This Old House

This Old House

“Just sign here,” the man said, wrinkled, shaky fingers handing over the pen. He pressed the documents firmly onto the hood of his car to keep the edges down in the wind.

Emerson Brock scratched his signature. “So this is it, then?”

“It’s all yours,” he handed Emerson the key, then latched his briefcase. “Good luck, Mr. Brock.” The man tipped his hat then drove steadily away down the forgotten road.

Elsa brushed her windblown hair away. “It’s not much to look at.”

“Well, no one’s lived here for years.” Emerson started up the long dirt driveway toward the house, a lonely Victorian overlooking twenty acres of golden prairie.

Part of the steeply pitched roof had succumb to time and the faded clapboards were loose in places. The porch creaked with the first step, so Emerson tested the boards just to make sure they could support him. Satisfied enough, he crossed the porch and inserted the key, the door creaking open. Inside, he found a single letter on the floor, likely dropped through the mail slot years ago. It left a clean spot, when he lifted it. The front said ‘Marianne.’ “My mom’s name,” he realized as the house whistled, drafty windows driving the odors of age and mildew.

Elsa ran her fingers across the sofa table, picking up a layer of dust before brushing it away. Every bit of the old furniture was still there, untouched as if they had simply just walked away. “You lived here?” She found a frame on the mantle and wiped the glass to reveal a happy family. “So what happened?”

“My dad just left. Didn’t say a word. Our whole life changed.” Emerson took the frame, running nostalgic fingertips over the image before setting it down carefully. “It hit my mom hard. I mean, my dad was brilliant, way beyond his engineering job at the mine. She never recovered. The bank eventually took the house and, when the mine went dry, so did the town.”

“So, why buy it back?”

“I still grew up here,” he said. “And I got it for pennies.”

She patted a pillow and a plume burst into the air. “I can see why.”

Emerson ran the envelope between his thumb and forefinger, distracted, a deluge of memories flooding back.

“Are you going to open it?”

“What?”

“The envelope.”

“Right. He ripped it open and his eyes went wide. “It’s…it’s from my dad.”

“Well?”

He began, “’Marianne, I know you’ll find this hard to understand, and hope you’ll forgive me. I pray I haven’t lost too much time. Please, head down to the cellar.’”

“Found it.” Elsa was there, descending the staircase with only the light on her phone.

“This is ridiculous.”

“C’mon, keep reading,” she urged.

He rolled his eyes but continued, “’You’ll find an old mirror that’s not a mirror at all.’ What the heck does that mean?”

Elsa pulled a sheet away. “This, I bet.”

“’On the side, there’s a keypad. Type the code 031793.’” Emerson paused. “My birthday.” Then, he read the last line. “’Hope to see you soon.’"

Elsa punched the numbers and their reflection instantly changed to a swirling tempest. Then, without warning, a figure burst through, landing hard on the floor. Frank Brock rolled onto his back.

“Dad?”

“Emerson?”

Emerson leaned in. His father hadn’t aged a day. “Where…where’ve you been?”

“1925,” he replied plainly. “It’s been months. Thank God that letter was delivered as instructed.” He ran his hand along his son’s adult face. “A bit late, I see. Oh, Emerson.”

“Seventeen years.”

“Sevent...” his response faded as his mind raced. “And your mother?”

“She’s okay,” Emerson stepped away, suddenly confused and angry. “Dad, what happened?”

“I’d been working the calculations for years, kind of a hobby,” he said. “Time travel requires a tremendous amount of quantum energy, but I finally cracked it. Problem was, the former owners of this house were scared to death when I came up their stairs from out of nowhere. The police arrested me for trespassing, and my remote lost charge while I was detained. I knew any recall had to be activated from this side, so as soon as I was released, I arranged for that letter.” Frank sighed heavily with regret. “I’ve missed you.”

“A lot happened after you disappeared.”

“I’m sure,” he lamented and rose to his feet. “Guess I’ve got a bit of catching up to do, and a lot of explaining. I think I should start with your mother.”