The Time Travelers' Club: Chapter 2 -- For Rent

One late September afternoon, Sam perused a well-read book about World War One, waiting for five o'clock to arrive when he and his mom would walk home.  He quietly read about the infamous Tower of London and its villainous prisoners.   Not that interesting until he started reading about severed heads on pikes, hangings, and bloody beheadings.   Sam's imagination was flooded with gruesome images.

Nearby at the reference desk, Emily finished a reference question for a young man when a slender elderly woman with silvery hair pulled back up into a bun approached her.

"May I help you?" asked Emily looking up and smiling.

"Yes, my name is Mrs. Charlotte Steers, but most people call me Lottie," she replied in a prim yet warm voice.

Emily immediately recognized the name.  Mrs. Charlotte Steers, the locally-known author of historical fiction, stood before her, reminding Emily of Miss Marple, the fictional English detective.   Last May, Mrs. Steers turned seventy-six and remained active, spry, and quick-witted.  Emily remembered Ms. Judy Depp, the head librarian, mentioning she found it odd Mrs. Steers only checked out paperback mysteries and never researched at the library, yet wrote in-depth historical novels.

"You must be new," said Mrs. Steers.  "I've not seen you here before."

"I recently moved here with my son. I started a few months ago," said Emily. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I have a notice for the community bulletin board."  Reaching into her brown leather handbag, Mrs. Steers pulled out a blue note card.  Emily read the stylish-written note:

For rent – a spacious two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a private home.  Separate entrance.  Overlooks a park, close to the elementary school, public library, restaurants, and local shops.  Reasonable rent to the right person or persons.  Very quiet home and area.  Utilities and some furniture included.  Call Mrs. Lottie Steers at 555-4567 for further details.

"May I wait to post this?" said Emily, thinking What luck.  "I’m looking for a new apartment.   Something close to here and the school.  Perhaps we can be the first to see it?"

"I think that would be excellent," said Mrs. Steers.  "How about tomorrow after work?  Sam will also be out of school then I could meet him.  It’s just a few streets over.  Close to the school and here."

"Yes, that would be perfect," said Emily.  Mrs. Steers wrote her address on the back of the note card and said goodbye.  A few moments later, Emily had a thought.   How did she know Sam's name? I don't remember mentioning it.   Emily shrugged her shoulders and returned to work.

The next day, Emily and Sam hiked to an area with old homes from bygone eras.  Many of them still belonged to the original families who had built them.  Their groomed yards were green and occasionally bushes or flower beds lined the walks to the porches.  Shading the cracked sidewalks, the roots of old oaks and elms trees pushed up from under concrete.   Sam remembered the old wives tale about cracks, mothers, and their backs, and made a game of not stepping on them.

"This one's number 454," said Emily looking at a stately Victorian home, but Sam paid no attention instead he daydreamed about what might be hidden in the attics and basements of them.   Cool old treasures.  Old books.  Trunks filled with forgotten toys.

"Oh my goodness!"  Emily stopped to stare.  "Here's 457 Woodruff Street."  Sam marveled at the largest house on the block.  "Well, judging by the looks of this place, we may not be able to afford it."

The Steers' three-story Victorian home, was painted off-white with green-trimmed window frames.   Green and yellow-striped awnings hung over the second-story curtained windows.  The weathered porch, with turned columns, stretched half the house's length.   Two wooden doors with arched curtained windows and exterior wooden-framed screen doors served as the home's main entrance.   Floor to ceiling stained glass windows stood on each side of the doors.  Several red brick chimneys towered up above the slated and steep gabled roofs.

"That's the largest house I have ever seen," said Sam awed by its size.  He loved it, already feeling at home.  His love of history and nostalgia drew him to such places.  His parents, and more recently his grandparents, took him to museums, historic houses, and libraries.

"There are eleven windows just across the front of the house," said Emily.  Through the wrought iron gate, they strolled up the cement walk and climbed the worn steps.  "I hope it's not in the lease that we have to clean all those windows."

As they reached the top step, Mrs. Steers swung open a screen door at the right far end of the porch.  Coming towards them, her shoes clacked across the boards.  Her dress brushed against some of the potted plants lining the porch rail.

"Hello.  Welcome to my home."

