It was a cold day. The winds were freezing, and the trees were covered in snow. A high schooler named Chuck was hiking up a mountain when he noticed something strange—his compass kept pulling westward. Curious, he decided to follow its direction.
As he walked, the pull grew stronger until, at one particular spot, the compass started spinning in circles. Intrigued, he began digging at that location. To his surprise, he uncovered the entrance to a dungeon.
Stepping inside, he found himself in a dark, ancient place covered in spiderwebs. The air was thick with dust, and the stone walls looked like they had stood for centuries. At the center of the dungeon, he saw a strange, circular portal. Without hesitation, he stepped through it.
In an instant, Chuck was transported to the early 19th century, appearing near an abandoned house. Confused but determined, he cautiously entered the house and discovered a locked room. With no other choice, he broke down the door. Inside, he found an old vault—it was unlocked.
Inside the vault, he discovered a map, aged and worn with time. Next to it lay a note, a torn page from what seemed to be a journal. The message read:
"There are consequences to our actions. I thought time travel was a gift—I could take pieces of the past and bring them back with me. But then I stepped outside and saw the portal was gone. My heart pounded. Panic set in. And then... darkness. When I woke up, I had no choice but to accept my fate."
A chilling realization hit Chuck—someone had discovered these portals before him. Panic set in as he rushed outside, hoping to find the portal still there. But it was gone.
Tears streamed down his face. He was trapped.
But this wasn't the end. The real challenge was just beginning.
Chuck got up, still sobbing, and stumbled back into the house. In another room, he found an old wooden wardrobe. Curious, he opened it and discovered a dusty overcoat with a matching hat. Without hesitation, he put them on, stuffing the map and the note into his pockets. He had no choice but to blend in.
Steeling himself, he walked toward a nearby town. As soon as he entered, he felt eyes on him—people staring as if he were some kind of outsider. His heart pounded. But after a moment, he realized the truth: no one was actually staring. It was just his own fear whispering that he didn't belong.
Frustration boiled inside him. He refused to accept this fate. He would do whatever it took to return to his timeline. Determined, he approached a man and lied, saying his horse had collapsed and he needed help. The man agreed without hesitation.
As soon as they were outside the town, Chuck led him into the woods. Without warning, he attacked—punching, kicking, unleashing his rage. The man barely clung to consciousness as Chuck rifled through his pockets, stealing his money before running back to town.
With the stolen money, he bought every newspaper he could find and returned to the abandoned house. He spent hours combing through them, desperate for any clue. Page after page, nothing. His heart sank.
Then, finally, in the last newspaper, he found something.
A report from the previous week told of a man who had disappeared near this very house. The authorities had been chasing him, believing he was part of a cult responsible for the ritualistic murders of three shopkeepers.
Chuck's hope was nearly gone. But then—just as despair threatened to consume him—a dim light flickered in the darkness.
He jumped up, scanning the house with fresh eyes. There had to be something he had missed.
And then… he found it.
Chuck discovered a hidden basement beneath the dining table. He shoved the heavy table aside, revealing a trapdoor. Taking a deep breath, he pulled it open and jumped down.
As he landed, dust exploded into the air, making him cough. The basement was filled with wooden crates, stacked high and covered in cobwebs. He pried one open, his eyes widening—inside were weapons. Dynamite, pistols, rifles, grenades. Enough firepower for a small army.
But something else caught his eye. Behind the crates, tucked away in the shadows, was an old journal. He picked it up, wiping away the dust, and flipped it open. Inside, written in careful, almost haunting script, was a poem:
"When the moons are high and the stars align"
Seek the tower where the shadows climb.
"A door unseen by day stands still"
But midnight's touch bends time's will.
"Follow the whispers the night winds weave"
Through halls where echoes never leave.
"Beyond the arch where time stands still"
Lies the key to ancient things.
Chuck read it over and over, frowning. The words made little sense to him, but he knew one thing—this was important. He tucked the journal under his arm, climbed out of the basement, and sealed the trapdoor behind him.
Upstairs, he sat in a dusty room, staring at the poem, trying to piece it together. But before he could make any progress, a loud crash echoed through the house.
The front door.
His heart pounded. The police were here.
Panic set in as he realized what had happened—the man he had beaten had survived. Worse, the woods where he had left him were too close to the house. He had led them straight here.
Chuck bolted to the window. No time to think. No time to hesitate.
He flung it open and jumped.
