Ruins of the Mind

by Jason Stadtlander

  Sarah’s eyes lifted and locked on the gas lamp with the green glass bead in the middle. She heard footsteps and was aware that someone had walked up behind her. Sarah didn’t have to turn around to know it was her friend Maggie.

  Maggie stepped quietly beside her, touching the back of Sarah’s arm gently. Together, they looked affectionately at the residents around the yard. Maggie slipped her arm through Sarah’s and spoke knowingly in her inimitable Irish accent. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he, love?”

  “Yes, Maggie,” Sarah said with a smile. “He does indeed.”

  Going through his father’s house following his death had not been something Enoch was looking forward to. He stood on the steps of the split-level, staring at the simple fieldstone porch he knew so well. He had been here for Thanksgiving with Jennie and the boys just two weeks ago, but the house had seemed more inviting then, possessing a warmer atmosphere. Now he sensed a darkness of sorts, an ominous presence in the structure nudging him away.

  The house was rather plain, just a vinyl-sided split-level with a two-car garage to the left under the living room. Enoch remembered when it had natural wooden siding; he had helped his father install the newer beige vinyl siding about twenty years ago. Other than that, not much had changed with the house, and yet it felt different somehow.

  Why am I so hesitant to go inside? Do our spirits live on in our homes after we die? Am I actually afraid that Dad’s spirit is still in there? Part of him wondered if that were possible. Ghosts? Yeah, right. His father, a loving man, had lived a rich, full life. He had been a good husband, a wonderful father and a grandfather. To think that his father might be a lingering spirit was a ludicrous thought.

  Enoch cast aside his personal ruminations for now and unlocked the door. Entering the house, he was surprised by his own reaction to its neatness—the normality of the place. He had half expected the house to be in disarray, like some haunted residence in a movie. Instead, the house looked like his father had merely stepped out for the day to fish or for one of his many daily excursions. Everything was tidy and well-kept, just as his father had left it.

  Where should he begin? His intention had been to pack up anything that might be important and take it back to his own home: old family photographs, small heirlooms, personal items such as trophies or books, anything that should be kept out of an estate auction.

  Enoch walked to the den in the back of the house and flipped a light switch. On his father’s desk lay a box piled high with papers—no, not papers, they were photographs. He grabbed the box of photographs and set it on the floor next to the leather couch. Apparently, his father had been going through some of the old family photos recently. A box left sitting open on his desk wasn’t the norm in his father’s house.

  Enoch had turned to walk back to the desk to begin looking through its contents when something caught his attention on the top of the box. He bent down for a closer look.

  A photograph of him on a tricycle as a young boy lay on top. It was a square, old and slightly discolored snapshot of him from the ‘70s. His father stood behind the tricycle, pushing him. Enoch picked up the photo and smiled, recalling the memory of that day. Although his memory was vague, he remembered enough to recall what he was feeling in that moment.

  Something suddenly jumped out at him that he had never seen before. In the background behind his father, there was a man walking away from the driveway. A chill quivered up Enoch’s spine. He glanced away from the photo and looked out the window, pondering what he had just seen. That’s impossible, he thought. His eyes returned to the photo. He was not mistaken. In the background, about twenty feet behind the tricycle and his father, stood Enoch himself—at about the same age as he was now, around forty—wearing his favorite North Face fleece. He was stepping onto the street and staring at the camera, but his expression was blurred.

  Enoch set the photo down for a moment to consider the reality of what he was seeing. How is that possible? It’s not. I remember that day, and I don’t remember seeing…myself.

  A door slammed closed down the hall, interrupting Enoch’s thoughts. He heard footsteps, and his heart quickened as he continued reeling from the puzzling photograph. The footsteps were from his brother Trevor, who stepped around the doorjamb.

  “Hey,” Trevor said warmly.

  “Hey,” Enoch replied, his voice a bit shaky.

  “You okay?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You look a bit pale. Sure you’re okay?” Trevor pushed.