"Hi," said Emily. "Thank you so much for letting us look at the apartment.  Sam, this is Mrs. Steers."  Still ogling the house, Sam glanced at her and smiled.

"Sam, it's good to meet you. Have you ever seen such a house?" asked Mrs. Steers. Sam shook his head.

"My husband's great-great grandfather built this house in 1897.  He was in the lumber business and imported goods from around the world.  The family continued to add to it and now it's...  well... big."  Mrs. Steers motioned for them to follow to the screen door at the end of the porch.

"There are a total of 14 bedrooms.  The family used it as a brief time as a hotel at the turn of the century.  Then my husband inherited it.  For a while, we lodged college students just to give the house a lived-in feel. Now, I live here by myself."  Opening the screen door, Mrs. Steers led the way up the stairs.  Sam gently closed the door behind him.

At the top, she opened a yellow-painted door.  Lace curtains in the door’s window provided some privacy.  Entering the apartment, the smell of fresh paint mixed with what smelled like floor cleaner hung in the air.  Mrs. Steers opened a nearby window.

"The painters finished last week and I had professional cleaners scrub the whole apartment," said Mrs. Steers.  "I hope you like light blue."

Peaking between his mom and Mrs. Steers, Sam could see the shiny floors which creaked when they stepped on them.  Mrs. Steers walked to the middle of the spacious room and conducted the tour from there.

"This is a combination kitchen, dining, and living room," said Mrs. Steers.  Emily and Sam walked into the large open space.  "The stove and refrigerator are new and there's plenty of cabinet space."

"Over there to the right is the bathroom.  The room next to the bathroom is the larger bedroom.  Then the laundry room.  And that's a smaller bedroom that faces the park.  The fireplace is gas and it works.  Good place to roast marshmallows in the winter, eh Sam?"   Sam loved that idea.  The marble around the fireplace reminded him of fudge swirl ice cream.

Sam glanced out one window and saw trees and the house next door.  He then looked out the front windows to the street and the park.   Mrs. Steers and Emily chatted, while Sam explored.  He wanted to be sure this was the perfect place for him and his mom.

Creeeeeak... Sam pushed open the white door to the bathroom with its white and black tiled floor.   The porcelain pedestal sink and toilet stood on one side and a large claw and ball footed bathtub on the other.

"Hey, Mom, come check out this cool bathtub. It has claws and glass balls for feet."  Sam realized he had interrupted their conversation, immediately apologizing.  Emily and Mrs. Steers returned to talking and Sam checked out the bedrooms.  First the larger of the two, then he went to the front bedroom.

"Perfect," he said to himself.   "Lots of room for my books! Now I can organize my library."

Leaving his newly chosen bedroom, Sam heard his mom and Mrs. Steers talking in the laundry room.  Emily asked why the rent was so low, but he couldn't hear the answer. Then Mrs. Steers showed Emily the washer, dryer and two doors – one on the back wall and one directly across from the dryer.  She pointed over her right shoulder at the one on the back wall.

"That door enters into my part of the house." She then pointed directly to her right.  "This one goes up to the attic.   I sometimes come through here to go up there, but I will call first.  I always keep them both locked."  Mrs. Steers turned to Sam.

"So what do you think, Sam?" said Mrs. Steers.   "Is there enough room to organize your books?   Perhaps, there are lots of adventures to be had here."

"It's perfect," said Sam, then turning to his mom.  "Can we live here?  It's closer to school and the library and it doesn’t smell."

"Who can pass it up." said Emily.  Mrs. Steers gave Emily the lease to fill out.

The Time Travelers' Club: Chapter 1 -- Changes

While getting ready for bed, Sam Henry overheard his mom talking on the phone with his Grandma Henry.

"This would give him the perfect chance to build friendships, get a better education, and be closer to you two," said his mom.   "I really want to leave the Chicago area.   We need to start a new life.  And George's buried there."

Emily, his mom, paused from her cleaning the living room.  "No. Money isn't a problem.  We've got George's pension and his insurance, but we don't have any real friends here. And I’m worried about Sam.  His nightmares are getting worse."

It was true his nightmares were getting worse.

After further debate, Emily made a major decision.  They would move to Indianapolis, bringing an end to the traveling life for Sam.  Both his dad and mom's families lived there making it the perfect place for them to settle and start anew.

