How To Go Back in Time Book Two – I

Chapter One

I had spent about three months in Seattle, Washington recovering from my last job in Texas. Had no wife. No home. I just kind of hopped from state to state on my motorcycle and my FBI money. The vagabond life was for me.

And now, here I was at AA. It was requested by my supervisor. And she was a nameless employee that just directed me around. Conversations usually went like this:

“Irwin, are you attending your AA?”

“Yes.”

“Beautiful darling. And how goes it?”

“I sit down and discuss my issues in front of strangers and I’m forced to be vulnerable.”

“Baby, there’s no reason for the sarcasm.”

“It’s going well beautiful.”

“Perfect. Goodbye.”

“Goodb—“

And at AA I’d just sit in the corner and allow people to speak before me. I never spoke. I preferred just being a nameless someone. The kind to just blend in with the crowd. Life was just easier. Though, I still reached for the greatness once in a while.

“My name’s Andre and I’m an alcoholic.”

And then the entire room erupted.

“I was in jail for three-and-a-half months.”

“What for?” She said. The therapist.

“I punched my elderly father in a drunk state and nearly completely ruined my life. Now I’m on probation and have to see a therapist. It’s difficult as I don’t have a good car, or a license anymore. I just have to walk everywhere.”

She hung her head down low and nodded. She was not a woman of many words. Barely helped her people. “I think it’s important that we talk about this Andre. What happened in there?”

“Not much. Never got in any fights. I just stuck to myself and waited it out. I had no idea if I was going to prison or not.”

One thing I learned from these appointments was just how broken the general people were. It seemed to me that everyone had mental issues and their own “things.” What were my things? Weed, gin, whiskey, and I was starting to enjoy cocaine.

A downward slope was the usual for me. All a man needed was a glimmer of hope. There was no cause for the depression I was feeling. Or, at least, I didn’t know.

I stood up and rushed for the bathroom during someone else’s conversation about their abuse. I dumped a line and began snorting. Right during the rush and seeing the stars and planets, I heard a voice.

“Cut. That. Out.”

I turned around and low and behold, he had appeared. “What?” He had more flesh this time.

“Irwin, I must confess something to you.”

“You again? Why are you even here?”

“Hold on. We’ll get to that. Do you wanna understand a little something about your life?”

“What? What the hell is it?”

“You, sir, are living a mythic life. Mythic lives are hard as they are pure fiction. Simply put, your life is a story. The way that your myth operates is that there is a decline, a fall, a death, and then a rebirth, and then victory.”

“What does that mean?” I squeaked.

“Your soul must first die before there can be a sunrise. Hold on. It must get worse before it gets better.”

“So my life is a story and I have to… what?”

He smiled crookedly and coughed. Flies spat out. A foul stench lingered in the air. “You must first die in order to get the happy ending you want. Your soul chose this life and now you must finish what you started. But don’t worry.”

“Why? Why shouldn’t I fucking worry?”

“Because Irwin, a prize awaits you at the end. A lovely one.”

“But I have to die before I get there, huh?”

“Exactly.”

I pounded my fist on the counter. “God damn it!” And just like that, he was gone. Even the stench. I flushed the cocaine down the toilet.

* * *

A lot of midnight walks happened. The last case in Texas bothered me. It seemed unfinished. Undone. So, I began digging. Using my FBI clearance I was able to find one thing. Every twenty years in Beldad, they’d have a murder case. But one thing always stood out. Yellow fucking eyes.

Rumors about the yellow-eyed people would appear in Texas newspapers and online as well. There was a plague around. Yellow-eyed murderers. Cat-eyed freaks.

And then, on one midnight walk around Seattle, I got a call from an unknown phone number.

“Irwin?”

“Yes. This is Irwin Sander. Who is this?”
“Rosa.”
“…”

“Rosa from Beldad.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But why are you calling me?”

“There’s something you should know.”

“And that is?”

“Do you remember the color of Gretchen’s eyes?”

Just like that my blood ran cold. “Yes, it was yellow and in Seattle there’s even more rumors.”

“Exactly, and I was attacked by one. These ‘people’ aren’t normal, Irwin. I’m not even sure they’re people. Something has to be done. Do you know anything?”

“I’ve been researching this myself so, uh, speak of the devil. They aren’t human. They are killers that haunt people.”

“…”

“Hello?”

Somehow, my cell service had gone out. Now I was stuck in downtown Seattle at midnight with no phone. From behind me footsteps came. I turned around and I saw a figure.

“Hello.” It said.

I squinted and I saw the color of it’s eyes. Yellow with dilated pupils. Just like Gretchen Carvallo. I placed my hand on my gun and it charged at me, knocking me to the floor. It reached for it’s knife and stabbed at the ground but I was faster than it.

Bang!

Shot straight in the head. It was here I realized I was about to get a new case.

Chapter Two

I woke up in the morning with a severe hang over. My first instinct was to check the county news for a murder obituary. Or just something of the sort. But nothing could be found. This proved to me that something was going on.