  Enoch hesitated, contemplating the reality of what he was about to tell his brother. “Sit down for a second,” he said.

  Trevor sat down beside his older brother.

  “Look at this.” Enoch handed the photo to him.

  Trevor looked at the photo, smiled and said, “He really was a great dad, wasn’t he? Always there, always encouraging, always happy to spend time with us.” Trevor started to give the photo back and Enoch stopped his hand.

  “Yes, he was—but hold on. Look at the photo,” Enoch insisted, pushing it back at Trevor.

  Trevor looked at Enoch, puzzled, but he studied the photograph again, trying to locate whatever it was his brother wanted him to see. Suddenly, Trevor’s posture changed as his eyes spotted the person in question. “What the hell?”

  “Exactly,” Enoch confirmed.

  “It’s you. I mean—you now. But how?” Trevor asked in obvious disbelief.

  “I wish I knew. It makes no sense to me.”

  “Was it doctored? You know—cut-and-pasted or photo shopped?”

  Enoch grabbed it and turned the photo over. There, in his mother’s handwriting, written clearly in pen was: Enoch and Daddy–1978. “Mom died when I was thirteen, and this is definitely Mom’s writing. Yet this photograph clearly shows me in the background, at about the same age I am now. What do you make of it?”

  “Let’s keep looking through the photos. I want to see if we find anything else that’s…weird.”

  The two brothers searched through the box for nearly an hour, looking at each one at the same time to make certain they didn’t miss anything.

  Close to a hundred photographs into their search, Trevor stopped, staring at the photo in his hand.

  Enoch looked at him anxiously. “What?” he asked.

  “Take a look,” Trevor said flatly.

  Enoch looked at the photo but didn’t see anything unusual. It showed Enoch and Trevor standing in line at a carnival ride, Dizzy Dragons. Enoch was close to sixteen, and Trevor was about twelve. There were many other people present and walking about.

  “I don’t see anything. What am I looking for?” Enoch inquired.

  Trevor grabbed a magnifying glass and handed it to Enoch. In the upper right corner of the photo, in the background, was a hot dog stand with barstools around it. Sitting on one of the stools, all alone, was their mother. She appeared to be about thirty years old.

  Enoch’s hand went slack, and he dropped the photograph. He looked at Trevor, begging him for clarification. “Mom?” He shook his head as if to say, No way.

  “I don’t know what to make of this,” Trevor said.

  “You and me both, bro.”

  Enoch set both of the photos aside and sat back on the couch, pondering this bizarre discovery. He then stood up abruptly and left the room while Trevor sat looking at each of the photos repeatedly.

  Enoch and Mom—both in photos they shouldn’t be in. What are the chances of that? Hell, what are the chances of even one of them being in there? Trevor thought.

  Enoch stepped back around the corner, holding a Stella Artois in each hand. He offered one of the brews to his brother, who took it thankfully. The two sat on the couch together, drinking in silence and staring at the mysterious photographs on the top of the pile.

  “Is it at all possible that we are looking at photographic evidence of two—dare I say—time travel incidents? I don’t know how to explain this really, but if there are two photos here as evi
dence, how many such occurrences might not have been captured on film?” Trevor said.

  “I think the question we need to ask is, ‘How is this possible?’ We both know time travel is only science fiction,” Enoch answered, wanting to believe his own declaration.

  Trevor chuckled nervously. “Tell that to the you in that photo.”

  Enoch shook his head again in continued disbelief and then asked, “This…time machine—or whatever it is—don’t you think either Mom or Dad would have told us something about it? I mean, that’s a pretty big fuckin’ secret.”

  “All the more reason not to tell us, don’t you think?” Trevor said.

  “Perhaps. Well, I guess the secret dies with Dad…unless, of course, he stashed the secret somewhere here in the house for us to find.”

  The brothers each took a long draw from their bottles and looked casually around from their perch on the couch in the wood-paneled den. From the hall, they heard a loud snap that ended in a wisp-like shush. Trevor and Enoch looked at each other, startled.

