Somewhere in Time by Richard Matheson Page A
Authors: Richard Matheson
Tags: Fiction - Sci-Fi/Fantasy
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mind.
Tell my . . . my . . .
self, my self tha'. . .
Drifting.
Heavy
Feel.....................so heavy
November 19, 1896
I opened my eyes to see the fire of sunset on the walls and ceiling.
At first, it didn't register. I lay on my back without moving, head and body feeling numb, as though I'd had too much to drink. I knew I hadn't been drinking though. This numbness was caused by something else.
I listened to the surf for minutes before the realization struck me.
The sound of it was infinitely louder than it had ever been before.
I was there.
The knowledge caused a sudden, weblike tingling in my fingertips and all across my face. I looked down at my body-at the dark suit and the pointed boots near the foot of my bed. Then I refocused my eyes and looked beyond.
Where the bureau had been, I saw a fireplace. I couldn't see the hearth because of my position but I saw the mantel made of polished cherry wood and, as the pounding of the surf abated momentarily, heard the crackling of a fire.
Incautiously, I pushed up on my right elbow. For ten to fifteen seconds, the room swam around me darkly and I suffered the dread that I was going back.
Gradually, then, everything assumed a natural perspective and I stared at the fire. To my surprise, I saw coal burning on the grate; I had expected wood. Immediately, I saw how injudicious that would be. A hotel constructed of wood with hundreds of erratic wood fires in its rooms? It would be an invitation to catastrophe.
I looked toward the windows and received another surprise when I saw Venetian blinds. I stared at them in confusion, only realizing gradually-with incredible mental sluggishness, it seemed-that, now, they were made of wood.
My gaze shifted. Instead of drapes, there were white, airy-looking curtains tied back on each side of the windows. The writing table and chair were gone. Against the wall, below the windows, stood a low, rectangular table, a lacelike scarf across its polished surface, a heavy, brass plate lying on the scarf.
I turned my head to the left. There was only one bed in the room, and the bathroom wall was gone. Where the tub and shower had stood was a massive bureau with a large, square mirror hanging above it.
I twisted around carefully and looked up at the framed print on the wall. I couldn't see it very well. Laboredly, I turned myself and strained to my knees on the soft mattress.
The painting was as I'd remembered it except that now I could make out all the details I'd missed. An old woman was sitting in the shadows by the dog, the umbrella leaning against her legs. There were three additional figures as well, located on the right side of the painting; two men and a young girl. One of the men had his back turned away and was holding a grip in his left hand. The other was standing in a doorway, looking toward the boy and mother. My gaze dropped to the tide plate on the bottom of the frame. Breaking Home Ties by Thomas Hovenden.
Holding on to the wooden headboard for support, I eased myself off the mattress and stood. As cautious as it
was, my movement made the room go swirling into darkness again and I had to clutch at the headboard to keep from falling. Finally, I was compelled to slump down on the bed and sit 'with my eyes shut, my head feeling as though it were rolling around on my shoulders. Don't let me lose it, I thought; but to whom I pleaded I have no idea.
After a while, the sensation dwindled and I opened my eyes again, looking at the elaborate floral design on the rug. When my head had cleared a little more, I lifted it and looked toward the bureau. One of its lower drawers was partly out and I saw a shirt inside. I stared at it in confusion. Was it mine?
Once more, comprehension came with what struck me as unbelievable slowness. The shirt, of course, was the property of whoever was renting this room. I had been fortunate enough to reach the room while he was elsewhere.
I looked at the light fixture hanging from the ceiling.
Tell my . . . my . . .
self, my self tha'. . .
Drifting.
Heavy
Feel.....................so heavy
November 19, 1896
I opened my eyes to see the fire of sunset on the walls and ceiling.
At first, it didn't register. I lay on my back without moving, head and body feeling numb, as though I'd had too much to drink. I knew I hadn't been drinking though. This numbness was caused by something else.
I listened to the surf for minutes before the realization struck me.
The sound of it was infinitely louder than it had ever been before.
I was there.
The knowledge caused a sudden, weblike tingling in my fingertips and all across my face. I looked down at my body-at the dark suit and the pointed boots near the foot of my bed. Then I refocused my eyes and looked beyond.
Where the bureau had been, I saw a fireplace. I couldn't see the hearth because of my position but I saw the mantel made of polished cherry wood and, as the pounding of the surf abated momentarily, heard the crackling of a fire.
Incautiously, I pushed up on my right elbow. For ten to fifteen seconds, the room swam around me darkly and I suffered the dread that I was going back.
Gradually, then, everything assumed a natural perspective and I stared at the fire. To my surprise, I saw coal burning on the grate; I had expected wood. Immediately, I saw how injudicious that would be. A hotel constructed of wood with hundreds of erratic wood fires in its rooms? It would be an invitation to catastrophe.
I looked toward the windows and received another surprise when I saw Venetian blinds. I stared at them in confusion, only realizing gradually-with incredible mental sluggishness, it seemed-that, now, they were made of wood.
My gaze shifted. Instead of drapes, there were white, airy-looking curtains tied back on each side of the windows. The writing table and chair were gone. Against the wall, below the windows, stood a low, rectangular table, a lacelike scarf across its polished surface, a heavy, brass plate lying on the scarf.
I turned my head to the left. There was only one bed in the room, and the bathroom wall was gone. Where the tub and shower had stood was a massive bureau with a large, square mirror hanging above it.
I twisted around carefully and looked up at the framed print on the wall. I couldn't see it very well. Laboredly, I turned myself and strained to my knees on the soft mattress.
The painting was as I'd remembered it except that now I could make out all the details I'd missed. An old woman was sitting in the shadows by the dog, the umbrella leaning against her legs. There were three additional figures as well, located on the right side of the painting; two men and a young girl. One of the men had his back turned away and was holding a grip in his left hand. The other was standing in a doorway, looking toward the boy and mother. My gaze dropped to the tide plate on the bottom of the frame. Breaking Home Ties by Thomas Hovenden.
Holding on to the wooden headboard for support, I eased myself off the mattress and stood. As cautious as it
was, my movement made the room go swirling into darkness again and I had to clutch at the headboard to keep from falling. Finally, I was compelled to slump down on the bed and sit 'with my eyes shut, my head feeling as though it were rolling around on my shoulders. Don't let me lose it, I thought; but to whom I pleaded I have no idea.
After a while, the sensation dwindled and I opened my eyes again, looking at the elaborate floral design on the rug. When my head had cleared a little more, I lifted it and looked toward the bureau. One of its lower drawers was partly out and I saw a shirt inside. I stared at it in confusion. Was it mine?
Once more, comprehension came with what struck me as unbelievable slowness. The shirt, of course, was the property of whoever was renting this room. I had been fortunate enough to reach the room while he was elsewhere.
I looked at the light fixture hanging from the ceiling.
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