It was the third week of summer, and I was already bored out of my mind. No camp. No trips. No friends around. Just me and my older brother Jayden (who only talks in grunts now), and a whole lot of nothing.
So I decided to explore.
Our neighborhood isn’t exactly exciting, but there’s this one street Elmway that’s kind of creepy. Most of the houses are normal. Except for number 17—it’s falling apart with cracked windows and peeling gray paint, but the weirdest thing is the bright yellow door. It doesn’t match anything. I’ve never seen anyone go in or out.
That day, I stood across the street from it, squinting. The mailbox had cobwebs. The porch creaked even with the wind. I was about to turn back when I saw it. The door was open a tiny crack.
Now, any normal person would probably just walk away. But no one ever accuses me of being normal.
I looked both ways (not for cars, but for witnesses), then crossed the street and tiptoed up the porch. I poked the door. It creaked open. The house smelled like old books and cinnamon, which was not what I expected.
“Hello?” I whispered, stepping inside.
The floorboards groaned under me. It was dark except for a weird, soft glow coming from the hallway. I followed it, trying not to breathe too loudly or deeply.
That’s when I saw it.
A clock. But not just any clock—it was floating. Just hovering in the middle of the hallway, ticking softly. There was no string. No stand—it was just … there.
I blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Still there.
“Cool,” I muttered, reaching out.
“Don’t touch that.”
I jumped about three feet into the air. A voice came from behind me, and when I turned, a girl about my age stood in the shadows. She had messy curls, overalls, and a backpack stuffed with books and weird tools.
“This house is protected,” she said. “The clock controls time inside it. If you mess with it, things go weird.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean, weird?”
She pulled a notebook from her bag. “I’ve been exploring this place for weeks. Sometimes it’s 1922 inside. Once it was the year 3011. I think the house is stuck between time zones. Everything shifts without warning.”
“Wait,” I said. “You’re telling me this house is a time machine?”
“Kind of,” she shrugged. “It’s more like a living rip in time. Want to help me figure it out?”
I blinked. My boring summer had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.
I smiled. “I’m in.”
Then the clock let out a loud chime. The walls began to shimmer. The floor flickered like static, buzzing louder and louder.
“We have to move,” she said quickly. “Something’s changing again.”
“Changing how?” I asked, stepping closer.
The air crackled. My shoes lifted. The hallway twisted like taffy.
I grabbed her hand.
Then the yellow door vanished behind us forever.
And suddenly, everything felt possible.