The cold night air hit him as he landed hard and took off running, crashing into the dark woods. He didn't stop until he found a cave, hidden among the trees. Gasping for breath, he crawled inside and pressed himself against the damp stone walls.
For now, he was safe.
Over the next three days, he focused on decoding the poem. Each night, he studied the words, piecing together its meaning.
Food wasn't an issue—he had made a friend three days ago, a man who brought him meals every evening. They had built a bond, and Chuck finally felt like he wasn't alone in this strange world.
But what Chuck didn't know was the truth.
The man wasn't his friend.
He was an undercover cop.
On the fourth day, Chuck was sure he had finally cracked the poem's code.
Decoded Message:
The poem directs Chuck to a hidden door that only appears at midnight, likely near a tower or something tall. Once inside, he must follow subtle signs—whispers in the night—that will guide him to an archway where time itself seems to freeze. This arch may hold the key to unlocking more about the portals or even time travel itself.
As he read over his notes, his so-called friend arrived, carrying a sack of food. Chuck took the meal gratefully, the hunger gnawing at his stomach. They chatted as he ate, the conversation feeling normal—too normal.
Then, the world tilted.
His limbs felt heavy, his vision blurred. A sickening realization hit him—he had been drugged. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he locked eyes with the man, betrayal cutting through him like a knife.
"You—" Chuck growled, his words slurring.
The man smirked.
Rage burned through Chuck like fire. With the last of his strength, he grabbed a thick wooden stick from the cave floor and swung with everything he had. The impact cracked against the cop's skull, sending him crashing to the ground just as darkness swallowed Chuck's vision.
When Chuck woke up, his body ached, his mind foggy. Then he saw it.
The cop was lying motionless.
Dead.
A lump formed in Chuck's throat, but there was no time for regret. He searched the body, finding a hidden gun tucked under the cop's coat. He took it, wiped the blood from the scene, and dragged the body deeper into the cave. Then, without looking back, he fled.
He hid until nightfall, waiting for the right moment.
Now, it was time.
With his decoded message burned into his mind, he ventured into the forest, searching for anything that fit the poem's description. Hours passed, the cold air biting at his skin. Then, he saw it—an unnaturally tall, thick tree towering over the others like a guardian.
His gut told him this was the place.
Desperate, he searched around it, looking for anything unusual. His fingers scraped against the rough bark, his breath visible in the cold night air.
Then, in the distance, a dim light flickered.
His heart pounded as he followed it, weaving through the trees until he reached a cave—one that didn't look natural. It was too smooth, too perfectly placed, as if someone had carved it there on purpose.
Cautiously, he stepped inside.
A figure stood waiting.
Chuck froze. The man's face was unfamiliar, yet something about him felt eerily significant.
"I've been expecting you," the man said, his voice calm, almost amused.
Chuck's breath hitched. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "Let's just say… we're family."
Chuck's blood ran cold.
"You—You knew about the portals?" he stammered.
"Oh, I knew everything," the man said, his eyes gleaming. "The portals. The weapons. The clues. I left them behind because I knew, one day, someone would find them."
Chuck's head spun. This was too much. Too unreal.
Then, suddenly, the man laughed—a hollow, unsettling sound.
"Family?" he scoffed. "Oh, no. I just wrote that poem and left the journal to mess with whoever stumbled upon it. You? You're just another pawn in the game."
Chuck's blood turned to ice.
Nothing was what it seemed.
The man took a step forward, his expression shifting from amusement to something darker.
"I was the first," he said, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. "The first to find the portals. The first to cross through time."
Chuck could barely breathe.
"I left the clues. I built the weapons stash. I thought I could control time itself," the man continued, his gaze locking onto Chuck. "But time doesn't like to be controlled."
The air in the cave seemed to thicken.
"I lost everything," the man muttered. "Trapped. Forgotten. Forced to survive in a world that isn't mine." He gave Chuck a knowing look. "And now, so are you."
Chuck staggered back, his mind reeling.
Then, his grip tightened around the journal in his hand.
"So you weren't the one who left the map of the portals behind?" Chuck asked, his voice sharp.
The man's smirk faltered.
His expression shifted—not to amusement, but to something else.
Confusion.
"What map?" the man asked, his tone no longer playful. It was serious now.
Chuck felt a chill creep down his spine.
The man was lying… or worse.
There was someone else.
Someone who had planned all of this before either of them had arrived.