September Theme - Science fiction

 

 CALLING THE PAST

 

On a sunny September morning, I approached my office with a sinking thought: had I forgotten to lock  up? The door was ajar, and I hesitated briefly before entering as I watched a shadow flicker across the wall. Nothing here was worth stealing, unless my research had uncovered a secret someone didn’t want me to share. 

 

An elderly stranger stood by the window, a vision from a bygone era in her lace-trimmed pillbox hat, wool coat buttoned to her throat, sturdy lace-up shoes, and a boxy handbag hanging from her elbow. 

Perhaps we had planned to meet and it had slipped my mind. I often misplace the present while digging through the past.

 

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully, catching her by surprise. “Do we have an appointment?”

 

“No, I just dropped in. My name is Mrs. Parker. I’m sorry but I don’t know how I arrived in this place, and I don’t know how long I will be able to stay.”

 

“I’m a genealogist. I think you may be in the wrong office,” I suggested. 

“I’m sure this is where I should be,” murmured the old woman. “I landed here specifically.” 

Was it possible she had wandered away from home and family. “Is there anyone I could contact for you?”

“Yes, I need your help to find my family. But they don’t know me, and I don’t know them. This must sound strange to you, and I really can’t explain it. My senses have yet to adjust to this time and place.”

 

Her words made me doubt her grasp on reality. This confused old woman shouldn’t be out alone. She reminded me of my grandmother—same style, same soft-spoken manner—but Grandma had died at sixty-five, the age I am now. Mrs. Parker looked elderly in the way women had when I was a child. Maybe I was misjudging her age. She was safe in my office, but I didn’t want her to leave until I’d contacted someone from her family.

She timidly approached my desk and slipped her purse from her arm. 

 

She opened her purse and tipped its contents onto my desk. “This is all I have of my family history,” she said with a sigh. Photos and postcards spilled out, each held a clue, as my years of genealogy had taught me.

“I will certainly help,” I assured her, “but research can take a long time and families don’t always want their secrets unearthed.”

“There isn’t much time. I may have to leave at any moment. You must know someone in these picture. It’s why we’ve been brought together.”

We scanned the photos. I hoped one might spark a memory for one of us, a name, a place, anything to begin my search. Anything to help me get her home safely. But every face staring back was a stranger, every setting unrecognizable. The collection ranged from black-and-white to colour: babies, toddlers, teenagers, a family’s lifetime of moments captured and preserved. Clues in clothing, hairstyles, and cars helped date the photos. Most ranged from the 1950s to what could be as recent as today. Neither of us recognized any of the people or places. A few earlier photographs, likely from wartime weddings, showed men in military uniform standing beside their brides. 

The old woman unclasped a small gold locket and tilted it toward the light. She offered it to me, and I had to squint to make out the tiny photograph inside, a worn wedding portrait no bigger than a postage stamp.
The bride, petite and strikingly similar to her, wore a breathtaking high-necked gown with layers of lace and a long veil that pooled at her feet. Beside her stood the young groom in a sharply tailored morning coat and striped trousers, a neatly trimmed moustache attempting to lend him a touch of maturity.

Even in the minuscule, faded image, their elegant dress and confident posture suggested families of considerable means.

“Is this you?” I asked as I returned it.

“They look familiar,” she murmured, “but I don’t know.”

One sepia-toned photograph offered a striking clue: the unmistakable silhouette of a Peter Witt streetcar, common on Toronto streets in the 1930s. Mrs. Parker watched silently as I lingered over the image of a scene I knew well.
I moved to the office window overlooking the intersection below and held the photo at arm’s length, comparing it to my view. On the window in the photograph—my window—painted letters appeared in reverse, meant to be read from the street:
 

W. T. Parker Private Investigator HO 4-8226

 

    

 

 

 

Besides an eerie coincidence, this was a starting point. I bundled the photos together, placing this one on top.

 

The postcards fascinated and disappointed me. None had been mailed. The address panels were blank, no stamps, no postmarks. They looked freshly printed, untouched by time. In the space meant for a message only a date had been written like a journal entry: May 1889—the Eiffel Tower shining against the Paris sky. April 1912—the Titanic waiting in the Belfast shipyard for her maiden voyage. November 1922—Howard Carter at the entrance of King Tut’s tomb. December 1941—a Pearl Harbor survivor card.

Had Mrs. Parker visited these places collecting mementos from her travels? A shiver ran down my spine. What if these weren’t souvenirs but records? Had she stood in those places at those precise moments, not as a tourist but as a witness?

I set the postcards aside and returned to the photo. The phone number intrigued me. There was a time, when telephone exchanges combined words and numbers. I knew from my own childhood in this neighbourhood Howard was the local prefix written as HO and represented the numbers 4 and 6.

I stared at the digits, half-smiling at the absurdity. Who was this old woman, really?
Had I let a stranger draw me into an intriguing story and scatter my desk with a purseful of cleverly aged relics? For all I knew, “Alice Parker” might be an actress involved in a carefully planned prank.