George and Emily Henry married while in college.  After graduation, George worked as an engineer with the military.  His job took him across the country to New York, Minneapolis, Seattle, and finally outside of Chicago.  Emily loved the traveling life, but Sam was more important right now.  With her library experience, she found part-time work at the local libraries as well as time to write her novels.

With his parents living like vagabonds, Sam saw many parts of the country.  However, this continuous travel made him somewhat of a loner, continually changing schools, unable to make close friendships, or even get to know his grandparents or other family.

Last April, Sam stood by a hospital bed watching his Dad struggle to breathe.  Reaching over the cold metal rail, Sam took his dad's hand. George opened his eyes and smiled at him.

"Hey Sam, how's my guy?"  Sam didn't reply, tears welling.    When Sam was a baby, he always giggled when George sang the song "My Guy." From then on, George always referred to Sam as "my guy."

"Don't worry," said his Dad gasping for breath.  "It'll be alright.  I need you to take care of your mom."

"Dad, you said you'd get better," said Sam.  "But you aren't.  You said the doctor would perform special magic on you and make you well."  Sam tried hard to hold back his tears and anger.  "It's not true, is it?  There is no such thing as magic or any special cure."

"Sam, sometimes the magic doesn't work, but you can't give up believing.  Sometimes it does work.  Miracles do happen, just not this time."  In those few moments, he began to grow up, losing his childhood fantasy that the world was a good place where miracles and magic could happen.

"Remember Sam," said his dad. "I don't want... you spending your time... sitting at the computer... playing games… Mom and I… have agreed to this.  Okay?"   Sam nodded, shaking his dad's hand. "We want you... to read books... be creative... and use your imagination.... I know that's not a problem… for you."

Nevertheless, Sam stopped believing.  Emily and Sam stayed at the hospital that night.  Something woke Sam and he got up to check on his dad. Arriving at his bedside, Sam's dad took one last gasp for air.   The beeps from the heart monitor slowed its pace down to a horizontal line.

"Dad..."  Sam squeezed his dad's hand, held it to his check, and cried.  A chapter in Sam's life ended.

After his dad's death, Sam grieved and fought depression, trying to find good in life.  Emily spent as much time as she could with him and even hired a grief counselor.   Experiencing the loss of a parent at a young age caused him to be more introverted.

Sam wasn’t like other kids his age. He grappled between being a kid of eleven and taking on adult responsibility.  In Sam's mind, he had to grow up, become the man of the house, and needed to be there for his mother.  While kids on the latest social craze or the newest gadgets, Sam got lost in his books, not really caring about the rest of the world. In school, he managed to pass with average grades. All of this played into Emily's decision -- give Sam the chance to heal, find peace with his dad's passing, and become closer to his family.

Several weeks later, their belongings were packed and loaded on a moving van.  Sam and his mom headed to Indianapolis to stay with his Grandparents until Emily found a job.

After a couple of months of job searching, Emily became a librarian.  They moved into an apartment building, waiting for something better to become available.

"This apartment building is so crowded," said Emily to Grandma Henry over the phone.  Sam sat at the kitchen table working on his math homework, his least favorite subject.  He tuned in and out of his mom's conversation.

 "I really want to move Sam somewhere else. Someplace more secure and closer to school."  His mom's favorite description about their apartment included "It's like sardines in a tin can" and always added "It smells like it, too."

 "...I know, but you guys are over an hour away... Here, it's so convenient for me to get to work... And Sam's settling in well at his new school..." Emily paused to listen. "Yeah... Mr. and Mrs. Sanders fight all the time.  I have no idea how he puts up with her.  And Mrs. Thompson across the hall smokes.  Sometimes she turns the television up too loud…" 

Emily wrapped up the conversation with "See you Saturday” and "Guess what!   Grandma and Grandpa are coming to get us for the weekend."  This meant time away from the annoying neighbors and the cramped apartment.

Without a car, Sam and Emily took the bus everywhere. Waiting at the bus stops, walking home in all kinds of weather, sometimes toting groceries, wore on their nerves as much as the smelly building and their apartment.  Sam's bedroom was no bigger than a walk-in closet.  He was tired of using his books for tables.  The one he always wanted was on the bottom of the stack.  This meant moving his books and then re-stacking.  Sam was annoyed with the disorganization of his library.  They needed a larger and nicer apartment.

