How To Go Back in Time – I

Hey there! This is from a book series I’m working on with a publisher attached. It’s the opening chapter. Keep your ears and eyes out for a series titled, “How To Go Back in Time.” 

“Wake up, Mr. Sander.”

“Wake up, now.”

“Wake up.”

Irwin’s eyes peeled back to a world slightly gone askew. The fan was spinning backwards. The sound of static was in the air, though there was no T.V. And he sat up with a yawn, and rubbed his eyes. The room had gone dimmer.

His eyes darted just an inch to the left, and there he saw it. A burnt, decayed, rotting, corpse.

“Hello, Mr. Sander.”

* * *

Our story begins on a bitter note: The hero dies. Though this all may be a bit confusing for you, the real story hasn’t even begun yet. Have faith that this will all make sense in the end. You won’t understand now, but you will later.

Irwin’s first instinct when he woke up in his tent was hunger. His manic eyes darted across every corner of the tattered, green tent. It was actually quite big. There was his cot, military surplus order. Then his chest full of clothes and random survival gear.

And on the opposite side of the cot was his altar, with a brass statue of a clock in the middle. In the middle was a Buddhist singing bowl. It was used for both meditation, and offerings. Sometimes he’d use a special obsidian knife, and offer his blood. Though that was rare.

Irwin begun his morning by grabbing his bow, his arrows, and going for a hunt. His camp was located deep in the Hualapai Mountains, just by a stream that flowed from the Colorado River. He had been in hiding here for fifteen years. For all of this time he had one single goal: To travel back in time.

He stepped outside his tent and carved his way through the forest. First across the stream, up the rocky cliff, around the boulders, and then down a steep embankment. Irwin had entered the hunting area now. Many times he had found good game right in this little area. But what next—he wondered.

Irwin readied his bow, and crept through the dirt. He calmed his gaze, and scanned the grassy alcove. Just under some leaves, a rabbit darted. Irwin instantly aimed, and fired an arrow. It soared through the air, and landed directly in the rabbit. Breakfast was his.

He came back to his camp and began cooking. You see, Irwin had a fix for his isolation. Too much of it, and it’ll drive a man mad. That wouldn’t help him achieve his goal. Irwin communed with spirits by closing his eyes, and steadying his breath until it was near nonexistent. He would then grab his drum and beat on it in a simple rhythm until he entered the sort of trance shamans do. It didn’t really substitute sex, or drinking with friends. But it was something to cure the loneliness. And, besides, it helped him further his goals.

While the rabbit meat cooked on the camping stove, he entered the trance. Here, in this state of being in between worlds, he asked questions:

“What am I doing wrong? What should I do differently?”

“Can I really attain this power?”

“Am I wasting my time?”

“Can I tell you a joke?”
Sometimes the spirits responded back to him with daydreams and hallucinations. Other times, it’d be with a gut feeling. This time, they were dead quiet. Not even the wind could be heard—it was complete silence.

The food was done, and Irwin ate his breakfast. He had overcooked the meat a little bit, but the flavor was fine. After his breakfast, Irwin delve deep into his books. He had a whole collection of them on topics ranging from alchemy, to witchcraft.

Fifteen years ago, Irwin was an FBI agent. And after a mishandling of a case, he became hunted by the very people he worked with. Not only that, but the lives of the people he loved were ruined. This is why Irwin needed to go back in time. This is why he needed to redo everything.

It was night when Irwin stepped out of his tent again, and he saw that it was the full-moon. Quick, shit-for-brains what day is it? Think! Think! THINK! He thought. It’s the thirty-first. It has to be. I can do the ritual again.

Irwin grabbed his drum and put it by his altar. He flung open the chest and searched through it for the peyote cactus he had collected. He got it all together and made a ceremonial tea. As the concoction began to hit, he took out the obsidian knife and slit his hand open. Irwin let the few drops of blood go into the singing bowl, and then placed it on the floor next to him.

Quickly, he began banging both the drum, and the bowl. Irwin closed his eyes, and steadied his breath until it was nothing. Then, in his mind, he imagined his soul leaving his body and climbing a rope leading to the sky.

Slowly, he gripped the rope and climbed up on it. Then, he reached a door at the top of the sky. He imagined himself pushing through it, and grabbing a box of matches. Irwin lit the matches and tossed him on his body.

At first, there was nothing. But then? He opened his eyes and found himself in his tent, with his arms on fire. The ritual had worked. His flesh began burning and he bit his lips to stop himself from screaming. His teeth dug into his skin, and he bled.

Irwin couldn’t control the screams anymore, and it erupted out of him as his body became engulfed with flame. He thrashed around his tent as the flame reached his eyes, and they slowly eroded in his skull. Then, he collapsed onto the floor, without a pulse.

He had done it.