Evelyn’s Corridor of Time

Prologue:In the Library

The air in the school library smelled like a time capsule—dusty, inky, with a faint whiff of mildew that clung to the ancient shelves like a stubborn ghost. It was late, way past the time when any sane junior would still be haunting these halls, but there I was, Evelyn Parker, sixteen and drowning in my own awkwardness, sorting books because Ms. Bennett had guilt-tripped me into it. “You’re the only one I trust with these old beauties,” she’d said, her voice all velvet and mystery, like she knew something I didn’t. I’d blushed, mumbled a “sure,” and here I was, alone with the shadows and the creaky floorboards.

The library wasn’t some cozy nook out of a rom-com. No, this place was a beast—towering shelves that loomed like castle turrets, their wood chipped and scarred from decades of neglect. The walls were stone, cold to the touch, with patches of moss creeping up where the janitor’s mop couldn’t reach. Dim light spilled from a flickering chandelier overhead, casting jagged shadows that danced across the spines of books older than my grandma. My sneakers squeaked against the worn tiles as I shuffled down the aisle, arms loaded with musty hardcovers. My tight jeans hugged my legs, the denim stretching with every step, and my white T-shirt—slightly damp from nervous sweat—clung to my chest, outlining every shaky breath I took. I wasn’t exactly a runway model, but I’d been trying to own it lately, you know? Fake it till you make it.

I reached for a shelf, my fingers brushing a book with a spine so faded I couldn’t even read the title. It was heavy, bound in cracked leather, with gold lettering that shimmered faintly under the chandelier’s glow. I tugged it free, and that’s when it happened—a jolt, like static electricity on steroids, zapped through my hand. The air went thick, heavy, like I’d just stepped into a sauna. My heart slammed against my ribs, and the book slipped from my grip, hitting the floor with a thud that echoed way too loud in the silence.

Then everything stopped.

Not slowed down—stopped. The dust motes floating in the air froze mid-drift. The faint hum of the heater cut out. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath. I blinked, my chest heaving, my shirt sticking tighter as sweat beaded down my spine. “What the hell?” I whispered, my voice sounding too small, too fragile in this sudden void.

I bent to pick up the book, my knees wobbling like a newborn deer’s, and that’s when I heard it—a low, raspy whisper slithering out from the shadows between the shelves. “You’ve been chosen.” It wasn’t loud, but it hit me like a punch, vibrating through my bones. I whipped around, my ponytail smacking my cheek, but there was nothing. Just rows of books and that creepy stillness. My hands shook as I grabbed the book again, and the second my fingers touched it, the world snapped back. Dust floated again, the heater buzzed, and my pulse raced like I’d just run a marathon.

I flipped the book open, my breath hitching. The pages were blank—except for one line scrawled in jagged, blood-red ink: Evelyn Parker, the clock is yours. My name. My freaking name. I slammed it shut, my palms slick with sweat, and that’s when the idea hit me—wild, stupid, impossible. What if I could… mess with time?

I glanced at a flowerpot on Ms. Bennett’s desk, a sad little thing with cracked clay and a drooping daisy. I’d knocked it over earlier, clumsy as always, and it’d shattered on the floor. The pieces were still there, scattered like a crime scene. I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on that moment—the pot slipping, the crash, the embarrassment—and pushed. It wasn’t a thought so much as a feeling, like flexing a muscle I didn’t know I had. My head throbbed, a sharp stab behind my eyes, but when I opened them, the pot was back on the desk, whole, the daisy perked up like nothing had happened.

“Holy crap,” I gasped, stumbling back. My jeans caught on the edge of a shelf, and I nearly face-planted, my legs trembling so hard I could feel the denim straining. Cold sweat trickled down my forehead, and my shirt was practically plastered to me now, every curve on display as my chest heaved. I’d done it. I’d turned back time. Just a few seconds, but still—time.

The thrill was electric, buzzing through me like a sugar high, but then the pain hit harder. A migraine exploded behind my skull, and I dropped to my knees, clutching my head. My palms pressed so tight I felt my nails dig in, drawing tiny pinpricks of blood. A scream ripped out of me, raw and jagged, shattering the library’s silence. My vision blurred, and I collapsed, sprawled on the cold tiles, my body shaking like I’d been electrocuted.

When I finally dragged myself up, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fumbled it out with shaky hands, the screen lighting up my pale, sweaty face. A new message: “Heard weird noises from the library tonight. You okay?” It was from some random IG account I didn’t even follow—

@ShadowWatcher13

. My stomach twisted. Who the hell was watching me?

I staggered to my feet, the book still lying there, its gold lettering glinting like it was mocking me. I grabbed it, my fingers trembling, and flipped it open again. The red ink had changed. Now it read: Evelyn Parker, the cost is coming. My breath caught, a cold chill racing down my spine. Cost? What cost? I hugged the book to my chest, my damp shirt sticking to it, and stumbled toward the exit. The library felt alive now, the shadows shifting, the air pressing in. Whatever I’d just unlocked, it wasn’t a gift—it was a loaded gun, and I’d already pulled the trigger.

As I pushed through the heavy oak doors, the night air hit me like a slap, sharp and biting. The school’s courtyard stretched out ahead, all cracked stone paths and gnarled trees clawing at the sky. My sneakers crunched on gravel as I hurried away, the book a dead weight in my arms. Behind me, the library’s windows glowed faintly, like eyes watching me go. My phone buzzed again, but I didn’t look. I couldn’t. Not yet.

I had no idea what I’d just stepped into, but one thing was crystal clear: this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.