  “I’ve heard that sound somewhere before,” Enoch said, jumping up.

  “What the hell was that?” Trevor asked.

  To Enoch’s utter amazement, before he could reach the door he saw his mother stepping around the corner. She looked lovely and stood there looking at them, simply smiling.

  “Enoch? My goodness how you’ve grown,” she said, her face exuding a mother’s love. She looked at Trevor. “And my sweet, little Trevor—not so little anymore.”

  She laughed. It had been almost thirty years since they had heard that full-hearted, signature laugh, but it was undoubtedly their mother’s. “Sit down, boys. We have a lot to talk about.” Both men were rendered speechless, overjoyed to see their mother but reluctant to believe she was anything more than an illusion. And so the brothers stood, saying nothing.

  Their pale expressions and shock induced an immediate, reactive conclusion from their mother. “I’m not alive anymore—am I?”

  “No, Mom. We lost you nearly twenty-five years ago,” Enoch replied in a hushed tone.

  “No…” Their mother’s hand flew to her mouth. “How old was I when I died?”

  “Thirty-eight,” Enoch answered.

  She turned, her color draining slightly, forcefully gulped and sat down on a chair by the door. In barely a whisper, she said, “That’s three years from now. I was young…much too young to die.” After a long pause, she continued, “How did I…? No, wait…I don’t want to know. Not yet.”

  Trevor’s heart was in his stomach. “Mom—we’re pretty confused. Please, tell us what you are doing here.”

  “I—well, it’s a long story, and I only have a few minutes more before I bend back.”

  Enoch spoke this time. “Bend back? Mom? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Listen. I’m going to disappear shortly—but don’t worry. I’ll be back soon, very soon. I’ll explain as much as I can before I leave. But first I have to know—are you both married…boys?”

  Enoch replied first. “I am…to Jennie Rapport, and we have two boys, Billy and Cole.”

  Their mother laughed happily. “Jennie—little Jennie? Oh, Enoch—you and Jennie were such good friends in elementary school.”

  Both men just stood there staring at their long-deceased mother, happy to see her but in disbelief. She could sense their unasked questions and knew she must act quickly.

  “Okay…first, what am I doing here. We have a family heirloom located somewhere in this house. It allows a person to focus on an event, and then they can bend space and time to transport themselves to that event, but the effects only last for about ten to fifteen…”

  Quite suddenly, their mother’s mouth froze, as did the rest of her. She turned two-dimensional and rotated sideways as if she was made of nothing but cardboard. In a split second, she slipped out of the room as if her body fell into some slot in the air that neither of them could see. The slot closed up after her with great force as a loud, concussive-bass snap reverberated through their bodies.

  The two men were once again alone in the room, left to absorb this recent event. Trevor and Enoch sat silently for nearly a minute, staring at the space their mother had just occupied. Then, turning to face his brother, Enoch stated in a matter-of-fact tone, “Mom was here.” He was struggling to believe his own words.

  Trevor couldn’t believe it either. “Yes, it was Mom, although a part of me is totally resisting what we just saw—are we absolutely sure?”

  Enoch moved on, wondering aloud, “Family heirloom? What the hell was Mom talking about?” He shook his head, still staring at the empty space that used to be his mother. Finally, he looked at Trevor again and said, “Mom is alive?” He was still trying to convince himself.

  “No, Enoch. I don’t think so. I think she somehow traveled through time. You saw what happened when she disappeared, didn’t you?” Trevor was now wondering if he had imagined the bizarre incident that completely defied the reality he knew.

  “Yes. I saw her sort of…slip away.”

  “She called it bending, but I’d be more inclined to call it slotting,” Trevor clarified.

  Enoch struggled to define what was happening. “That could be why we are seeing people in those photographs who couldn’t possibly be in them. It has to be time travel—including that photo with the image of me in it.”

  “That also means that Mom might have actually seen us growing up—even though she was dead…sort of,” Trevor said hopefully.

