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A Portal in Time. James A. Costa Jr.
Читать онлайн.Название A Portal in Time
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781771430630
Автор произведения James A. Costa Jr.
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство Ingram
Extreme care has been taken by the author to ensure that all information presented in this book is accurate and up to date at the time of publishing. Neither the author nor the publisher can be held responsible for any errors or omissions. Additionally, neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the express written permission of the publisher.
Publisher:
CCB Publishing
British Columbia, Canada
For Jeannette, my wife, my love
Chapter 1
Spring 1939
Her Shirley Temple ringlets bobbed in time with her feet descending the wooden staircase.
“Come straight home and don’t dilly-dally along the way,” her mother called after her. “It will be dark soon.”
Dolly stopped and called back. “I won’t, Mama.”
“And don’t talk to strangers.”
Dolly started down again. “I won’t, Mama.”
Day was fading to dusk when Dolly emerged from the old tenement building onto the pavement. Her yellow pinafore was mostly hidden behind a hand-me-down woolen sweater that hung loose on her. “Milk and bread, and a pack of Camels for Daddy,” she sang to herself as she skipped along keeping a rhythm with her little black shoes scraping the sidewalk.
The street was quiet and her shadow fell long before her in the dull evening light. The grocery store lay two blocks ahead, not far, and she didn’t really know why her mother always told her not to talk to strangers. What would a stranger do anyway, ask how to get someplace or where somebody lived? What was so bad about that? Besides, nobody ever stopped to ask her for anything in her whole life.
Her thoughts turned to the birthday party she would be going to next Saturday at Dante Cosner’s house and what kind of present she could get for him. She liked Dante a lot because he was cute, and she knew he liked her too because he was always pulling her hair in class and teasing her. It made her happy just to think of him. Someday maybe she might even marry him! She tittered at the thought of it.
At first she didn’t see the man standing across the street. As always, her attention was drawn to the deserted house she had to pass on the way to the store. It was so spooky the way it just stood there covered with shadows, like it was alive and staring at her with its broken windows like eyes watching her go by, and the broken porch posts hanging like arms that wanted to shoot out and grab her. And, as always, she was tempted to cross the street and then cross back again, but that seemed a silly thing to do now that she was older, almost ten. A little closer and she could just dash past it faster than it could ever catch her. She was about to break into a run when the man seemed to appear out of nowhere, a big man wearing a long, black coat.
“Little girl,” he said, his voice soft but distinct, “little girl, did you see a little dog around here anyplace? A black and white dog?”
Dolly’s first instinct was to glance around. The man stood next to her now, a big man, twice as big as her daddy. “Gee, mister--”
The huge hand he suddenly clapped over her mouth cut off her words and powerful arms hauled her in under the flap of his coat. Her feet came off the pavement thrashing as he carried her down the crumbled walkway alongside the deserted house. Stifled screams swelled her throat, suffocating her. Eyes wide with terror peered out between the thick fingers nearly covering her entire face….
Chapter 2
Spring 2007
Gary sat cross-legged on the attic floor, rummaging through a stack of old magazines and newspapers he had lifted from a wooden crate stamped with the faded name ‘Weckerle’s Dairy.’ The musty smell of the newspapers and the mingled odors of wood planking and stale air seemed to wrap him in a warm cocoon. From a porthole window at the end of the attic, a river of dry sunlight swimming with dust motes streamed in and brightened the floor where he carefully separated the magazines from each other.
Intrigued, he studied the covers, so oddly stylized with snooty-faced men in monocles, and women in furs; cocked top hats, canes and tilted bubbly champagne glasses. It made him a little giddy to look at these artificial images, and filled him with a mixed sense of familiarity and unfamiliarity, of a reality and unreality he couldn’t quite reconcile.
The Past! It seemed to beckon him, like the Sirens luring him to some distant home. No doubt his grandfather had much to do with his fascination with the past. Raised by him most of his life, how could he help but be influenced. He was a nostalgic man, Gramps was, a dreamer who longed for the ‘the good-old days’ right up to the time he died ten years ago. But it was more than that, Gary thought. Something had to run in their blood, a family gene, some little-understood yearning or predisposition of the mind that made the past seductive, compelling, magical.
A veritable museum, the attic was crammed with boxes and stacks of 78 rpm records, crates of jars and bottles, bundles of magazines, pieces of furniture-- everything, from rusty garden tools to tangled fishing tackle to crushed Christmas decorations. Peeking out from under an old canvas bag was the yellowed edge of a newspaper. Gently he slid it out, parting the pages as delicately as he would the damp wings of a butterfly and spread them on the floor.
“Gary,” came a quavering voice from the foot of the attic stairs, “Gary, are you still up there?”
“Still here, Gram,” he called back, pressing the pages flat.
“Supper’s almost ready. Come down now and wash your hands.”
Wash your hands. Like he was still a kid.
Except for its crumbling edges, the paper was in excellent condition, and it pleased him to see the date, an old one, Tuesday, September 5, 1939. The headline read, Second British Ship Is Sunk Off Scotland. Fascinated, he skimmed the page, reading of Hitler’s invasion of Poland; of our proclamation of neutrality; of the war boom sending stock prices soaring. Totally absorbed, he was about to flip the page, when, almost as an editorial afterthought in the lower left corner, the picture of a young girl smiling out to him caught his eye. Beneath the picture the caption read, Body of missing girl found. A curious sadness touched him, and he was about to read, when his grandmother’s voice jarred him.
“Gary, supper’s on the table now. Don’t let it get cold.”
Knowing full well that he had about a five minute leeway, he folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. Rising, he took a quick look around, trying to decide which chest or old suitcase he would search next. He was hoping there would be a cache of old coins hidden away.
“Gary!”
“Coming,” he called back, his feet drumming down the hollow staircase into the house.
“Did you turn out the hall light?” she asked as he brushed past her on the way to his room.
“I absolutely without fail