Out of Time

by C. M. Saunders

  She was still wearing that white lace dress, her burial garb, covered in yellow and orange stains. But now it hung from her withered frame in rags.

  Joe shrank away from the sickening sight and raised his arms to protect himself, for all the good it would do.

  It was impossible to tell if she was laughing this time, her facial tissue had all-but disappeared leaving her with a grotesque skeletal grin.

  “What do you want?” he whimpered.

  The ghost, spirit, demon, whatever it was, let out a wordless cackle in reply.

  Joe knew what she, it, wanted.

  Revenge.

  He hoped the sound of his voice would make it disappear. Instead, his outburst seemed to anger the dead husk. It threw out its arms, and Joe was certain he saw red orbs flash in its empty eyes sockets like tiny fires. It opened its mouth wide and let out an unearthly roar, then swooped down at him.

  Joe swung at it, as if trying to swat away a bee. This time, instead of connecting only with stale air, his hand brushed against... something.

  He grabbed at it. The 'something' tore. And then he was awake, lying on the hotel bed, soaked with sweat, and eyes darting fearfully around the room.

  He was alone.

  No ghost.

  No vengeful spirit.

  No murder victim.

  He lay still, breathing hard.

  He really must go to a doctor, get some medication to help him sleep. Not that sleeping was the problem. It's what happened when he slept. That was the problem. Did they make drugs for that? Probably.

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin, and only then did he realize he held something in his hand. Something he hadn't been holding when he went to sleep.

  Fearfully, he looked down.

  It was a tiny piece of lacy fabric. Stained yellow now. But it had once been white.

  Joe let out a terrified gurgle and jumped out of bed, throwing the vile piece of material to the floor in disgust.

  Standing in the centre of the room with his head in his hands, he tried to make sense of what was happening.

  If the piece of fabric was real, then it had to mean that....

  No!

  His blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins and he tottered on unsteady legs as first the realisation, and then the ramifications set in.

  It was impossible, the rational part of his mind protested. Dreams aren’t real. He was mistaken, he must have torn off a piece of bed sheet in his sleep.

  There was only one way to find out.

  He looked on the floor for the discarded piece of material, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  That was good. Wasn't it?

  But he had to be certain.

  Full of trepidation, Joe got on his hands and knees. Very slowly, he pulled up the bedsheets and looked in the empty space under the bed.

  There it was.

  His stomach flipped over and he let out an involuntary moan. He didn't want to touch it. He just wanted to get away.

  But wait, there was more.

  Something else, hidden amongst the shadows. He could distinguish small dark shapes, and what looked like a pool of liquid. Something that was, or had once been, wet. It looked like someone had spilled something. But how the hell do you spill something under the bed?

  He reached out gingerly, being careful not to touch the piece of material that he was now certain had once belonged to Susan Reilly's funeral dress, and closed his fingers around one of the small dark shapes.

  A tiny black feather.

  Just like the one he had found in his room just after he had arrived.

  Stranger and stranger, he thought.

  Throwing the feather aside, he reached under the bed once more and cautiously prodded at the dark stain with a single outstretched finger. When he withdrew it he saw that his fingertip was smudged blood red.

  What the fuck?

  Cautiously, he sniffed at the substance. There was no odour.

  That didn't mean it wasn't just something innocuous like spilled paint, only there wasn't a single item in the room painted red. The mess could be the result of burst pipe under the floorboards leaking rusty water into the room. But if that were the case, the leak would surely spread. Besides, even rusty water wasn't that shade of red.

  That left only one possible explanation.

  Another of his dear mother's sayings popped into his head.

  If something looks like shit and smells like shit, then it's probably shit.

  Or in this case, blood.

  But whose?

  And more to the point, how did it get under his bed?

  The blood was still reasonably fresh.

  Under normal conditions, it congeals and dries within hours. And this stuff, this deposit, was still wet.

  It occurred to him that all this would make a damn good mystery story, which of course was Joe's intention. But the mystery was rapidly turning into a horror story.

  He hated horror stories.

  His first thought was that he was being framed. He didn't know why, or who by. Maybe some criminal or other he had exposed at some point in his career had found out about his Special Project. Whoever it was didn't really matter. Joe decided that whatever was going on was just too weird to contemplate.

  He would leave the hotel early. This afternoon. In fact, he would leave right now. Tell the plump hotel Nazi in charge of the place he had some urgent business to attend to. He had already paid for the room, so couldn't foresee any problem. He didn't even care if he ever returned to 2014 or not. He just didn't want to stay in this room, this hotel, this town, a minute longer.

  He hurriedly began to pack his belongings; his dirty clothes, his laptop, his toiletries, stuffing things into vacant spaces in his rucksack with total disregard for both logic and neatness. There was no time for either. He just wanted to get the fuck out.

  Just then, as he was zipping up his rucksack, it came. The one thing he had been living in perpetual fear of for longer than he cared to remember.

  A knock on the door.

  Chapter 8

  It was the plump hotel Nazi.

  “Erm, I'm just leaving,” Joe began. “Something came up...”