  Enoch so wanted to believe that. “Well, yes. I suppose—oh hell, Trevor, I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through his hair, completely baffled.

  “Mom said she’d be back in a few minutes. I hope she was right. I have so many questions for her.”

  “Me too.”

  They were both in a bit of shock, so there was more silence than there was talking. Enoch finally broke the quiet, looking over at Trevor once more. “How old were you when Mom passed away?”

  “Ten.”

  “So then, having been so young—this is probably even more surreal for you, isn’t it?”

  “It’s definitely pretty high on the weird scale,” Trevor acknowledged.

  “Weird? Yeah, I guess that’s one word for it.”

  The very second Enoch finished his sentence, they heard another loud snap. A slip appeared about four feet in front of where they stood, between them and their father’s desk. A poster board likeness of their mother appeared and quickly grew to a full, three-dimensional form with that same pfft sound. Once again, their mother stood before them.

  “Hello, boys,” she said, obvious affection for her sons showing on her face.

  Enoch took charge. “Mom—please, can you explain any of this?”

  “Of course. Again, we have an heirloom, a glass pyramid that’s been in our family for nearly four generations. My great-great-grandfather received it from a man who was from an area now known as Kazakhstan. Wait—does Kazakhstan still exist?” She was suddenly concerned that she might be out-of-date.

  They looked at her blankly. “Yes, Kazakhstan is still around,” Enoch answered.

  “What year is this?” she asked.

  “2019,” Enoch answered.

  She sighed, thoughtful. “And here we thought the world would end in 2000.”

  “Eh, as it turned out, 2000 was pretty uneventful. No planes falling from the sky. No bombs going off. Actually, the newly flavored chatter was that the world was supposed to end in December of 2012.”

  “Planes falling out of the sky?” she asked, confused.

  “Yes. Around the turn of the century, the belief was that the ‘Y2K bug’ was about to bring computers across the world to a total shutdown. That obviously didn’t happen.”

  She still looked confused. “Y2K bug?”

  “Never mind.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, I knew the world wouldn’t end in 2012 either. I’ve already been to 2033, and it’s not a whole lot different than 1990. Mo
re computers, and the cars look a little funkier as do some of the buildings.”

  “Funky?” Trevor laughed.

  “I’m dating myself,” their mother said with a smile. “Sorry.”

  “Is that what year you’re from—1990?”

  “Yes. March 15, 1990.”

  “So does Dad time travel, too?”

  “No. This is something that’s been passed down through only my side of the family. Your father never knew about it or experienced it.”

  The men looked at each other, sharing a sudden, sad awareness between them.

  Their mother’s face fell. “George has died, hasn’t he?” their mother asked.

  Trevor hung his head. Enoch looked sadly at his mother. “He’s been gone a little more than a week, Mom. Heart failure.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry. He’s a good…he was a good man.”

  “You were a good woman, Mom, and a great mother. I’ve missed you so much,” Enoch said, resisting tears. “I wanted you to see my wedding and my children,” He said with regret.

  “I saw you get married, son. I popped in on your wedding day as a guest for a few minutes, just before I came back to you in this time frame. Jennie looked beautiful, Enoch. I’m so proud of you both and so happy for you.”

  An intersecting thought hit Trevor. He looked at his mother. “That’s it—that’s where I heard that sound!”

  She nodded in affirmation. “The bending. It causes a popping sound because of the equalization of the air between the past and present locations. The air pressure is off just enough that the instant adjustment creates the pop. Sometimes, the force from it is so strong it can actually blow onlookers right off their feet.”

  “How do you know so much about this?” Enoch asked.

  His mother began to explain. “Do you remember Grandpa John?”

  “Sure.”

  “He was a physicist,” his mother continued.

  “Right. I remember.”

  “What you don’t know is that the reason he sought that degree was to research the pyramid. He studied it for a number of years—taking measurements, trying to understand exactly how it worked. He never completely figured it out, but he came to understand that…”