Whoever was behind it knew me well enough to guess I’d phone that number—and when I did, they’d be waiting on the other end.

If it was a prank, I’d feel foolish for playing along—but my curiosity had been piqued. 
I reached for the landline. For the call I was about to make, it was more fitting than a cell phone. Slowly, I dialled 464-8226. 

There was a long delay and the crackle of a poor connection. I anticipated a recorded voice saying the number  was no longer in service. Instead, I heard a click and the nasal voice of a woman, like a switchboard operator in an old movie:

“What number are you calling, please?”

I hesitated. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Operator speaking. What number are you calling, please?”

“Howard 4-8226,” I said, playing along with the prank.

“One moment, please.”

Silence. Then a click. A distant phone rang.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Parker’s office. How may I help you?”

My heart skipped a beat as I realized this wasn’t a prank, and I wasn’t researching Mrs. Parker’s family history, I was stepping into it.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Parker, please.” I whispered.

“Certainly. One moment.”

Another click. A dry, husky voice: “Parker speaking.”

I froze between the present and the past, as if the telephone wire had stretched across time to connect me to another age. The view from my office window was unchanged. My reflection in the glass was unchanged. The elderly, confused woman still sat across from me. But the voice on the other end of the phone belonged to another time. I set the phone to speaker.

“Are you phoning with information about Alice?”

“Alice?” 

Mrs. Parker’s back stiffened, clutching her chest at the sound of the name.

“My wife,” he clarified. “I’ve been hoping to hear from her. Is she with you? Is she safe?”

And immediately she relaxed. At that moment, it was clear, she had made the connection with her reality.
“Tell him I’m fine,” she whispered. “Tell him he shouldn’t worry.”

“She’s safe,” I assured him. “She appeared in my office this morning. I have no idea how she got here.”

“Where are you? Who are you?”

“My name’s Eloise—I’m a genealogist. Would you believe I’m sitting in your office right now?” 

If I turned would I find him standing nearby.

“You’re in my office.” It was a statement, not a question. “Tell me—what year is it?”

“2025.”

He gave a low whistle. “Seventy years ahead—and you’re sitting where I’m sitting now.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Same walls, same window. I just don’t understand how this is possible.”

“It’s the time machine. Did Alice tell you? We built it in ’49. But we’ve only ever gone backward. I don’t know what effect forward travel will have. She must come home to 1955."

The old woman edged forward in her chair. “William, I can hear you. I remember now. I know why I’m here. What we talked about, before I left, our legacy. I have photos, Will. The machine created them. I’ve seen our descendants.”

Her sudden excitement shook me. 

“What the hell is happening?” I asked, my pulse quickening.

“The machine always provides proof of where we’ve been.” William said. “Postcards of what we’ve witnessed, moments already written in time. Alice has gone forward and it seems the machine has given her answers to her question of legacy.” His voice grew urgent. “My dear, you must return. You’ve taken too great a risk going forward. We don’t know the effect. Come back, Alice. Come back immediately.”

My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Could I really be connecting with people who belonged to the past? This moment was exhilarating and terrifying at once and I desperately hoped it wasn’t only a vivid dream.

“All the years,” William went on. “The office must have changed…”

“It hasn’t,” Alice said. “Not so different from when I left.”

“Do you see it, Alice? The switch. Can you find the switch?”

She scanned the room, then called out, “William, I see it. It’s here.”

 A tiny toggle switch, almost invisible, blended into the dark oak panelling.

“You must flip it, Alice, but only if you’re alone.”

“I’ll come back, Will. Wait for me. But I’ve come so far… just a little longer.”

“It’s too dangerous  Alice. Please don’t…”

The line went dead. I was alone with Alice and aware we were running out of time. 

“I must leave but I want you to keep the photos and postcards,” she said. “Gather as much information as you can. Somewhere we’ll meet again and you can share it with me. Will you promise me?”

“I promise. But how will I contact you? How will we meet?”

Alice stood next to the switch. I longed to join her, to make sure she reached Will safely where she belonged. The temptation was strong, but the fear was stronger.

“We’ll find a way. Now go. Shut the door behind you. And when you return, I’ll be gone. But keep your promise. We’ll meet again.”

I stepped into the hallway and closed the door. A buzzing sound followed by a quick flash of light left me shaken. Hesitating to return to my office, I rested my hand on the door knob, turned it slowly and peeked inside.  Alice was gone. The photos and postcards she left behind provided proof she had been here, proof it hadn’t been a dream. Yet even without them, there was proof I had never noticed. What would happen if I flipped that switch?  In all the years between then and now, had anyone accidentally activated it?  

There was a tap on the office door. I opened it to find a postcard taped there. 
On the front was an image of Casa Loma. On the back a message: September 1955, Home safely. There is a way for us to meet again. Don’t be afraid.

Determined to keep my promise, I plunged into the archives, beginning with Alice and William’s past. 