The Time Travelers' Club: Author's Note

Author's Note

“Jack the Ripper?  You’re telling me that a kid that’s in this club actually knows the identity of…  Excuse me, I think I’ll go sit at another table.”  I started to get up.  He grabbed my coat sleeve.

“We want you. What do you think about writing a book, or maybe a few, about one of the most secretive clubs in the world?” he asked. 

Let me stop there.  You see, anxious reader, I met one of the "characters" in this book through a mutual acquaintance at a coffee shop where I live.  I use the term "character" because he was exactly that...  a funny, charming, interesting young man who wore something that looked like something of which Willie Wonka would have been jealous.  Okay, back to where I left off.

“You want me to believe that you are a member of some time-traveling club?”

He grinned.

I worried that he might attack me if I laughed at him.  So, I politely nodded and smiled.  “Okay.”

“We want kids to believe in the magic that’s out there.”

“Really.  Magic.  A book of incantations, Jack the Ripper, some weird Doctor, a secret time-traveling club that has members all over the world…”

Let me stop again.  

Dear reader, this was just part of the conversation that I had with the Willie-Wonka-wanna-be in a coffee shop.  I did listen to him.  And yes, I finally began to believe him. 

This story you are about to read is what was told to me.  Yep, at the time, I was a 42-year-old guy (practically an old man) with no real belief that magic existed in the world…  At least, not until I finished writing their story.  So I’ll let you read about Sam and Mrs. Steers and time travel and how when Sam was lost in the back streets of 1880s London he saw…  

I’ll stop there.

Blogging and Reality... As well as something exiciting

As you may have noticed, I have not been blogging that much.  There is so much going on.  Teaching, working, house-work (both cleaning and redoing), laying around watching Disney+, Netflix, blah blah excuse here, blah blah excuse there...

So, after much thought and wasted time, it is time to do something about that.  Here's what I have decided to do.

Since my books never really took off and I just can't get myself out there and they have been somewhat revised, I have decided it is time to go back to the original plan.

And that is to post one chapter a week until the entire trilogy is here.

And it's starting tomorrow with the Author's Note.  That part that usually comes before chapter one.  Yeah, I've got an author's note.  Eh, what ya gonna do.

I'll tell you what to do....  Stay tuned.

CSM

The Trouble with a Witch, Part Three

The words on the paper she had handed me made no sense. I stumbled and stuttered my way through them. "Terguuuum occctoooo annnnis."

She bent down, looked me in the eyes. "It's tergum octo annis. It's Latin."

I managed to stutter out. "I don'tttt know Laaatin."

She whirled around as she moved across the room. "Try it again," she ordered then repeated it again and again after each time I read it out loud. Until finally, she shouted "That's perfect. Now again. Now again. Now again!"

Without thinking, I did. "Tergum octo annis."

I had no idea what I was saying other than a bunch of mumbo jumbo in Latin. I thought for sure that I was about to turn into a a frog.

The old house began rumbling on its foundation. I felt the floor boards shake under me. Dust showered down from the ceiling. I could hear glass breaking somewhere. I thought for sure it was going to cave in us.

"Tergum octo annis." I started shouting over the rattling of the house.

The witch continued to twirl around and around the room like a gypsy doing a dance, paying no attention to the impending doom of the house collapsing. Her hands as high as they could go. Her skirt flaring out.

"Keep reading it over and over and over...," she shouted.

"Tergum octo..."

Scared out of my mind, I finally tossed the paper into the air and watched it float around the room. I leapt from the chair and raced to the door. The house stopped shaking and went silent and still. I couldn't hear the witch.

I yanked on the door knob, twisting and turning it will all my strength. It didn't budge. Looking over my shoulder, I couldn't see her. Then with one hard tug, the knob turned and the door flew open. I ran out onto the porch and stopped. The yard was immaculate and clean. Roses bushes overflowed with white and red flowers. Daisies, petunias, black-eyed Susans. Butterflies and bees.  The house looked like it had been returned back to when it was first built.  The paint fresh. The shutters neatly hung.  The windows clean and clear.

Before I could move, I felt hands on my shoulders and could feel her moving close to me. Her lips near my left ear.

She whispered.  "You did it. You brought the garden back to life."

