Horror logo

Time's Up

Time's Up

By Kelsey HodgesPublished about a year ago 11 min read
Like
Time's Up
Photo by Zulfa Nazer on Unsplash

“The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. That is not me,” he whispered to himself as he set the screen for another trip. “That was not my reflection, that is not who I am.”

James Lord stepped onto the steel plate for the thousandth time. Or maybe it was the ten thousandth – he’d lost track long ago.

The hospital-bright lights flared around him, forcing him to fling a tired hand over his eyes as he fumbled for the door seal switch with the other. His fingers found the worn toggle and pushed. The door squealed shut, a rush of air ruffling his ratty gray sweatpants as it locked.

The machine whirred louder and louder until it felt as if the sound was bouncing around inside his head. Was it getting worse? One of these days, the damn thing was going to give out, then he’d be stuck. James found himself wondering if that would be such a bad thing.

The weightless feeling hit seconds later, as did the familiar sensation of being stretched, then stuffed through a small funnel. He hadn’t vomited from a trip in years, but today, saliva welled up in his mouth as he fought the wave of nausea rising in his gut.

The machine quieted and the door sprang back, screeching as it rolled. Cringing, James stepped out into… not his basement.

“What the hell?”

He was in a field, surrounded by dead prairie grass bowing in a cold breeze. A lone knoll loomed before him, the sun just about to set behind it.

He turned back to the machine and stared at the control screen. It read six hours before the time he left, just as it should have. The location coordinates were correct as well. So where was his house?

He stepped around the steel cube and saw nothing but a poorly-paved road going on forever in each direction. James sighed, returning to the control screen. He reset the time destination for his true present, then glared at the coordinates.

The Super Bowl had ended mere minutes ago. He glanced at the sticky note in his hand with the quarter and final scores scribbled in dying blue ink. He didn’t need the money from the bets he was going to place; he craved what came after winning. Booze, women, parties, drugs. He could wipe his ass with hundred-dollar bills every day if he wanted to, but the celebration high only came right after the victory.

Grumbling, he cleared the coordinates and reset them for where and when he meant to go the first time. When the stretching sensation faded, he was back in his basement. He sprinted up the stairs, not giving so much as a sideways glance to the dark oak cheval mirror that had come with the house. He slid to a stop in the hall in front of the ridiculously large wall clock a very expensive, poofy-haired interior decorator had insisted upon. Six hours back, about two before the game started. Just enough time.

After his bets were placed, James sat back to drink in the casino’s mirrored bar. He mustered feigned-surprise cheers for the beginning of the game, but his energy waned quickly. The reflection that kept meeting his sideways glimpses from behind the rows of bottles was pathetic and quite frankly, frightening; it was not him. It could not be him.

At this distance, the ghastly man peeking back at him looked like something that had crawled out of the dark pages of a Stephen King book. Something that had died but never fell; gray and skeletal and used up.

When the game finally ended, the outcome shocked the rest of the patrons. James shouted, pointing at the screen flashing his winnings. People flocked to his side, and women jockeyed for a place as near his lap as possible.

Up in the suite, the faces and walls danced and waved in unnatural ways. A beautiful blonde tugged at his belt, tearing it free from his jeans. A vague sense of pleasure drifted over him as she worked him. He staggered back and fell onto the bed, the room fading from sight.

Daylight blasted him in the face when his eyes opened the next morning, laying exposed on the scratchy hotel duvet.

“Fuck’s sake,” he grunted, his head pounding. It felt like a gremlin was trying to claw its way out of his brain. Next to him, a woman groaned from within a pile of raven-black hair and rolled over before quietly gathering her clothes, stumbling through dressing herself, and tiptoeing out. When the latch clicked shut behind her, he surveyed the room. It was an unmitigated disaster, but he didn’t see any more unconscious bodies.

A soft knock came at the door. “It’s me.” Before he could answer, a key card slid in the door and his assistant – or was she his caretaker at this point? – entered with her kit. The aging former nurse grabbed his arm and started his IV, and within minutes, he could move and function. He didn’t bother to thank her.

She dropped him off after a wordless drive home. By the time he walked in the door, the drugs she had given him had him floating, all traces of the brain gremlin gone. James debated making the jump back; his one rule as that he always returned to his true present, but lately, he found himself wondering what and when that really was. In the end, he trudged to the basement, set the machine, and pushed the toggle.

When the doors opened, he was once again in the field with the lone knoll, the sun setting behind it. He swore and kicked the cube, cursing again when pain shot through his toe and into his foot.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” he screamed at the metal.

After clearing then triple-checking the time and location coordinates, he launched the trip again. The door slid open, and James breathed a sigh of relief to see the old green velvet couch in the corner, also a leftover from the previous owners. Shaking his head to clear it, he made his way to the stairs, passing the mirror. A glint in the reflection caught his eye.