Their story unfolded quickly. Both were born to prosperous Toronto families. Alice was only sixteen and William eighteen when they married in 1906, which confirmed her 1890 birth; yet she seemed older than her years. Records provided an explanation for Alice’s yearning to know her future family. By 1914, four babies had arrived, but death records followed each birth. None survived infancy. The discovery was heartbreaking. 

When war broke out, William served as an officer. Alice followed him to England, and they returned six months after the armistice, still childless. 

In the 1921 census I easily found William T. Parker and his wife Alice living near my office in a house they shared with extended family but no children. Without children there would be no future descendants. I paused to consider, who was Alice really searching for? 

William’s occupation was listed as private investigator. Anticipation intensified as I clicked on a hint. An advertisement leapt off the page of a 1921 newspaper: 

ALL CLASSES OF LEGITIMATE DETECTIVE WORK  

Civil and criminal investigations for corporations and individuals. 

Specializing in missing persons.  Discretion guaranteed.  
W.T. Parker Detective Agency  1586 Danforth at Coxwell, 
HO 4-8226

This clipping wasn’t coincidence—it was uncanny. It fascinated me to think he had occupied this space,  a century ago: he, a private investigator of missing persons; me, a genealogist forever searching for the forgotten.  William had worked in my office, gazed through my window at the same busy street. Though I’d spent only an hour with Alice, my connection to her and Will deepened with every record I uncovered.

I dove into the 1931 census, scanning the image for the name Parker. I found exactly what I was looking for and nearly cheered aloud when I saw it: a new address, a bigger house, and an addition to their family—two daughters, ages ten and twelve, each recorded as adopted. There it was in perfect cursive: the family Alice must have hoped I’d discover.

Newspaper society pages began the next chapter. In 1941 the girls’ weddings were announced with photographs of men in uniform beside the radiant young brides—precisely the images that had spilled from Alice’s purse and now sat on my desk. The triumph of my find was bittersweet. Both sons-in-law were casualties of the war, leaving each daughter with an infant. Voter lists confirmed the widows had moved back in with Alice and William, a family supporting one another through the heartbreak.

The clock on my desk ticked louder as the hours slipped by. The past could wait. Alice wanted the future.

I shifted my search to the months after September 1955, the time of her mysterious visit. When we met she’d been only sixty-five, my age now, yet I continued to think of her as elderly. William, sixty-seven then, was still running his detective agency. I hoped they had lived to enjoy old age. 

Sadness and dread hung over me as I hunted for their obituaries. Some irrational part of me hoped they were still alive. Then a headline stopped me cold. 

LOCAL COUPLE MISSING WITHOUT A TRACE  
December 20, 1955
Mr. and Mrs. William Parker, long-time residents of the Danforth 

and Coxwell neighbourhood have apparently disappeared. Their daughters report they were last seen five days ago. Mr. Parker 

has been a private investigator in the area for more than thirty 

years. Police believe the disappearance may be connected to 

Parker’s work. Friends and neighbours joined in the 

unsuccessful search. 

 

Frightful thoughts consumed me and questions came at me fast. Was their disappearance tied to the time machine? Were they trying to return to me and something went horribly wrong? Guilt overwhelmed me. If only I could summon the courage to use the machine myself, perhaps I could warn them. 

Or maybe there was a simpler way.
The telephone.

My hands trembled as I lifted the receiver. Twice I misdialled before finally hearing the click and crackle of a live line.

“Operator. What number, please?”

It was the same nasal voice. 

I gave her the number, barely breathing. Could this really work? Could I once more reach the Parkers seventy years in the past?

The operator connected me. The phone rang in the distance. Once. Twice. Three times.
 

Don’t hang up.
A fourth ring—then the dry, husky voice of William. “Parker speaking.”

My heart surged. “Mr. Parker, it’s Eloise. Please listen. I’ve uncovered something terrible about your future. You must never use the time machine again—something dreadful will happen in December. Please, I beg you—”

Through the static, he spoke, “Hello, is anyone there?”
And then the line was dead.

I sat frozen, the receiver still in my hand, unsure if I’d just spoken across decades or imagined it all. 
The newspaper article was still open on my screen. I refreshed the page, scrolled to where the article had been. It was gone. In its place:

 

LOCAL COUPLE SET TO RETIRE

December 20, 1955
Mr. and Mrs. William Parker, long-time residents of the Danforth 

and Coxwell neighbourhood, have announced their intention to 

retire and enjoy a well-earned rest. Their daughters report the couple look 

forward to quieter days after many years of service to the community. Mr. Parker 

has conducted his private-investigation practice here for more than thirty years and 

has frequently lent his skill to the assistance of the local police. Friends and 

neighbours join in extending hearty congratulations and best wishes for many pleasant years ahead.

I held my breath. 

One final search was necessary. 

Alice and William died peacefully in their home of sixty years just hours apart on a sunny September morning in 1987. They were beloved parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. 

 

I breathed.  

They had lived. They had known their descendants. And somewhere, the Parkers’ legacy lived on.

 

(Thanks to Matthew Barrett for help with the artwork!)