Somewhere in Time by Richard Matheson

taken back to 1971. The confidence I had (and have) about being able to reach 1896 was not evident in that moment. I knew very well that I was there but I lacked the assurance that I could control my remaining.
    Odd to think, now, that all the time this was taking place, I didn't once think of Elise and the fact that she was in the same place I was. Perhaps I didn't because she really wasn't at that moment. If my theory is true, she wasn't there because I was in only a fragment of 1896, not in its entirety. All right, to return-once more. I moved my head very slowly on the pillow.
    And saw a painting on the wall.
    Let me describe it. There were two central figures; that of a mother and son, I gathered. The woman was wearing a gray dress and a white apron. She didn't look young. Her hair was pulled back. She was standing close to her son. She had her hands on his shoulders. I have to amend that. Her right hand was on his left shoulder. It was only my impression that she had her other hand on his other shoulder as well.
    The boy was five inches or so taller than she. He wore a coat and -was holding a hat in his left hand-which meant, I suppose, that he was leaving. He might have been arriving, for that matter. No, that wasn't the feeling the painting conveyed; it was one of departure. Now I recall a black umbrella to the left of the mother. It was leaning on something; I don't know what, I didn't see that part of the painting clearly. There was a dog, too, near the umbrella. Sitting on the floor. Medium-sized. Presumably gazing at the boy who was leaving.
    On the other side of the painting were figures. An old man or woman seated at a table; I forgot to mention that the mother and son were standing by this table and there was a chair behind the mother. The mother's expression was not a happy one. The boy's face was in profile. He didn't seem to be looking at his mother. Maybe he was supposed to be fighting back emotion; I don't know that either.
    I was blinking my eyes to take a harder look when I was brought back.
    This time it was even less distinct and rapid. As I blinked my eyes, the painting and the wall went blurry and I felt a drawing sensation all around my body, as though I were being exposed to suction. I knew I was going back; there was enough of a period for me to feel regret, I recall. So it was hardly eye-blink fast.
    Then I guess I slept or passed out or-who knows? All I know is that when I opened my eyes, I was back again.
    What brought me back, I wonder? Why, when I was there so strongly, did I return? Is it a matter of repetition? I must assume that. Just as I had to repeat-verbally and in writing and in thought-those instructions again and again, apparently I'm going to have to consolidate my position in 1896 again and again until it sticks. A little maddening that, now that I've been there so vividly Still, I must accept it. The process has to be respected. I'll do whatever is necessary to make it permanent.
    I must return immediately, though; of that I'm positive. I feel as if I've now constricted my involvement with the present. I know I mustn't-under any circumstances-venture from this spot and enlarge that involvement again. I must break back through that film as soon as possible.
    � � �
    Later.
    There again. Lasted minutes.
    � � �
    Are ... minutes there ... minutes here?
    When I . .. came back .. . adagio still playing. Did I replay it? Can't remember.
    Really feel .. . peculiar.
    Unreal.
    1971 ...feels ...as 1896 did.
    Not real.
    Lying here . . . feels like . . .
    Like it did in 1896.
    As though I . . . have to watch myself.
    Or lose it.
    Funny.
    Shall I... turn my head ... describe a-picture on the wall?
    To prove I'm here?
    Feels that way.
    Feeling of . . . impermanence.
    As if... I'm really ... man from 1896 ... trying to reach ...
    -what?
    Odd sensation.
    Don't resist it.
    � � �
    Coming.
    God, I feel it coming.
    Have to . . . stop . . . talking. Close my . . . eyes, struct my . . .