I made my breakfast and thought about the night before. It felt like I was in a story so what my other double had to have been true. I wasn’t sure if I had lost my mind or if I never had it to begin with. But I was promised a prize. A truly happy ending. And I would stay alive to capture it.

And then, I heard a voice speaking to me from my shoulder. “Irwin.”

I jumped and yelped. “Who just said that?”

“My name’s Alice. I am the spirit Gretchen gave you. We appear when the moment’s right.”

“…”

“Sorry to scare you. Should I go away?”

I sat down on my bed and clutched my head. “So the magic was right?”

“It’s not really magic, Irwin. It’s shamanic. Soon enough you’ll start seeing numbers that’ll speak to you. Shamanism is real.”

“Please go away.”

“Okay, I will. Just one thing.”

I was preparing to chug some vodka. “What?”
“Call your boss. She has something for you.”

The voice stopped and I just couldn’t believe it. I sat there in straight shock before I realized something. The Gretchen that had given me the spirits had real eyes. Not yellow cat eyes. Whoever was the real Gretchen was gone and I had eliminated the other one. I decided to call my boss.

“Irwin? Speak of the devil, I have something for you.”

I laughed and spoke when I was calm. That proved everything. “And that is?”

“In Wyoming there’s murders and cattle mutilations. I’m putting you on a train to Wyoming. Should be about three to five hours.”

“Got it. And I leave when?”

“You leave tomorrow, baby.”

“Thanks beautiful.” I had never seen her face and never would. “What time?”
“Nine-thirty in the morning.”

“Got it. Goodbye.”

* * *

AND NOW, A TRANSMISSION IN A PARALLEL STATE

Peter Clearwater has an existing ranch in Northwest Wyoming. And in Northwest Wyoming there is nothing to do but sit on your porch and smoke cigarettes. So, he spends the morning and afternoon doing just that. Then when the sun starts to lower he goes back inside to drink his sleeping tea and cook dinner while watching soap operas on the television. Then he passes out rather quickly.

On one existing night he made broccoli and cheese stuffed chicken breast. The recipe involved homemade breadcrumbs and fresh broccoli with cheddar cheese. He put on the classical station and hummed along to it while he waited for the chicken in the oven. Yum.

Except. There came a knock on his door.

But he didn’t hear.

So there came another one. But it was harsher.

Except the fact that Peter Clearwater is hard of hearing so he still didn’t hear it.

BANG! BOOM! BAP!

“Jesus-fucking-H-Christ.” He says under his breath and waddles over to the door. He peers through the tiny hole and sees a child outside. They have yellow eyes.

He opens the door and the child speaks first. “I’m lost and have nowhere to go. Can I have some food.”

This child can be no older than nine-years-old. Peter Clearwater must help. “Where are your parents?”

“I have none.”

“Then come inside. You can stay here while I figure things out.”

So the kid comes inside and fully sees the house. Now that it has been allowed in, it shall stay. The floor is oiled wood and it creaks with each step. The rug is royal and a classic television sits on a dresser in the living room. The house is two stories and seems to be mostly empty. One floor for living. One floor for storage. And only one man lives there.

“I’m making dinner. You want any?”

The child now standing in the kitchen nods and says yes.

Soon enough dinner is prepared and the child and the man eat. “So how’d you end up here?” Peter Clearwater asks.

“I walked.”

“From?”

“Nowhere. I’m not from around here.”

“Okay. Are you homeless?”

A fork drops. “Yes. Yes I am.”

“Then you can stay here. You can’t be more than ten years old can you?”

“I don’t even know my age. Though, I feel pretty old.”

The child has the corrupted soul of a hundred-and-eight-year-old. Though he looks to be about nine. Is he human? Or is he not? What is the soul of an evil human being?

Peter finishes eating and soon does the child. After washing the dishes they both sit to watch the telly.

“What is this show?” The child asks.

“It’s a drama. I don’t follow it that regularly.” It seems that times have been tough for Peter Clearwater as there is no color. The audio is simply mono.

“How long can I stay?”

“For a while. You’re homeless and you’re a child.”

The boy smiles. “I’m tired. Can I sleep?”

“Yes. Take the cot in the attic. It’s scary up there but you’ll manage.”

The child sleeps and so does the man. Many suns up and suns down later they begin living. The boy attends a small church school. The man stays home and continues his hobby of watching the sun move on his porch.

At school the boy does well though every other child senses something off. He is out-casted but it does not matter. But one day, he makes a friend on the basketball court.

“Wanna play?” The other boy, Marco, asks.

“Sure.” The boy grabs the ball and slams it into Marco’s head. He falls down to the court and blood comes out of his ear. He walks back home and knocks on the door.

“Oh. You’re here.” Peter says. “Long day?”

“Very long.” He says.

The boy takes a seat at the dinner table and spaghetti is served. Like usual, they sit in silence. Until the boy finishes his plate and grabs a knife from the sink. He stands behind Peter. “Hey Pete.”

“Yes?”

“What’s heaven like?”

“Pure peace.”

The knife is shoved into Peter’s throat and he collapses on the table, gurgling. And then the boy walks out, never to be seen again.