The Loop

The storm is terrible. Rain hits the windshield so hard the wipers can’t keep up, making it impossible to see. Then, with a loud sputter, our car's engine just dies. The headlights flicker twice and turn off, leaving us in total darkness. "You've got to be kidding me," Leo groans, twisting the key. Nothing happens. Just a dead click. Through the thick sheets of pouring rain, I see the dark outline of a massive, spooky old mansion sitting on the hill beside the road. It looks empty, but it’s our only choice. Covering our heads, we ran from the car, splashing through the mud until we slammed against the giant oak front doors. To our surprise, they aren't locked. They swing right open, and we stumble inside, shivering and dripping wet. The heavy doors slam shut behind us and lock with a loud click. We joke about it at first—like we are in a classic horror movie—and decide to just look for a back door or wait until the rain stops. We walked down the grand hallway to explore. We pass a tall grandfather clock, a dusty velvet couch, and an old painting of a frowning man. We turn a corner, expecting to find a kitchen or a back exit. Instead, we find ourselves standing right back at the front entrance. "Wait," Leo says, stopping fast. His flashlight shakes in his hand. "Didn't we just walk away from here?" "We must have just turned around by mistake," I say, though my heart starts beating fast. We will try again. We took a different door to the left, walking much faster this time. We pass a dining room and a dark library, turn another corner—and there it is again. The front entrance. The grandfather clock. The old painting. We are walking in circles, but the hallway isn't changing. It feels like the house is folding in on itself. We are completely stuck. Panic kicks in. Leo runs forward, pushing open a door to the dining room to try a third path. I sprint right behind him. We run blindly through the dark, turning left, then right, just trying to break the pattern. Suddenly, the air feels super heavy. The temperature drops so fast I can see my own breath. We burst through a final set of double doors, expecting another hallway. Instead, we stumbled right back into the main entrance. But something is totally different. The dust is gone. The air smells like fresh rain and expensive perfume. The candles in the chandelier above us are fully lit and burning brightly. I look at the grandfather clock. The hands aren't moving forward. They are spinning wildly, violently backward. Leo looks down at his hands, his eyes wide with fear. "Our watches," he whispers. I look at my wrist. The digital numbers on my watch are counting down the seconds backward, fast. We didn't just walk back to the front door. We just walked backward into time. Suddenly, the loud, happy sound of old jazz music and clinking glasses echoes from the dining room—like a party from a hundred years ago. But underneath the music, we hear a different sound. A loud, frantic pounding on the front door from the outside. And then, a voice screams from the porch, begging to be let out of the storm. It’s Leo’s voice.