I was amazed at what I saw. My mind could hardly wrap itself around the fact that everything had bloomed and looked fresh and new.

Turning around to look at her, she had changed. Her hair was thin and white. Her hands bony and blotched. Her face shrunken and wrinkled. Now, she looked like a witch. She lunged forward, grabbed me back the arm, and dragged me towards the front door and back into the house.

"Come along! I need you to read more." Her hand was like ice, making my forearm ache. I thought for sure it would give me frost-bite.  I started kicking and pushing her, trying to release it from my arm.

Just then, by some divine intervention, there was a rumble of thunder.  Above, dark clouds flowed quickly over us. It began to rain.  The witch screamed as the drops fell and landed on her.  Where they hit on her skin began to burn.  She wailed louder and fled inside.  The door slammed behind her.

I fell backwards down the steps and blacked out.

The next thing I remember was water splashing on my face and going up my nose. Mr. Pruitt stood over me with a bucket.

"Well now," said Mr. Pruitt. "Looks like he just passed out. Probably overcome with fear."

"You alright, Tommy?" asked Grandma Alfred. "What happened?" She helped me up.

I looked around and the yard was barren and bleak just like when I first saw it. The derelict house looked as it did when I first went the stairs. "I... I thought that... The witch. Where is she?" I felt my head and chest. "She didn't cut me up and throw me in her pot."

For a brief moment, I would have swore on the family bible that I saw a bony hand pull the curtain back and look out. I would have sworn it.

That wasn't the last time I saw her.  I was much older when she appeared again in my life.  But that is the trouble with a witch.  They never leave you alone, at least not me, until they've won.

The Trouble with a Witch: Part Two

My curiosity did get the best of me. So later that day, I walked down the dirt road to get a look at the old house. I could see desolate patches where flowers once grew. Overgrown bushes and old fallen tree branches had taken over the yard. The wooden gate had rotted and fallen from its hinges and laid on its side, still showing signs of white paint.

I crept along the old stone path and up the rickety steps onto the porch. Its rotting boards were dirty from old leaves that never blew away. The clapboards were weathered and grey. I could barely see my reflection in glass pane of the front door.  The crud and grime too thick to even see in. The lace curtains on the other side were  tattered. I reached for the brass door knob. It shined bright and clean. It didn't look like the rest of the house.

The knob turned easily and I pushed open the door.  It was dark inside.  I couldn't really see anything, but I crept in and wondered if the floor would give way as it creaked under my weight.

Inside, I noticed a lit candle sitting on a perfectly clean table in the corner. I stepped slowly towards it. The front door slammed shut and I raced back to it.  While struggled with the knob, I heard it.  A lower airy laugh that grew into a cackle.

A dark figure emerged through the door way at the far end of the hallway. I knew at once it had to be the witch. I saw her bony hands, a pointy warted nose, and drawn mouth.  At least that's what I thought I saw at first, but as she approached me, she changed into a blond-haired young woman wearing a red silk dress. No bony hands. No warts. Just a smooth and milky complexion.

"Well well well..." Her voice was warm and lush. She twirled her hand in the air and the room turned from decrepit and barren to clean and furnished.  It reminded me of a sultan's chamber I had seen in a story book about Ali Baba. "What's your name?"

Frozen in place, I managed to stutter out.  "Ttttommy."

She smiled. "I'm Marigold. Marigold Stemm. Do you drink tea, Ttttommy?"  She mocked me.  She fluttered over to a side table and poured two cups of tea.

I shook my head and slowly reached around for the door knob.

"Don't worry.  I'm not going to eat you.  I simply want to talk."  She pointed to a chair near me and said, "sit for a moment. No harm will come to you  And besides, the door is locked."  I heard the lock click behind me.

With the most caution I could muster, I perched on the edge of the chair, at ready to run.  "You're not going to turn me into anything, are you?  You know... like a toad?  Use some spell on me?"

She laughed.  "Heavens no. I'm not a witch at all.  I do know how to use incantations though. They are kind of like spells."

"What do theeey dooo?"  I stuttered.

"They do a lot of things. Like turn rocks into gold. Or zap a person from one place to another.  Perhaps travel through time."  She picked up the cup of tea and held it out to me.

"You're not going to zap me, are you?"  I refused the tea.