  At first, the uninvited guest didn't say anything, which made things even more awkward. Finally she said, “Oh, is that right, Mr. Dawson?”

  “Yes. As I said, something came up. So… I'll be checking out in a few minutes...” Joe tried to usher the woman out of the room but she stood her ground, peering over his shoulder at his freshly-packed rucksack and the lifted bedsheets. He could feel his patience ebbing away.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Dawson?” The woman's tone was almost accusing. Or was Joe imagining it?

  “No,” he smiled weakly. “I mean, yes. There's a problem. But nothing you can help with. Thanks all the same.”

  “Perhaps a problem with the room?” The woman took another step inside. Her demeanour was beginning to change. She seemed surely, even contemptuous. And was that an element of smugness creeping in there? She folded her arms across her chest defiantly.

  What was going on? Joe had to get her out of there. He was beginning to lose patience.

  Don't shit where you eat, Joey!

  Not now, mum.

  “Er, no. Not exactly,” he said, eager to make the woman leave. “Room's fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “I wouldn't be so sure of that, Mr. Dawson.” The woman flashed that annoyingly little half-smile of hers.

  “Excuse me?” Joe frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, this is all my doing. Well, most of it. If you hadn’t worked it out yet. You brought it on yourself, of course. Call it a kind of justice, if you want.”

  “Wha... what are you talking about?” Joe stammered. There was so much to unravel in that little admission he didn't know where to start.

  She knew about his Special Project. But how? Even if she had been snooping about in his room, his laptop and USB were both password protected.

  But there w
as more. Could she also somehow know about his time travelling exploits? Maybe even be responsible for them?

  And what about the nightmares?

  As much as he tried to force it to the back of his mind, Joe couldn't forget that on the floor, beneath the bed, still lay a tattered piece of once-white lacy cloth.

  Perhaps sensing his discomfort, the woman's smile broadened. “I think you already know what I'm talking about.” Something sparkled in her eyes. Something inherently threatening.

  “How?” Joe began. “Why?”

  But where to start? He was almost thankful when the woman took over.

  Almost thankful, but not quite.

  “As for the 'how,'” she said. “It's a rather long-winded and complicated process, but not that difficult when you know how. A few magic rites here, a few sacrificial offerings there. I won't bore you with the in's and the out's of it all.”

  “I'm not following...” Joe said. And he wasn't. He felt faint, dizzy and nauseas. Like a man standing on the edge of a precipice looking down into oblivion.

  The woman sighed and rested a hand on an ample hip, as if explaining the alphabet to a particularly clueless child for the hundredth time.

  “In plain terms, Mr. Dawson, I am a witch. Well, that term is a bit dated. We don’t like to use it these days. But I am what you would call a witch. Before you ask, no I'm not a black witch. I don't have a cauldron or a broomstick to ride around. Unfortunately. Although, that would be nice.

  “I'm not a white witch, either. I'm something in between. I am both neither and both. Most of us don't believe in stuffing our talents into little handily-labelled boxes for the convenience of people like you. Are you following so far?”

  Joe found himself nodding dumbly.

  “Of course, I use magic for my own selfish purposes,” the woman continued. “Why else would I bother? Some would argue that fact alone would make me a practitioner of the dark arts. Take from that what you will. I don't really care. Why even bother doing all this? Why bother doing anything at all, if you don't benefit from it somehow.”

  Joe wanted to laugh in her face. Witches? Magic? Rituals? Was this woman stark raving mad?

  But he hesitated.

  Given the inexplicable events of the past few days, it could be the only explanation that made any sense. After all his pondering, this was by far the closest he had come to finding any kind of solution. Reasonable or otherwise. From all the things the woman said, one word resonated more strongly than any other.

  “Sacrifices?” he asked. “What kind of... sacrifices?”

  “Oh, just chickens,” the woman said dismissively. “Black chickens, to be precise. Very powerful fowl. Or powerfowl, if you prefer.” Like the worst after dinner speaker in the world, she chuckled at her own joke. “Forgive me. That's a witch's sense of humour for you. Completely inappropriate. But black chickens are very valuable when it comes to superstition and witchcraft. Not a lot of people know that.”

  The pool of drying blood under his bed. The black feathers. Now it was beginning to make more sense.

  Despite his predicament, Joe's journalistic instinct was beginning to kick in. If he could get this woman to teach him how to do it, it would make one hell of a story. Time travel at your own leisure. He could market the brand, franchise it internationally. Paying customers could revisit their childhood, their wedding day, the night they lost their virginity, or any other point in their lives. Who wouldn't buy into that? Hell, he’d be a multi-billionaire by Christmas.

  Obviously, the woman wouldn't want to spill the beans. Everyone knew witches and the like, even street magicians, jealously guarded the secrets of their trade.

  But Joe was sure she could be persuaded. One way or another. He could offer to cut her in. And if she refused, he could just beat the information out of her. After all, it was just the two of them here. In this room. He might have to kill her afterwards to stop her talking. But that wouldn't be a problem. He had already killed once that day.

  “So, how does this spell or whatever it is work?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from betraying his escalating excitement, and knowing full-well the question was a bit like asking an Member of Parliament, 'So, politics. What's that, then?'

