what was it doing here? Jack couldn’t help but look around as an automatic response to holding someone’s journal. He had never read a stranger’s private thoughts and now one seemed to find him here today in the middle of nowhere. It felt as though he was invading someone’s privacy, though it was clear this journal belonged to a person who either has long forgotten about it or was dead. That’s when he saw the front page and his breath stopped for a brief moment. It read: 

This journal belongs to Emma Marie Forsyth. 

Whispering Pines, Arizona 1856

Everything in these pages are true accounts of the horror known as the the Zero O’clock Hour. 

Jack read the title page over and over, running his finger over the words. Suddenly, a brisk winter wind kicked up the leaves and branches next to him, giving the atmosphere a cold awakening. A couple of snow flurries blew past his face and as Jack looked up, he noticed he couldn’t see the sun anymore. It was covered by the very pine trees he and his team were cutting down. Was the wind trying to tell him something? He had heard stories of the horror that haunted Whispering Pines. He was jokingly warned of it by his superiors when he and his team were sent to clear the trees in the area. But Jack had always been a realist, so he never thought anything of it. Finding this journal that belonged to someone who lived in Whispering Pines was indeed odd. Was it a sign? Was the Zero O’clock hour real? Perhaps one of the guys was playing a joke on him. 

“Hey! Anybody want to explain to me what this is?” yelled Jack to his team. 

They all looked over to him, shaking their heads no. Some laughed and went back to eating their lunch. 

“I’m not playing. If one of you did this and isn’t going to tell me, you can forget getting paid your holiday bonus.” 

Their humor was instantly silenced. Each one of the workers responded individually saying they never saw that journal before in their lives. Jack was convinced. Everybody was on their lunch now, so he decided to begin reading. Should a ghost of this Emma girl come out of nowhere asking why he was reading it, he’d simply say he found it lying on the ground while working with his crew. Which was, to be fair, completely the truth. So, he leaned up against a tree and opened up the yellowed pages in the leather bound covering. Not knowing that what he was about to read was not just any journal. 

The Past 

December 7th, 1856 

It is seven days into December and already there is a stark shift in the air that is not winter coming. We have had fourteen funerals this year, most of them families, and our population is down to 37. January is nearing and people keep dying trying to stop the machine. I chose to write this journal to warn people the Zero O’clock Hour is real. What it is exactly, I plan to find out. 

Mother and Father don’t allow me stay out late anymore. They feel the fumes could get to me and I would be the next victim because I wouldn’t see them coming. Or worse. The underground fire coming from the mines has been continuously leaking toxic fumes for as long as I’ve been alive. Everyone has some of the fumes in their lungs. You don’t live in Whispering Pines without having some level of exposure to them. But the fumes are especially toxic on January 1st when the machine resets itself during the Zero O’clock Hour. Making everyone an open target. 

People have mysteriously disappeared when they try to go to turn off the machine. Always valiant, failed attempts. They are assumed dead since they never return. 

There’s hasn’t been a year that goes by when I don’t hear the screams of someone or a group of people crying hysterically over the loss of their loved ones. This year has been the worst. All funeral services are closed casket ceremonies and for one of two reasons: One reason is they can’t find the body. Another is the body, if found, has been mutilated, appearing as if the fumes killed them from the inside out. I once saw a hand as the top of the casket was being lowered. The skin was completely gone. The muscle looked blackened and there were deep holes in several places.  

I suppose I cannot blame my parents for wanting to keep me safe, considering our town of Whispering Pines has been home to facing this horror for years. Anytime I go to ask a person in town what exactly happens during the Zero O’clock Hour, their eyes widen and they shake their head, refusing to speak about it. Some hang their heads low, signing the cross across their chest and looking up to the sky. Praying to God. But why? Why are people unable to tell me what it is? I’m seventeen years old and I believe that I’m old enough to know the complete truth, aren’t I? 

I have to find out what happens. 

December 10th, 1856 

Three more deaths: a group of brothers I went to school with. They were good young men, though I didn’t know them all too well. All I knew is their father was killed recently when he tried to shut off the machine. I do recall that he said he worked machinery and could find a way to lessen the amount of the fumes from releasing into the air. But when he didn’t return home after two nightfalls, the brothers all went searching for their father. They were in such panic over their missing father that they forgot their masks. Who could forget their mask? Isn’t that the first thing you would grab? I guess not, considering all three of them died. Their funeral was two days ago. I can’t even remember the last time I went to church on Sunday and it wasn’t for a funeral. 