He stumbled back two steps, afraid to look at the mess he’d become. Peering just past the oval frame, he could see one brown eye and the start of the mop of shaggy brunette hair. He leaned further, and saw no gray in that hair. No wrinkles on the face or bags under the eyes. No protruding cheekbones, leathery skin, or hollows in the base of the neck. He smiled for the first time in months.

“Yes!” he whispered to the mirror, touching it gently with his fingertips and leaning in close to study his pores, the subtle flecks of gold in his irises, the sleek lines of his jaw. He breathed into his own visage as he slowly turned his face from side to side. Gingerly touching his flawless skin, he took in the youthful glow for several minutes, wondering why he'd been so staunchly avoiding mirrors.

His gaze wandered to the unfinished room behind him. It seemed older and dirtier than normal. With one last look at his reflection, he turned from the mirror, hopped up the stairs and into his stunning home, and skipped past the empty rooms until he landed in the kitchen. Takeout boxes, half-drunk cocktails, and even a pair of pink panties littered the gray marble countertops. The TV blared post-game victory speeches and celebrations from the living room while confetti fell on everyone on the field.

James snatched up the remote and turned it off. He unwound a trash bag from the roll and swept the island with one arm, dumping the garbage and glasses alike into it. He tossed the bag into the garage and returned to the kitchen, immediately taking note of how filthy it still was.

For the next eight hours, James scrubbed and sprayed and wiped and vacuumed the filth out of his house. The sun was rising again by the time he was finished. He flopped into his massive plush bed, and immediately drifted off into a contented sleep.

The incessant singing of finches outside the window roused him in the early afternoon. He sat up, taking in the spotless space. His phone laid dark next to him; no missed calls or texts. In a rare move, he picked it up and tried calling his mother. She didn’t answer of course, but he sent her a text telling her he was fine but loved her.

A swim in the hot sun lulled him back into a sleepy state, so he returned to the couch in the main living room. Out of all of the streaming services, all of the regular cable channels, and all of his movies, he found nothing to watch. The light of the sun was failing, and his walls grayed with it. The lightness within him seeped out into the shadows of the room, and he was struck by the feeling of how utterly alone he was with himself. Scrolling through the sports channels, he found a fairly high-stakes horse race; it would have to do.

As soon as the sorrel #3 winner streaked across the finish line with her blue-and-white-clad jockey perched high upon her back, he traipsed down to the machine. He looked into the cheval mirror as he passed it and was horrified to see that the grisly reflection had returned. He jumped over to the device, punched in the proper numbers, and away he went.

The damn hill greeted him again. Silent and alone, it offered him nothing but a shadow from the falling sun. James screamed into the cool air before setting another home trip.

The door squealed back; he was back in his basement. But before he could step out, it slammed shut, and he was once again being sucked through a funnel.

The knoll and setting sun stood before him again, but this time, the mirror sat at the base of it, facing away from him. He cautiously stepped onto the dormant grass, no screaming or cursing this time. He peered around the wood frame, and there staring back at him was the younger, healthy version of himself. When he fully stepped around, the reflection of the knoll behind him flickered to his basement, but the image was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

The minutes ticked by, just him and his gorgeous, perfect, wide-eyed reflection staring at each other. A chill sank into his innards, and he slowly made his way back to the controls, not taking his eyes off the back of the mirror. The adrenaline high that remained mingled with confusion, and he noticed his hands were smooth and youthful as they tapped numbers.

“Will you be happier if I just skip this week?” he asked the cold steel. Maybe it was too many jumps in a short time for an aging time machine, he thought. James drew in a long draught of air and held it; he had never gone into the future before. How different could it be? He skipped a week, hoping it would be enough to bypass the glitch.

The sensation was the same, but when the door revealed his basement, the mirror and the couch were gone. James gasped as he took in the state of the room. Mold climbed high on the concrete walls, covering faded swirls of graffiti. Wires hung from the ceiling between sagging rafters, and broken beer bottles and shooters littered the floor. The stairs to the main level had completely collapsed; he was trapped if he couldn’t reach the transom window above the empty corner where the couch should be.

Too far. It had taken him too far.

He spun back around to the time machine and the sight of it knocked the air from his chest. The door hung sideways, the metal was rusted, the control screen cracked and dark.

“No, no no no!” He screamed as he frantically went through the power-up procedures. No toggle he touched, no switch he flipped, no button he pushed reacted to him. He pounded on the screen, cutting his hand on a piece of the broken glass.

“Fuck!” he yelled, flipping his palm towards him to survey the damage. His breath stopped in his throat.

Not a drop of blood seeped from the wide gash. He watched in horror as his hands shriveled, wrinkles and accelerated age taking them over. It got harder and harder to breathe by the second. Not from the shock, he realized, but because his lungs were failing. Desperately sucking in air, he watched as his hand and the body it was attached to withered; just before his vision went dark, he watched his fingertips float away into gray ash.

psychological
Like

About the Creator

Kelsey Hodges

Writing has always been a passion of mine, and I do it for that reason alone... it's FUN! I hope you enjoy my stories!

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.