  “Well, apart from the black chicken business, it's mostly to do with the power of three, Mr. Dawson,” the woman began, as if to humour his ignorance. “It's quite simple, really. Earth magic is mostly about opening your eyes, and your mind, to what exists around you. Three is a sacred number in most cultures, both primitive and modern, and for very good reason.”

  “Don't tell me, you used three black chickens. Right? Or their blood.”

  “Yes. That's very astute of you, Mr. Dawson. But that was just the beginning.”

  Three's.

  Joe remembered the date on the newspaper back in 1964. September 9th, the ninth day of the ninth month. Three three's equals nine. The date in 1973, nine years later, had been his birthday, the third day of the third month. And the last of the three trips had been nine years after that.

  And the three's just kept on coming. Everything seemed to come back to the number three, or multiples of it. Three to the power of three.

  Suddenly, Joe wanted to sit down.

  Unperturbed, the woman continued. “As with most things, there was also an element of luck involved. Your being born on the third of the third helped no end. If you'd been born on another day, I probably still could have got you, but it would have been significantly more difficult.”

  Joe shuddered. “Got me? You make it sound personal.”

  “Oh, but it is personal, Mr. Dawson. You don't think I went through all this just for my own amusement, do you?” she snorted. “Trust me, you aren't worth the trouble. Which brings me to the second part of your original question. Now you know the 'how,' are you ready for the 'why?' This is sure to warm your cockles...” She paused for dramatic effect, having obviously been looking forward to this moment for a very long time.

  Joe could stand it no longer. He was on the verge of cracking. “Just get on with it, will you? Tell me what I did to you, you crazy bitch!”

  “Ooh, quite a temper you have there, Mr. Dawson! Be careful, or I'll be forced to add 'abusing old ladies' to your list of transgressions, along with murder.”

  There was no use denying it. So instead, Joe asked her directly. “Okay. You got me. Whoopy-doo. How did you know? You saw something?”

  “You forget, Mr Dawson. That really is shoddy journalism on your part. I'm a witch. I can know whatever I wish to know. If I ask the right questions of the right sources.”

  “So, what of it?” Joe stood, balled his fists and advanced toward the woman. “Who else have you told about this? Certainly not the police, or they'd be here by now.”

  The woman stood her ground, arms still crossed defiantly. “No, the police won't be coming, Mr. Dawson. A roof over your head, three meals a day, and a free TV? That would be far too good a fate. Even if they do find you guilty. Hanging would be too good for you. I want you to suffer.”

  “Why do you care so much, anyway?”

  For the first time, all trace of amusement drained from the woman's face to be replaced with a brooding darkness. Joe didn't know which was worse. She took on the air of a matronly school teacher scolding him. All that was missing was a wagging finger.

  “I care so much, young man, because the girl you murdered in Liverpool was my only daughter.”

  Joe felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Now he understood why the woman had seemed vaguely familiar. There was a definite resemblance. It was small, but it was there. Maybe this is what Susan Reilly would have looked like when she got older. If she had lived. And if that was the case, he had done her a fucking favour. Recovering his composure, he said, “So this is all about revenge?”

  “In a word, yes,” the woman admitted. “No parent should have to bury their child. But there are also valuable lessons to be learned here. One thing you should remember, Mr. Dawson, is t
hat everything you do in this life has repercussions. Your every action, however small, causes a knock-on reaction that sends ripples through space and time. It's called the Butterfly Effect, I believe.”

  “That sounds like a big steaming pile of horse shit to me,” Joe said.

  “So you believe in time travel, but the Butterfly Effect is too much for you?”

  “I'm not sure what I believe any more. For all I know you drugged me or something, and this is all a crazy hallucination.”

  “Come on, Mr. Dawson. You know better than that. The places I sent you are significant. In the grand scheme of things, I mean. Do you know why?”

  Joe shook his head slowly.

  “The first day, the third of the third 1973, was your birthday. You worked that out, right? You can't be that stupid. Or can you?” When those last three words left her lips, that indescribable something danced in her eyes again. It was hard to put a label on, but it was something akin to mischief. Or malice. “Sending you there was essential to the process.”

  “The process? You mean the spell?”

  “You can think of it that way, Mr. Dawson, if it makes it easier for your tiny mind to comprehend.”

  Damn this bitch!

  Everything she said was in some way condescending. A constant, thinly-veiled attack, stripping him of his dignity piece by piece. But as much as he hated being the victim of her vitriolic outpourings, Joe didn't want her to stop talking. He wanted, needed, to hear answers.

  Besides, he had a feeling that when she stopped talking, the real torment would begin.

  “The second date, June 9th 1982, was Susan's birthday. That was my daughter, in case the name escaped you. Susan Reilly. Say it.”

  “Susan Reilly.”

  “That's right. Good boy. You know, she loved dancing?”

  “Did she?” Joe could barely speak.

  “Oh yes. She was very good.”

  “Why... why send me to the day she was born?”

  “Because I wanted to show you what the world was like when she entered it. Is it starting to make sense to you yet? Are you beginning to understand the power of three?”