Two minutes to death

Every Second Counts

Emily’s footsteps echoed softly against the cracked pavement as she hurried through the fog that swallowed the streetlamps like thick smoke. The night was colder than she expected for early October, and a chill crawled up her spine, though she tried to shrug it off. She checked her phone—10:13 p.m.—and quickened her pace. The shortcut through the alley would get her home faster, she thought.

But the alley was different tonight. Darker. Somehow quieter.

Halfway through, a sudden, sharp metallic clang echoed behind her. She spun around, heart hammering, but the street was empty, bathed only in the orange glow of a distant lamp. Taking a shaky breath, she kept moving.

That’s when she saw it—the heavy steel door, old and rusted, wedged open at the end of the alley where there shouldn’t have been one. Her curiosity twisted in her gut. She stepped closer, hesitating. From inside the dark gap came a faint sound, like breathing.

Before she could think better of it, the door slammed shut behind her with a final, booming thud.

The world fell silent.

Emily’s eyes struggled to adjust in the pitch-black room. She could hear the faint drip of water somewhere far off, but no other sound. Her phone was dead—the screen black as night.

Then, like a jolt to her chest, a harsh digital voice cut through the silence: “Time starts now.”

A flicker of light revealed a small screen on the far wall. A countdown timer glowed ominously: 2:00.

Her pulse raced.

She rushed to the screen and tapped it frantically. Nothing.

“Hello?” she called out, voice cracking. No answer.

The timer blinked: 1:59.

A voice echoed, distorted and cruel: “You have two minutes to survive.”

Emily’s breath caught. “Survive from what? Who are you?”

No reply.

A cold breeze brushed past her neck, and she spun, but the room was empty—save for her.

1:45.

The walls seemed to close in, shadows pooling like dark ink on the concrete. Her heart hammered as panic set in. She banged on the walls. “Help! Somebody!”

No response but a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Her eyes darted around. Shapes shifted in the corners of her vision, twisting and snarling into monstrous forms, then vanishing.

1:30.

She needed to escape. She scanned the room for anything—doors, windows, vents. Nothing but cold walls.

Suddenly, the lights flickered on, revealing deep scratches carved into the walls, letters gouged raw and bleeding shadows:

“EVERY SECOND COUNTS.”

Emily swallowed hard. The phrase echoed in her mind like a mantra, a warning.

Her phone suddenly buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out—alive, but no signal. On the screen was a new message:

“Solve the riddle to unlock the door. Fail, and you die.”

Her hands trembled as she read:

"What walks on four legs at dawn, two legs at noon, and three legs at dusk?"

A classic riddle. The answer surged into her mind immediately—“Man.”

She typed the answer and hit send.

The timer blinked: 1:00.

No response. Then the screen flashed green briefly, a mechanical grinding sound echoed, and a panel in the wall slid open, revealing a narrow passage.

Relief flooded her, but before she could move, the growl grew louder, more desperate—like something was pawing at the door behind her.

1:00 and counting.

Emily darted into the passage, the timer still counting down.

The corridor was claustrophobic and winding, lined with pipes that dripped ominously. Her footsteps bounced off the walls, mixing with the heavy breathing behind her.

Seconds ticked away mercilessly.

The growling was closer now.

0:45.

She rounded a corner and almost collided with a figure cloaked in shadows, eyes glowing red in the dim light.

Emily screamed and stumbled backward—but it was gone when she looked again. Just a trick of the mind. Or was it?

She pushed onward, panic threatening to overwhelm her. The timer blinked relentlessly.

0:30.

Another message flashed on her phone: “Hurry. Every second counts.”

The corridor opened into a large room with a single door at the far end, sealed tight.

No handle. No keypad.

Only a small slot near the doorframe.

Emily frantically searched her pockets and found a crumpled keycard from her old job. It wasn’t likely, but she slid it into the slot.

The door remained locked.

Then, the creature emerged behind her—its form hulking, unnatural, a grotesque mix of shadow and teeth, its breath freezing the air.

Emily slammed the door and threw herself against it. No give.

The timer blinked 0:10.

The creature snarled, claws scraping at the metal.

Her mind raced. What else?

She glanced down and noticed the words carved into the floor:

“USE TIME TO ESCAPE.”

Time.

The timer.

An idea struck—what if she could freeze time? Pause the countdown?

She grabbed her phone, desperately fiddling with the screen, tapping the timer, trying to find a way to stop it.

0:05.

Her fingers trembled, heart a thunderclap.

Then the screen flashed.

Time froze.

The creature stopped mid-scrape, eyes wide in frozen rage.

Emily blinked, the world silent and still.

She slipped through the door as the countdown paused.

She didn’t look back.

When she reached the street outside, the timer on her phone ticked back to 2:00.

Her breath fogged in the cold air as she collapsed, safe for now—but somewhere behind her, in the shadows of the alley, the ticking began again.

Because when the nightmare starts, every second counts.