Out of Time

The microwave display glowed a soft, sickly amber: 11:49 AM.

Sliding back from his desk, his chair wheels caught the uneven floorboards. Standing up, bottle in hand, he made his way around the counter, at the fridge, filling his water bottle, his movements robotic. Taped to the fridge door was a note rough-edged and worn, as if it had been through a wash cycle a thousand times.

Living alone in his personal fortress of his own making. The studio apartment was a vault; a single window, obscured by heavy metal bars. The front door locked, secured with a deadbolt.

11:52 AM. The floorboards let out shrill moans under his weight, each pace, a rhythmic protest that matched his own frantic heartbeat. His eyes locked on the paper in bewilderment.

“How the F-?” The sound of his own voice felt strange leaving his lips.

Reaching out his fingers trembled. Peeling the note from the door, the paper tore, as the tape surrendered its grip from the off-white enamel. The note was a pulpy ruin, ink fading into gray illegible veins. Tiling it toward the harsh overhead light, the deep carved indentations of a pen cast tiny, jagged shadows.

Tracing the gouged paper with a shaking thumb, he pieced a message together by touch. “I know you kept it. I want it back by noon.”

“Kept what?” the words escaped his lips in a whisper. The question, a lie the moment it left his lips, hollow to a truth he wasn’t willing to face.

A cold sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging his eyes as he tried to assure himself he didn’t know what the note meant, but his pulse had already reached a staccato. His feet moving with a mind of their own he found himself before his desk once more. Wiping his forehead his fingers shook so violently he nearly fell reaching for the drawer handle.

With a pull it clashed open, the contents shuffling as he reached for the very back, his fingers like a spider as they searched for a familiar heavy weight.

Yet they reached nothing but the cold metal backing of the drawer.

He traced the small indent in the void, only feeling the cold empty space. The absence of the object felt like a punch to his chest, dragging the air from his lungs he stared blankly into the void of the drawer. It had to be there.

A pause filled the air as he hung over the drawer, reaching for the next, he pulled it open, only for it to be sent flying. The desk shuddered as it shifted, the drawer clattering as its contents spilling into a chaotic heap of old files and tax returns on the floor.

He didn’t stop, grabbing the second. And the next. A whirlwind of panic as he disemboweled his own desk, his life. A waist high pile of debris mounted the center of the space, like a shipwreck.

11:56 AM. He panted, each knee straddling the haphazard pile. Peeling through half of his life possessions, each as mundane as the last. He hoped, prayed, that “It” would just start glowing, screaming, anything from beneath the pile. He was far past logic, the thought didn’t even feel strange to him. He just wanted to be done with what ever nightmare had been brought upon him.

As if his own madness had finally beckoned the attention of the room, he turned. The corner, just above the front door, it didn’t just darken, it had curdled. The light shied away, bending around as if recoiling in physical disgust. The shadow had pooled along the walls and the ceiling, spilling onto the floor like thick black ink. Even with the lights at full power, the corner remained a black hole that refused to be seen.

Scrambling up, he caught his foot on the lip of a spilled drawer. Scrambling, clipping his hip on the kitchenette counter with a dull thud. Lunging into the junk drawer as fast as he opened it, he kept his eyes fixated on the shadows pooling in the corner, they had begun to breath, with each breath it grew closer.

Digging blindly in the clutter of the drawer, loose thumbtacks bit into his hand, drawing little red beads, but he didn’t stop until his hand found the flashlight finally.

Clicking it on, nothing.

“Out of batteries... Damn it!”

In a fit of helpless rage, he hurled the flashlight at the shadow. He expected it to clatter against the drywall, but instead, there was a sickening, wet thud, the sound of a stone hitting deep mud. The flashlight didn't bounce. It stuck.

The shadow began to bleed. A black, viscous ooze hissed onto the floor, steaming slightly. The flashlight finally slumped off the mass and rolled away, leaving a greasy, shimmering stain on the floorboards that smelled of ozone and rot.

He backed away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 11:59 AM. The air in the room suddenly turned heavy, turning his sweat into a film of ice. His hands shook so violently he had to clasp them to his face to keep from crying out. For a split second, he looked away, and when his eyes snapped back, the shadow was gone. The residue, the stain, the flashlight, all vanished.

The microwave beeped.

It was a shrill, electronic scream that sliced through the pressurized air. The corner of the room wasn't dark anymore; it was now impossibly, blindingly bright, bleached of all color as if the reality there had been erased.

He didn't look for his keys. He didn't grab his coat. He lunged for the exit, his fingers slipping on the brass handle of the front door. He reached for the deadbolt, his mind screaming at him to run, to get to the hallway, to get to the street.

The door swung inward before his fingers could even touch the lock.

The hallway was gone. There was only a vast, silent white void, waiting for him to step through.