Evelyn’s Corridor of Time

Chapter 4: The Cost of Time

The library smelled like a crypt—old paper, dust, and something faintly metallic, like the air itself was rusting. It was after hours again, the school a hollow shell of itself, all creaking floors and dim corridors. I’d come back here because it was the only place that made sense—the place where this nightmare started. The towering shelves loomed over me, their chipped edges and moss-streaked bases glowing faintly in the chandelier’s flicker. My sneakers scuffed the tiles, quieter this time, like I was afraid to wake something up. My blouse was still a wreck—gaping at the collar, sweat-stained, a faint smear of dried blood on the cuff from the bathroom mirror. My skirt clung to my thighs, creased and damp, and my hair was a tangled mess, spilling over my shoulders like I’d given up trying to tame it. I probably had.

I slumped into a chair at one of the long oak tables, the wood cool against my palms, and dropped my bag beside me. The pin was in my pocket, humming softly, a constant itch I couldn’t scratch. I’d used it too much already—rewinding the speech, the fight with Maya, that glimpse of her and Liam in the storage room. Every time, it took something. The first time, I’d lost the smell of Mom’s apple pie. Then, yesterday, I couldn’t remember the tune of my favorite song from middle school, the one I’d played on repeat until the CD scratched. Little pieces, slipping away like sand through my fingers. What was next? My first kiss? The day Dad left? I didn’t want to find out, but I couldn’t stop either. Not yet.

The table in front of me was littered with books I’d pulled earlier—history texts, mostly, stuff to pretend I was studying for the speech redo Mr. Dawson had grudgingly offered. But my eyes kept drifting to the leather-bound monster I’d dragged from my bag, the one with my name scrawled in red ink. I hadn’t touched it since that first night, too scared of what it might do, but it sat there now, heavy and accusing, its gold lettering glinting like a dare. I reached for it, my fingers trembling, and flipped it open. The pages were still blank—except for that one line, now morphed again: Evelyn Parker, the clock is ticking faster. My stomach twisted. Faster? What did that even mean?

Footsteps echoed behind me, sharp and deliberate, and I slammed the book shut, spinning in my chair. Ms. Bennett stood there, her deep purple skirt brushing the floor, the fabric catching the light like liquid shadow. Her silver hair was pinned up, severe and elegant, and her eyes—sharp, knowing—locked onto mine. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown either, just studied me like I was a puzzle she hadn’t quite solved.

“Evelyn,” she said, her voice low, resonant, like it could fill the room without trying. “You’re here late again.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “Yeah, uh, just… catching up. You know, after the speech thing.” My hand slid over the book, shielding it, but her gaze flicked to it anyway, lingering.

She stepped closer, her boots clicking on the tiles, and pulled out a chair across from me. “You don’t need to lie to me, dear. I’ve seen the way you’ve been lately—jumpy, distracted. And I heard about the video.” She paused, her fingers tracing the edge of the table, nails tapping softly. “That must’ve been… difficult.”

Difficult didn’t cover it. I wanted to laugh, or cry, or maybe both, but I just nodded, my chest tight. “Yeah. It was.”

She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, and the air shifted, heavier somehow, like she was pulling me into her orbit. “You’ve found something, haven’t you? Something that doesn’t belong in this world.”

My breath caught, and I gripped the book tighter, the leather creaking under my fingers. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play coy, Evelyn.” Her voice sharpened, but her eyes softened, almost sad. “I’ve been the keeper of these shelves for longer than you’ve been alive. I know when something’s been disturbed. That book—” she nodded at it, “—it’s not just a book. And you’re not just a girl anymore.”

Panic clawed up my spine, and I shoved the chair back, standing so fast it screeched against the floor. “I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m fine. I just—I need to go—”

“Sit down,” she said, not loud, but firm, like a command I couldn’t ignore. My legs buckled, and I sank back into the chair, my skirt riding up as I hit the seat. She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a small, worn diary, its cover faded blue, edges frayed. She slid it across the table, and it stopped an inch from my hand, the leather warm to the touch when I brushed it.

“What’s this?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“A lifeline,” she said. “If you’re going to keep using that power—and I know you are—you need to track it. Every time you turn back the clock, write it down. What you changed, what you lost. Otherwise, you’ll wake up one day and not know who you are.”

My mouth went dry, and I stared at the diary, then at her. “You know? About… me?”

She nodded, slow and deliberate. “I’ve seen it before. Not often, thank God, but enough to recognize the signs. The headaches, the gaps in your memory. You’re playing with time, Evelyn, and time doesn’t like to be played with. It takes back what it gives, piece by piece.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to deny it, but the words died on my tongue. She was right. I could feel it—the fuzziness creeping in, the way my head pounded after every rewind. I flipped open the diary, my fingers shaking, and saw neat handwriting on the first page: October 12, 1998—Rewound 3 minutes. Lost: taste of rain. The next entry: November 4, 1998—Rewound 10 minutes. Lost: sound of my sister’s laugh. There were more, dozens of them, each one a trade—time for memory, power for self.

“This was yours?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Not mine,” she said, her gaze distant. “Someone else’s. Someone who didn’t listen. She’s gone now—not dead, just… empty. I keep it to remind myself what’s at stake.”

I swallowed hard, closing the diary. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I can’t stop you,” she said simply. “No one can. But I can help you hold on to what’s left. Start writing, Evelyn. Before it’s too late.”

I nodded, numb, and tucked the diary into my bag. My hand brushed the pin again, and a dull ache bloomed behind my eyes, sharper than before. I winced, pressing my palm to my forehead, and Ms. Bennett stood, her skirt rustling as she moved to a shelf. She pulled down a glass of water—where’d she even get that?—and set it in front of me.

