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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
“I pray so.”
“Gram, when you were young, did you by chance remember reading in the paper or hearing about a little girl--”
The phone rang. “That must be your Aunt Shirley,” she said, getting up. “She’s supposed to set up my doctor’s appointment for me. Your letter’s over on the stand by you,” she said, pointing and picking up the phone.
A sprinkle of cookie crumbles fell to the floor as he stretched for the envelope.
“What is it, Gary?” his grandmother said, alarmed by the expression on his face when he pulled the letter out. “Wait a minute, Shirley… Gary…?”
“It’s okay, Gram, don’t worry,” he said, scrambling to his feet, jamming the letter in his pocket and rushing for the door.
“Will you be back in time for supper?” she called after him, but he was already gone….
Chapter 6
Gary glanced at his car clock as he tooled down the road-- a few minutes past three in the afternoon. He hoped the mail-order office would still be open when he got there. The address wasn’t really that far from where he lived, but the route was a little convoluted, and the streets narrow and busier than usual at that time of day, especially with the new road construction all over town.
Wouldn’t it be something, he mused as he sped up to make a light, wouldn’t it be something if he had really found a way to communicate with the past, to actually communicate with people living in 1939? My God, it boggled the mind just thinking of the possibilities. The things he could tell! The events he could warn them of! The disasters he could help avert! He pondered: Why shouldn’t he do it? He could make the world a better place. What a contribution to society that would be!
The more he thought of it, the more appealing the idea became. With a little imagination the possibilities for doing good were endless. Just telling someone back then what to look for could be enormously beneficial to mankind. Don’t pacify Hitler, for instance, or make no deals with Stalin. Or don’t sail on the Andrea Doria on… he’d have to look up the date. His mind ranged over the catastrophic events he could prevent, the bombings, especially the recent horrendous attacks in New York. Oh, the wonder of it all if these orders he’d placed in the ancient newspaper he’d found in the attic-- orders that were filled! --if it all wasn’t some kind of elaborate prank.
Maybe he could stick a note in with the next order. Just for the hell of it, to see what response he’d get. Maybe when he got back home later he could look up in the almanac which horse would win the Kentucky Derby back then, or who would win some election, or what movie would win the Academy Award-- something simple, some event that would take place a week or so after the date of the order. He could even--
Then again, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea. One little change in the past could alter the course of history, or at least that was the prevailing theory. Then again, why should anyone assume that the way things are is the best way. Change could be an improvement. Could the world be more messed up than it’s been since cavemen started throwing rocks at each other? Anyway, he’d have to give it more thought, careful thought. For all he knew, this whole mail-order business could be a gigantic farce, and him a gullible dope.
A car moving at high speed around him suddenly veered into his path, cutting him off and driving him over the curb onto the sidewalk. Jolted, he slammed on the brakes and fought the wheel for control. Careening over the sidewalk, barely missing the face of a brick building, the car swerved and spun around, tires screaming, and stopped inches in front of a telephone pole.
“Goddamned idiot!” he cried, blasting his horn at the other car, already long gone.
“Lucky, nothing but lucky,” he told himself, realizing he could have been killed or killed any number of pedestrians he saw leaping out of the way. He remembered the e-mail message he’d received: If you want a future forget the past! If he had been killed, how funny would Shelley, his skeptical fiancee-- how funny would she have thought her little computer joke was then!
Shifting into reverse, he backed off onto the street and eased away, listening for any foreign sounds from the undercarriage. Hearing nothing unusual, he relaxed. For a moment, and only a moment, he wondered whether someone had actually tried to kill him, but dismissed the idea as ludicrous. An average guy just finishing college, no money, no enemies, none that he knew of, anyway, what reason could anyone possibly have for wanting him dead? Of course, he couldn’t discount the nuts out on the road these days.
Approaching the neighborhood minutes later, he took the letter from his pocket and read it again, his head bobbing as he glanced from the paper to the road and back again:
Your order, #148, has arrived and may be picked up at the above address between 10:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. any day except Sunday. We will hold this item for you for one week, after which time a charge of $.25 per day will be levied. Please present this letter at time of pickup….
Containing his excitement was difficult and he had to be careful his foot didn’t get too heavy on the accelerator. Today would be the day he’d get to the bottom of the mystery. The first order, the harmonica, had been delivered to his house. This one wasn’t much bigger, so why did he have to pick it up? Crazy. The whole idea of getting packages from 1939 seemed nothing but crazy. He didn’t want to think of what he’d say to Shelley if all this turned out to be some kind of prank or hoax… making a colossal fool of himself….
Ahead, the North Division Street sign came into view. What didn’t come into immediate view was the time warp Gary was about to enter.
Chapter 7
“Damn,” he said, hearing his tires rub against the curb as he pulled up in front of the building to check the rusted metal numbers over the door against the address on the letterhead. They matched: 270. Twisting around in his seat, he looked up and down the street for some sign of life, but saw only a couple of workers climbing out of a landscaping truck nearby. He took his time getting out of the car and, feeling suddenly squeamish, stood there a few seconds, undecided, absently jiggling his car keys. Then he bent down for a quick look at the underside of his car to see if anything was broken or dangling in that near death smash-up, saw nothing amiss, straightened up and surveyed the area again.
Like blank faces, a wall of warehouses with bricked-up windows stretched down the block in both directions. And like all the others, his building looked just as forbidding and, in some subtle, undefined way, even threatening. His instincts told him to run, to get out of there fast, but he refused to give in to them. No doubt it had to be some elaborate joke being played on him, like one of those reality shows that make fools out of people. But somehow that didn’t make any sense. He had to settle down; this whole damn thing was making him paranoid. Or just plain nuts!
Dented here and there, the jamb and solid steel door with its drab green paint told its age. Oddly, it had no doorknob or handle of any kind. Alongside the door, beneath the paint-thickened doorbell, was a tin sign with the faded words Ring For Service stamped into it. Would it even work? he wondered as he pressed the bell, waited a few moments, shifting from one foot to the other, and pressing again. Hearing nothing, he was secretly relieved and about to scamper back to his car and get out of there, when the door clicked and suddenly sprang open a few inches. He hesitated, wishing he had told someone where he was going, then reached out and pulled the door open far enough to peek inside. A dim light illuminated a narrow passageway.
Mustering the last of his faltering courage, he stepped inside and stood a moment. He grew suddenly angry, angry at himself