"Oh Heaven's, no. Like I said, I just want to chat for a bit."  She gently put the cup and saucer back on the table.

At that point, I remember thinking that she wasn't a witch.  She was just crazy. A crazy lady living alone. She didn't look old at all.  She wasn't really a witch.

I kept staring at her.  It was her eyes that caught my gaze.  Her eyes were an unusual blue. Very bright and a bit sparkly.  As she spoke, I found myself drawn to her.

"Tommy, do you know how to read?"

I nodded, finding that I couldn't stop staring at her.

"Wonderful. Here." She held out a piece of paper which seemed to appear from no where and handed it me. "Read this out loud. I want to hear how well you can read."

I took the piece of paper from her and looked at the words.  I mispronounced my way through them.

The Trouble with a Witch: Part One

When I look back, I think "was it a dream or did it really happen?"  To this day, I can still hear her talking to me.  I can smell the foul mixture in the brass kettle over the fire.  I can see the jars and bottles of brews and potions. The coarse upholstery of worn furniture. And of course, her. I don't think anyone would ever forget a witch.

*****

It was summer of 1938 and I had gone to stay with Grandma Alfred and her sister Aunt Lela.  Mama was ill with fever and Dad wanted me to stay away for a week so Mama would get better.  "She'll be fine," the doctor told us. "She just needs rest." It was only about an hour's ride to Grandma's house and I usually didn't get to see her that often.  

They lived in a little house on a farm out in the country. Mr. Pruitt lived across the packed-dirt road. He was kind of keen on Aunt Lela.  And next door stood a ram-shackled house, overgrown by brush and weeds.

"Tommy, now don't you be a goin' any wheres near that place," yelled Aunt Lela as strolled along the fence separating the two houses. "If you get eaten by that witch, I ain't gonna feel sorry for ya."

"Ah get out," I said. "There's no such thing as witches."

Aunt Lela laughed and lazily pointed towards that house. "Well, ya'll so smart, why don't you run on down there and see for yurself?"  I was never afraid of Aunt Lela. She was always nice and read me stories.  

Through the oaks and maples, I could see the roof line, but most of it was hiding behind the overgrown bushes.  If I was the loft of the barn, I could see the side and back of the old house. Trees hadn't been trimmed in years. Some of the battered shutters clung for dear life. A few had given up and fell off. I always thought it was odd that none of the windows had been broken. Those would have been perfect targets for rock throwing.

It looked like a sad and lonely house.

*****

One lazy day, I was hanging onto Mr. Pruitt's picket fence across the road, watching him sweat from turning up potatoes and turnips in his garden.  He grabbed weeds up by the roots and tossed them into a compost heap in the corner. He sure did have a nice garden.

"Looks like you've got a good crop, sir."

"I do. Very good crop this year. Lots of manure. That's what ya need to make a garden grow well, Thomas. How are you enjoyin' your visit?"  He always called me Thomas.  I didn't mind it one bit.

"It's good, sir. I'm glad it's cooled down."

Mr. Pruitt nodded.  "Cooler than any August I remember.  But we don't always remember the weather much past yesterday.  Unless it's something really out of the ordinary."  He knocked dirt off the carrots he'd just yanked up. "Glad for the rain. It's helps with the root vegetables when you're tryin' to pull them up."

"So I heard you're Aunt tellin' ya to stay away from the Stemm place. I'm not sure that there's a witch, but I would advise stayin' away. I figure one or two more good storms and that old place is going to fall down."

That was the first time I ever heard it called the Stemm place. Grandma or Aunt Lela never talked about it that much.

"Mr. Pruitt, whose house was that?"

"The story my Grand-dad told me was back about hunderd years or so, a man named Stemm built it and moved in with his three daughters.  Two of the daughters later moved away and one stayed behind. Her name was Marigold. The old man died, although some say disappeared. The youngest, Marigold, lived there until she died."
Mr. Pruitt struggled to uprooted another batch of stubborn potatoes. "But there are some who say she didn't die either and she still lives in there."

"Ah, that sounds like hog wash."

Mr. Pruitt grinned.  "It does, does it? Well, be warned. That house ain't safe. Wouldn't want to be in it if a stiff breeze came along."

All I could think was "I know I shouldn't..."  But curiosity always gets the better of ya and always leads to trouble.