The Seventeen Minute Cipher

I was thirteen when I bought the clock from a dusty electronics shop on the edge of town. It wasn’t special, just a rectangular digital display with a red glow and a single speaker grille. I wanted it because my phone felt like a portal to a hundred distractions, and I craved something simpler, something that would just tell me the time without asking for my attention. The shopkeeper, an old man with rheumy eyes, had given me a strange look when I handed him the crumpled bills. ‘This one,’ he said, ‘it’s got a history.’ I laughed it off, thinking he meant it was from a previous century, but he just shook his head and wrapped it in brown paper.

For a week, the clock sat on my nightstand, its red digits blinking 12:00 until I finally set it. It hummed quietly, a soft thrum like a distant motor, and I grew used to it. My parents were on a business trip, and my older sister was at camp, so I had the house to myself for the summer. I spent my days in the cool basement, playing on my old console, the screen flickering with pixelated adventures. The clock was upstairs, a silent sentinel in my bedroom, and I rarely gave it a thought.

But on the fourteenth day, at exactly 11:00 in the morning, the clock began to play a song. It was a tinny, warped version of an old folk tune, the kind my grandmother used to hum. The melody was sweet but somehow wrong, like it was being played underwater. I froze, my controller slipping from my hands. I hadn’t touched the clock, hadn’t set an alarm. I marched upstairs and pressed the button to silence it, but the song kept playing, muffled as if from inside the plastic case. I unplugged it, but the sound continued. And then I saw it.

The display, which should have been blank, showed a series of numbers: 20:00. And it was counting down. 19:59, 19:58, 19:57. The numbers were not in the typical font; they were thin and angular, almost like scratches. My heart pounded. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, the kind you feel when you realize you are not alone in the dark.

I plugged the clock back in, and the song stopped. The countdown vanished, replaced by the correct time. I convinced myself it was a power surge, a malfunction, my imagination running wild after a late night. I went back to my game, but I couldn’t concentrate. Every few minutes, I glanced at the stairs, expecting something to move in the shadows.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I was in the kitchen making a sandwich. The clock in the living room, which was the same model but from a different store, suddenly began to play the same song. I ran to it, but this one was unplugged too, its cord lying on the floor. The display was lit, and the same countdown appeared: 20:00. I stared at it, my breath quickening. I didn’t know what to do. I unplugged it, but the countdown continued, the numbers flickering like dying embers.

I called my sister, but her phone went to voicemail. I tried my parents, but they were in a mountain cabin with no signal. I was alone, truly alone, with two clocks that were ticking away my life. I remembered the shopkeeper’s words: ‘It’s got a history.’ What history? I had to find out.

I grabbed my bike and pedaled furiously through the darkening streets. The shop was closed, but a light burned in the back. I knocked, then pounded on the glass. The elderly man appeared, his face pale. He seemed to be expecting me. ‘You’ve seen the countdown,’ he said, not a question. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I had disabled it.’

He let me in and led me to a back room cluttered with old radios and speakers. He explained that the clock was not just a clock; it was a message carrier, built by a technician who had tried to warn people about a disaster at a nearby factory. The factory had been closed for decades, but the man believed that the clock still held the warning, programmed to activate under certain conditions. The countdown was not to my death, but to the opening of a portal, a rift that allowed something from the factory to cross into our world.

‘Thirteen minutes left,’ he said, glancing at his own watch. ‘The factory is a mile from here. If the countdown reaches zero, the rift will open, and they will come.’ ‘They?’ I whispered. ‘The workers,’ he said. ‘They never left. They are trapped between worlds, and they want out.’

I didn’t believe him, but then I heard a faint humming sound, like the one from my clock, coming from the direction of the factory. I looked out the window, and in the distance, I saw a pale blue glow rising from the abandoned building. The countdown on my phone (I had set it to stopwatch) showed 12:43.

I knew I had to do something. The clocks were the anchors. If I could destroy them before zero, the rift would not open. I bolted out of the shop, pedaling as fast as I could, the blue glow intensifying. I reached my house, ran to my bedroom, and grabbed the clock. It was still counting down: 8:32. I took it to the kitchen, opened the drawer, and pulled out a hammer. I hesitated, staring at the innocent rectangle. The song started again, but this time it was a distorted lullaby, and the numbers were changing faster: 8:31, 8:30, 8:29.

With a cry, I smashed the clock into pieces. The song cut off, and the screen went dark. But in my other room, the living room clock began to play, louder, more frantic. I ran, grabbed it, and smashed it too, the plastic shattering under my blows. The humming outside grew to a roar, and the blue light flared, then flickered, then died.

Silence. I stood in the dim living room, breathing hard, the broken clocks at my feet. The date was still ticking in my head. I checked my phone: 8:27. I had stopped it with three minutes to spare. Or had I? The shopkeeper’s words echoed: ‘They never left. They want out.’ I looked at the shattered clock, and I noticed that the display, even broken, showed a faint 00:00.

I tried to convince myself it was over, but as I swept up the jagged pieces, I felt a cold draft, and the room seemed darker. I turned on a lamp, and in the corner, I saw a shape—a hazy, humanoid figure, watching me with hollow eyes. It vanished when I blinked, but I knew it was real. The rift had opened for a moment, just enough.

I never told anyone, and I moved away a year later. But sometimes, at night, I hear that lullaby, faint but unmistakable, and I see the faint red glow of a 00:00 in the corner of my vision. The clocks are gone, but the countdown never really stops. It’s always there, waiting, for someone else to find a clock with a history and set it, not knowing that time is not just something you read, but something you buy, and some things are better left unplugged.