Sylvie trembled as she found herself scrunched in the corner of what appeared to be a closet. A long fur jacket blocked her view. She pushed it to the side, gently peeking. Shades of light streamed through the slotted wooden closet doors.
A humming sound of white noise filled the silence. Then, after a pause, a gentle melody played. Sylvie recognized the song but couldn’t remember the title or the singer. She only remembered the melody because Nonna always played the song when she missed Papa.
Was she at Nonna’s?
She could only hope she was… but something told her she wasn’t. She could feel it in the air. A thick, blood curdling tension enveloped around her, chilling her bones.
Sylvie’s head throbbed. Her teeth chattered—not from being cold, but from the fear that ran from her head to her toes. She’d seen the killer, not his face, but she’d seen his shadow. She’d felt his hands on her arm when she’d jumped. Sylvie rubbed her forearm now. It stung from the killer’s scratch.
Sylvie took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. I need to leave this closet and see where I am; she thought. Still, despite her thoughts, she withdrew back into the corner, welcoming the hard surface of the closet wall as proof the moment was real.
Suddenly, the song stopped, as the white noise hum engulfed the silence. Then, after a short pause, the song played again.
Sylvie peeked through the slotted doors. She rubbed her eyes. She swore she saw the record player’s needle lift, then set back down again by itself.
She peeked again to get a sense of the room. She didn’t recognize it from what she could see. There was a shaggy red carpet, a blue wall, and a calendar that hung over the record player. Sylvie squinted, peering through the slotted door to try to make out the year printed at the top of the calendar.
1972? She’d gone back that far?
Sylvie felt a pain in her chest shooting like lightning inside her body. She’d never gone back so far. Why was she here? According to the calendar, she hadn’t even been born yet.
Sylvie rested her head on the wall behind her and listened as the song played, then stopped. Over and over, the interplay of white noise and music competed for attention.
Sylvie heard a deep sob that seemed to be coming from inside the closet.
Sylvie turned her as she dug her heels into the shag carpet, inching further into the corner, as if there was more room.
She gasped, noticing a little boy sitting on the other side of the closet. Soft lines of light from the shutter doors lit his face.
“Shh…” He held his fingers to his lips, wet from tears.
Sylvie said nothing. Instead, she held her breath as she stared at the boy. He had black, tousled hair and deep brown eyes. His cheeks were red, his body thin and frail. He wore brown plaid pants and a brown t-shirt. It looked like an outfit she’d seen on one of the kid characters on The Brady Bunch reruns she and Sebastian liked to watch on Nickelodeon.
Sylvie watched as the boy stared out the slotted closet doors, staring at the record player.
She looked back at the record player and definitely saw the needle raise, move backward, then set back down as the song played again.
Was the boy moving it with his mind? Or was he looping time to make it play over and over?
Sylvie felt her temples pulse.
The taste of metal in her mouth told her it was the latter.
Sylvie gulped air and held it once more, then slowly breathed out. It petrified her to move. She couldn’t understand why the boy wasn’t surprised to see her.
She stared at him as he held his fingers to his lips again.
“Shh. . .” He pleaded with his eyes.
The music turned louder, then softer.
A commotion could be heard from outside the room.
That’s when Sylvie knew that there was something else—or someone else—he was afraid of. Someone he was hiding from.
In the distance, she heard a woman cry, a man yell, then a thump up the stairs.
The song was drowning them out.
She looked at the boy, who now clenched his hands into tiny, shaking fists as more tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Who are—” Sylvie began, but couldn’t finish because the bang of the bedroom door being slammed open stopped her.
The blur of a man in dirt-stained overalls rushing into the room could be seen through the shuttered doors.
“Where are you, you little—?” the man cursed as he looked under the bed.
The record player needle rose, then stayed midair as the boy seemed to hold it there with his stare. The music stopped once more.
The man paused.
The needle dropped. And the music played.
“Leave him alone!” a woman cried from down the hall.
Sylvie looked back at the boy, then at the man, then back to the boy again.
It didn’t matter where she was or why she was in 1972. Not right now, anyway. She needed to go.
Come on! Go, go! She looked at her watch. The hands spun.
She shut her eyes, shaking, thinking of Sebastian. Thinking of home. Thinking of 1987.
Her muscles twitched; her chest tightened. The air felt different—it was thick. Stifling. Sylvie could feel tiny droplets of sweat collect on her forehead as she held back her puke. She dug the tips of her stiff fingers into her thighs just to see if she was still alive.
“You little—” the man cursed as he flung the closet door open.
Sylvie, stunned, looked at the boy as he disappeared.
Sylvie froze as she stayed hidden behind the long fur jacket. The man hadn’t seen her yet.
Come on, come on, go, go! She thought again, lips quivering as she tried not to sob.
“Please!” the woman called once more, desperate, from the hallway.
Sylvie saw a blur as the woman entered the room.
The man shoved the clothes hangers aside, inching closer to Sylvie. He pushed the long fur coat she was huddled behind out of the way. She felt the jacket brush past her cheeks as she smelled the musty, stale fur.
Sylvie felt her watch grow hot as the room began to spin. Finally, she thought. She could feel her blood rush from her head to her feet.
Then, just as the man pushed the fur coat aside, just as he was about to lay his eyes upon her, Sylvie vanished.