I went to Father Henry on Sunday after the service and asked to speak to him privately. I knew he wouldn’t lie to me, especially since he is a man of God. We went into his office and that’s when I asked him why do people fear the first minute of January 1st so much. He told me it is because it is the darkest minute of the darkest night of the whole year. The underground fire has never been contained and because we are a mining town, the fumes of the flames combined with the oil make for a fatal combination. When the machine resets and goes the opposite direction as the clock strikes midnight, or in our case, Zero O’clock on January 1st, it releases the strongest dose of toxic fumes into the air. 

I asked him why Father, why do people have to die during the Zero O’clock Hour? Surely this can be stopped. He looked at me with kind eyes and told me one thing that caused my entire body to stop working for an entire moment. As if I was now the latest victim to that noxious machine. This entry is probably going to be hard to read someday, but what Father Henry told me will live in for the rest of my days. I know Father Henry didn’t mean to cause such fright . However, I do feel he intended to illicit the fear of the unknown in me. Which he did with those words. I don’t even want to write them down, but here they are: 

“My child. God may be our protector and savior. But the Devil lives in the shadows and darkness. He was once an angel, after all, and is capable of making a nightmare out of anything.” 

December 18th, 1856

I wandered the streets alone tonight. Mother and Father didn’t even notice, as they feel death is going to make its arrival for them any day now. There’s only ten of us left in Whispering Pines. Everyone is already wearing their masks, preparing for the inevitable. Each window I passed was boarded up or abandoned. I especially noticed tonight how the pines stand so tall above our town that the moon can’t even get entirely through, providing an even greater air of mystery and paranoia to our town. If I hear a faraway wolf howling, then I know it’s a full moon. I often feel like that lone wolf; searching for something that does not exist. Hoping that I will be understood somewhere when in reality, I am alone, desperately searching for answers as to why the machine can’t be stopped without death having to be the price. Man built it. So why can’t man stop it? 

But I have come to realize that like everyone else in Whispering Pines, I can’t run away from this horror. I’m not the wolf who is alone in the endless wild. I feel envy towards this wolf because I’m surrounded by a prison of trees and others who don’t dare leave their home. All I want to do is escape. The lone wolf at least has endless miles of forest to roam around when I only have Whispering Pines. Even now, when I’m here at home, I can still hear the rusted chains cranking as if it is pulling a large cargo. A body maybe. Perhaps more. I’ve gotten used to my lullaby being the high pitched screech of the oil greased moving parts, creating a symphony of echoes from the victim’s screams and the brave souls who’ve tried to stop it. 

That’s how the latest victims died. They were a beautiful couple with a newborn baby who were our neighbors. The man went to see if he could stop the machine. He had his mask on and left his baby alone at home with his wife. Apparently, his jacket got caught in the machine and he was instantly crushed. I knew someone died because I heard it all the way in my home. The machine screeched and cranked, eating its latest victim. The high pitched whine of the rusted chains already sounds like the screams of someone dying, so people never really know if someone has died until Sunday rolls around and that person is not there. 

The poor baby was home with her mother, safe enough where they would survive another day. Both mother and child cried through the night, no doubt for different reasons, but fear being the motivating factor. Yet when dusk came and the man still hadn’t returned, the tears ceased and silence replaced the noise.

The Present

The sharp sound of a twig snapping startled Jack. He frantically looked around, holding the journal close to him as a pseudo protection of sorts. 

“Who’s there?” yelled Jack. His heart felt as if it could beat out of his chest. 

“Sorry boss! Stepped on a twig,” called out one of the workers. 

Upon hearing his worker’s reply, Jack was able to steady his breathing. He opened up the crinkled pages of the journal and continued his reading.

The Past

December 23rd, 1856

Father Henry has died. He went to stop the machine in the name of God and was suffocated by the fumes. I would like to hope he wasn’t in pain when he died, though I know better. 

December 25th, 1856

I woke up to mother screaming hysterically. I thought it was a nightmare since it sounded too horrendous for reality. But when her anguish kept growing louder, that’s when I awoke to her devastating cries. Father hung himself last night and left no note. The only other two people in town, both men, came and removed him from our home. Mother won’t stop crying. I think she’s begging for death to take her. I can hear the men telling her they’re going to fetch wood to make a fire for us. My heart keeps beating so fast, I feel as though it’s going to pump itself through my chest. Though my vision is blurred, I don’t feel the tears falling from my eyes. I didn’t know I was crying until I saw the tears make their way from my face and blot round circles onto these pages.  