“Drink,” she said. “It won’t fix the pain, but it’ll ground you.”

I took it, my hands shaky, and sipped. The cold stung my throat, but it cleared the fog a little. “Thanks,” I mumbled, setting the glass down. My blouse shifted, the gap widening, and I tugged it closed, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt—physically, emotionally, all of it.

She sat again, folding her hands. “Tell me what you’ve done so far. How many times?”

I hesitated, then spilled it—the speech, three rewinds; the fight with Maya, twice; the storage room, once. Six times total. Six pieces gone. She listened, her face unreadable, then nodded.

“And what have you lost?”

“I… I don’t know all of it,” I admitted, my voice cracking. “A smell. A song. Little things. But they’re mine, and they’re gone.”

“They’ll get bigger,” she warned. “The more you use it, the more it takes. You need to decide what’s worth losing.”

I stared at her, my chest heaving, the weight of it crashing down. What was worth losing? My mom’s voice? My first day of school? Myself? I’d been so focused on fixing things—fixing me—that I hadn’t stopped to think about what I was breaking.

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up my pale reflection. An IG comment: “She’s been off lately. Psycho vibes?” I flinched, shoving the phone away, but Ms. Bennett caught my wrist, her grip firm but gentle.

“They don’t matter,” she said. “Not the comments, not the video. What matters is you. What you choose.”

I pulled my hand free, my breath hitching. “I don’t know what to choose. Maya—she betrayed me. Liam too. They’re ruining me, and I can stop it. I can go back—”

“And lose more?” she cut in, her voice sharp. “Time will turn on you, Evelyn. It always does. You can’t outrun the cost.”

Her words hit like a punch, and I slumped back, my blouse fluttering open again, sweat beading down my neck. The pin hummed louder, a siren song, and I clenched my fists, fighting it. She was right. I’d felt it—the headaches, the gaps, the way my mind frayed at the edges. But letting go? Facing this mess without it? That scared me more.

Ms. Bennett stood, smoothing her skirt. “I’ll leave you to think. But one last thing—” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Time will fight back. Be ready.”

She turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the shadows, leaving me alone with the books and the ticking in my head. I opened the diary again, grabbed a pen from my bag, and started writing. March 26, 2025—Rewound 5 minutes, speech attempt #1. Lost: smell of apple pie. I kept going, listing every rewind, every loss I could pin down. My hand shook, ink smudging, but I didn’t stop until I reached today.

Then I froze. My pen hovered over the page, my mind blank. What day was it? Not the date—I knew that, March 26—but something else. Something personal. My birthday? No, that was September. But there was something… a memory I couldn’t grasp. Mom’s face flashed in my mind, her smile, her voice saying, “Happy—” Happy what? I couldn’t hear it. I couldn’t remember her birthday. The one day I always made her breakfast, burned toast and all. It was gone.

The pen slipped from my hand, clattering to the table, and I bolted upright, my chair tipping over with a crash. My breath came in gasps, and I ran to the library’s kitchenette, where Ms. Bennett sometimes ate lunch with us volunteers. The calendar was pinned to the wall, a faded thing with coffee stains and doodles. I scanned it, frantic, until I found it—April 15. Mom’s birthday. It was still three weeks away, but I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t picture last year’s cake, her laugh, the way she hugged me. It was a blank spot, a hole where something precious used to be.

I stumbled back to the table, my legs giving out, and crashed into the chair. The diary stared up at me, accusing, and I grabbed it, hurling it across the room. It hit a shelf, pages fluttering, and a plate from Ms. Bennett’s last lunch—some leftover pasta—fell with it, shattering on the floor. Sauce splattered my arm, warm and sticky, and I screamed, a raw, guttural sound that bounced off the stone walls. Tears streamed down my face, hot and fast, and I sank to my knees, my skirt tearing at the hem as I hit the tiles.

The pin pulsed in my pocket, louder, insistent, and I yanked it out, staring at it through blurry eyes. I could go back. I could fix this moment, undo the loss, find Mom’s birthday again. My fingers tightened around it, the metal biting into my palm, and the ache in my head sharpened, a warning I couldn’t ignore.

Then my phone buzzed again, skittering across the table. I lunged for it, my bloody fingers smearing the screen as I unlocked it. A text. Unknown number. “You’re running out of time, Evelyn. Check the mirror.”

My heart stopped. Mirror? I staggered to my feet, my sneakers slipping in the sauce, and stumbled to the library’s old full-length mirror by the checkout desk. It was cracked, the glass warped, but I could still see myself—pale, wild-eyed, a wreck. And then I saw it—behind my reflection, faint but clear: a shadow, tall and jagged, like a figure carved from smoke. It didn’t move, just watched, its edges flickering like a bad signal.

I spun around, my breath hitching, but the library was empty. Just shelves and shadows and the mess I’d made. I turned back to the mirror, and the shadow was gone—but my reflection wasn’t right. My eyes were too wide, my hair too dark, and for a split second, I didn’t recognize myself.

The pin slipped from my hand, clattering to the floor, and I backed away, my chest heaving. Ms. Bennett’s warning echoed in my skull: Time will fight back. I didn’t know what that shadow was, or who was texting me, or how much more I could lose before I wasn’t me anymore. But I knew one thing—I couldn’t keep running. Not like this.

I grabbed my bag, the diary, the pin, and bolted for the door, the library’s shadows stretching behind me like claws. The night air hit me hard as I stumbled into the courtyard, the cracked stone paths glinting under the moon. My phone buzzed one last time as I ran, and I glanced at it, my heart pounding.

Another text. “It’s not just your memory. Look closer next time.”

I didn’t stop running.