The 17th Minute

For eleven years, my family has lived in the old farmhouse on Larkspur Lane, a place that seemed to age faster than we did, its walls breathing a musty sigh every time the wind picked up. I’m Elena, nineteen, the one who still believes in things that don’t show up on cameras or in logic. My dad’s an engineer, my mom’s a therapist, my half-brother Marcus is off at college, my little brother Theo is six, and my twin sister Mira thinks I’m one step away from a breakdown.

Since I was eight, I’ve felt a presence in this house, something that clings to the corners of my vision. But it wasn’t until three years ago that it took a form. Now, at least twice a week, I hear the soft, choked sobs of a child coming from my room, always at 17 minutes past the hour, whether it’s 3:17 in the afternoon or 11:17 at night. The first time I heard it, I sat up in bed, my heart racing, and whispered, ‘Hello?’ The crying stopped, and a small, wavery voice answered, ‘Hello? Is that you?’ Since then, that’s the only response I ever get, no matter how many questions I ask.

At first, I wasn’t scared. A crying child isn’t a monster. I started a log, using my phone to record the date and time each occurrence. But after six months, I noticed the pattern, and it chilled me. It’s always 17 minutes past the hour, never any other time. I told my parents, but they dismissed it as my imagination, or a stray animal outside. Mira laughed. Theo, however, would get a strange look in his eyes, as if he understood something I didn’t.

Last week, things changed. I was in the living room, the TV off but the screen black and glossy, when I saw a man’s reflection behind me. He was tall, gaunt, with hair so greasy it looked wet, and his eyes were hollow pits. I spun around, but nothing was there. I turned back to the TV, and he was still there, staring at me with a slack, hungry expression. I ran to my room, heart pounding, and tried to tell myself it was a trick of the light. But it’s happened three times since then, always in reflections: the bathroom mirror, the oven door, even the back of my phone. And each time, he’s a little closer.

Last night, I decided to confront the boy. I waited for 4:17, and when the crying began, I didn’t just speak, I demanded, ‘What do you want from me?’ The crying stopped, and a voice, thin and trembling, replied, ‘I’m trapped. He made me stay. But you can see him, and you can help me escape.’ My blood ran cold. ‘Who is he?’ I asked. ‘The man with the black hair. He came with the house. He takes children. I’m the first, but he wants the little one.’

My blood ran cold. The little one, Theo. That’s why Theo has those looks. I grabbed my phone and called my parents, but they wouldn’t listen, they said I was having nightmares. Mira said I was obsessed. But I couldn’t shake it. At 10:17 that night, I was in the kitchen, and I saw the man in the window glass. This time, he was right behind me, so close I could feel a cold draft. I turned, and for a split second, I saw his face, pale and gaunt, with black eyes that were pure void. Then he was gone.

I knew I had to do something. I researched the history of the house. It was built in 1915 by a man named Arthur Kessler, who died here in 1923 under mysterious circumstances. There were local rumors, old wives’ tales, about a child who went missing, a boy named Elias. I found a faded photograph online: Arthur Kessler, with greasy black hair, and a small boy with sad eyes. I felt a sickening dread. This was the man in the reflections.

Last night, I snuck into Theo’s room at 3:17. I sat by his bed, waiting. He was asleep, but his face was pinched. At exactly 3:17, I heard the crying again, but this time it was louder, and it seemed to come from all around. I saw the man in the window, his reflection looming over Theo’s bed, reaching out a long, bony hand. I shouted, ‘No!’ and grabbed Theo, shaking him awake. The man recoiled, his face contorting into a snarl, and then vanished. Theo looked at me, calm and clear-eyed, and said, ‘He’s angry now. You’re his target now, not me. But you can’t let him take you.’

I’ve fled the house. I’m writing this from a motel, but I can still see his reflection in the bathroom mirror, in the window, in the glossy surface of the TV. He’s always there, waiting, and I know that no matter where I go, the 17th minute will come. And now, I’ve learned the worst part: he doesn’t just haunt the house. He follows me. Every room I enter has a reflection, and every reflection has him in it. I don’t know how to stop him. I just know that I have to survive the next 17th minute.