Merry Christmas to me. 

December 26th, 1856

They never came back. 

December 30 or 31st, 1856 

As I write this, I’m wrapped around my blanket hiding underneath my bed. All the candles but the one I am writing with have burned down to ashes of melted wax. Mother is with Father. I’m not sure when it happened. But when I saw the stream of blood coming from her bedroom, the potent metallic smell overwhelming my nose, I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes and ran into my room. I’ve been here ever since, just waiting for the Zero O’clock Hour to wrap its sinister wrath around me. It’s dark outside and there’s no moon reflecting through the pines. Must be a new moon. Oh how desperately I wish I could hear that wolf howling just one more time, then I wouldn’t feel so alone. The only sound is the trees blowing in the wind. 

Wait one moment… The only sound is the trees blowing in the wind? I don’t hear the machine. I don’t hear anything. I have never heard complete silence in my entire life in Whispering Pines. Yet the only sound tonight seems to be what has given this town its namesake. The pines are all slowly moving in the wind. The soft breeze makes the trees feel as if they are whispering to each other. Perhaps they are. What if they know something I don’t? 

The only thing I know about the Zero O’clock Hour is it happens based on what Father Henry told me. He said it happens during, “the darkest minute of the darkest night of the whole year.” I never paid much attention to what the machine would sound like until this very moment. There is no way that large piece of machinery could reset itself without making noise. It simply isn’t possible. I’d smell the fumes or hear something, wouldn’t I?

The silence is deafening. I’m finding myself concentrating on my breaths, counting how many times I blink per minute, noticing how my heart has yet to slow down. If I black out, I may never wake up.

I feel inclined to go outside. I’ll be only a minute. 

The Present

“NO!” yelled Jack. 

His crew turned to look at him, startled by their boss yelling out. They were already finished clearing the trees while Jack was reading the journal and their job was done for the day. The pines that once obstructed Whispering Pines from receiving light was now open to the beautiful nightscape that was directly above them. Jack, on the other hand, was fighting a combination of emotions over a girl he never knew. He frantically turned the blank last page of the journal back and forth as if it would somehow magically have words appear. 

Jack threw the journal down and looked up to the ominous, full moon. He could hear a faraway wolf hollowing and his crew joining in, releasing their inner beasts. As he walked far away from his crew, that’s when he saw it. The machine was directly in front of him, rusted with age and what appeared to be blood. It wasn’t moving anymore, for it had already caused enough suffering for one town. 

He began to hear his crew counting down the seconds to the New Year. Jack closed his eyes, silently mouthing the final seconds aloud. 

“3, 2, 1…” 

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” 

He kept his eyes closed, listening to the men open up bottles of beer and ring in the New Year with celebration. But for the first minute of the New Year, which Jack knew as the Zero O’clock Hour, he held his breath. When he reached 30 seconds, he opened his eyes and stared at the machine. He was alive.

He took two, maybe three, steps towards the crew and that’s when he heard it. The distinct sound of rusted steel chains came from behind him, shaking and squeaking with each labored crank. Jack slowly turned to look, as he watched the machine reset itself for the final seconds of the Zero O’clock Hour. 

—

Watch the never before seen sneak peak of the documentary, “The Zero O’clock Hour,” inspired by true events happening in Whispering Pines, Arizona over a century ago. Presented by American Classic Horror Films.

Alix Maria Taulbee is an actress, writer, and filmmaker. Always one who stood out in the crowd with her vibrant red hair, she didn’t want to be known as one with limits. Rather, she pursued the path of the limitless and fearless. She began her journey in the entertainment industry at the young age of 8. Almost immediately, she took on leading and supporting roles of unique powerful characters in every genre for over a decade.

In addition to acting, Alix is an aspiring screenwriter, filmmaker, and director. As of 2019, Alix has two of her feature length screenplays in development, both based on a true story. She is also up to direct a feature length film after have directed its short film predecessor. Outside of film, Alix has also been published in multiple genres and graduated Valedictorian from Full Sail University, majoring in Creative Writing for Entertainment.

“Life is a never-ending story and we’re all the storytellers. Where one chapter may end and another begins, only we know.” -Alix Maria Taulbee

Follow Alix on Instagram at “thisisalixmaria” for more behind the scenes updates.

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