It was dark and stormy that night. What a Cliché, I know, but really, could you think of a better way to describe what is happening outside my window here on 123rd Sycamore Lane? My name is Peter Brighten. The scent of rain lingers in the air as I introduce myself. My friends, Mark Hastin and Cerick Landon, always had a way of finding humor in everything. They used to tease me, calling me "light bright," evoking memories of the picture maker with its vibrant, illuminating plastics. The sound of their laughter echoes in my mind.
One particular night stands out vividly in my memory. It was a dark and stormy night, the rain pouring down relentlessly. The distant rumble of thunder resonated through the air, intensifying the eerie atmosphere. We found ourselves just two blocks away from the historic Paul Revere's house, close to the museum that bore his name. The scent of history hung in the air, mingling with the dampness of the rain.
As we stood there, our gaze fixed down the street, a strange phenomenon unfolded before our eyes. An ominous fog crept in, shrouding the streets with an ethereal greenish glow. The sight was both mesmerizing and unsettling. Ceric, always the adventurous one, felt an irresistible pull to investigate. The anticipation in the air was so thick you could spoon it like pea soup, sending shivers down our spines.
Staying home at my parents' house was not an option for us. Our mischievous nature, always craving excitement and adventure, made us well-known. Today, on April 18, 1975, almost two hundred years since that fateful night in history, we stood there, our senses heightened, ready to embark on another unforgettable journey. The air was heavy with the scent of rain, the sky dark and foreboding. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing through the landscape. The anticipation filled the air, electrifying our every nerve.
Little did we know, this dark and stormy night was merely the beginning of what awaited us. The rain began to pour, drenching us to the bone, as we braced ourselves against the gusts of wind. The sight of raindrops gracefully descending from the darkened sky was a mesmerizing spectacle, as they collided with the wet ground below. It seemed like a symphony orchestrated by the harmonious blend of the sound of raindrops with the haunting howls of the wind and the distant rumble of thunder. The air was heavy with moisture, causing a dampness to cling to our clothes and seep into our very skin.
Little did we know, however, that what awaited us was beyond the realm of our adolescent imaginations. We were three mortal boys at that time, average growing boys just like others that people would seem unimportant and unnoticeable except when causing trouble, only fourteen years old at the time, yet our destinies were about to be forever altered. We were about to embark on a journey through time, becoming travelers who would mend the fragile fabric of existence itself.
As we stepped into the unknown, a tingling sense of anticipation filled the air. The sight of swirling colors and shimmering lights danced before our eyes, as if Time itself was unraveling. The sound of crackling energy echoed in our ears, intertwining with the distant hum of otherworldly machinery. The scent of ozone and burning metal permeated the atmosphere, a sharp tang that hinted at the power surging through the cosmic rift.
With every step, we could feel a strange energy coursing through our veins, as if we were being pulled in different directions by the unseen forces of the universe. The weight of our newfound responsibility settled heavily upon our shoulders, filling us with both awe and trepidation. Goosebumps prickled our skin, a physical manifestation of the ethereal presence that surrounded us.
There was no time to say goodbye to our loved ones, a note that could explain anything that had happened to us that fate full night as we left our world and Time behind and embarked on a journey. Well, none. No one would believe that included us. That included our parents and young childhood friend's. Oh God, we should have stayed home that night. However, if we did, the world and Time as we knew it would be gone and there would be no world or Time to come home to. Not for us, not for anybody. Time as we know it will change forever.
The scene was devoid of any divine presence, as if even God and the Devil themselves had abandoned this forsaken place. And so, with trepidation in our hearts, we set forth on our quest to save not only our world but also the freedom of mankind from the clutches of these demonic beings that sought to claim it as their eternal feeding ground. It was a truth that seemed unimaginable, yet one we had no choice but to face.
* * * *
Peter's face lit up with a mischievous grin as he fumbled in their secret hiding place, the musty scent of old books and dust tickling his nose. His pudgy fingers trembled with excitement as he held the flashlights, the cool metal sending a shiver up his spine. Suppressing a boyish giggle, the three boys crept through the dimly lit room, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Above them, Peter's parents slumbered peacefully, the soft sounds of their rhythmic breathing filling the air. It had only been two hours since they had been told to go to sleep, but the allure of their adventure was too strong to resist. The question lingered in the back of their minds - would they ever listen? The answer was a resounding no.
Peter, the apparent leader of the group, had mesmerizing eyes that captured attention. They were a vivid shade of green, sparkling like precious emerald jewels in the sunlight. As he confidently walked, the sound of his footsteps reverberated softly, creating a melodic rhythm against the plush carpet in his room. The room itself was filled with the scent of freshly laundered sheets, emanating a crisp and clean aroma that lingered in the air, inviting a sense of comfort. Peter's heart raced with anticipation; his palms were slightly sweaty, the subtle clamminess revealing his excitement for the mischievous fun that awaited him with his two best friends, Mark Hastin and Cerick Landon, whom he had known since kindergarten. The sheer excitement of their adventure filled the room, creating an electric atmosphere that crackled with possibility and unknown outcomes. Unbeknownst to the three boys, the events of that fateful night were manipulated by Jack O'farian, an experienced Time Traveler, who secretly tested their suitability for the task of saving the world from imminent peril. The familiar scent of freshly cut grass permeated the air, a fragrance that Peter had recently mowed, the anticipation of heavy rain adding a revitalizing touch to the scene. The warm, humid night air enveloped his skin, invigorating his senses, while a gentle breeze caressed his wavy brown hair, orchestrating a playful dance of movement.
In his school, Peter was regarded as a heartthrob, with the girls swooning over his captivating looks. His charm was amplified by his height, standing just shy of four feet and ten inches. Towering over him, his mother, in his stocking feet, bent down to tie his sneakers. The sound of the laces being looped and pulled tight filled the air. Peter's fingers brushed against the soft fabric of his sneakers, feeling the coolness and comfort, they provided as they were secured to his feet.
Outside, the storm raged on, its fury evident in the powerful gusts of wind that howled through the air, shaking trees and rattling windows. The relentless pitter-patter of rain against the cold glass window created a symphony of sound, like tiny drumbeats echoing in the distance. The raindrops, as they splattered against the window, carried a distinct smell of freshness and earthiness, filling the air with a damp, invigorating scent. It almost seemed as if the rain itself was tears of sadness and gladness, as if it carried the emotions of the boys who were preparing to say goodbye and enter a world not of their own. The storm welcomed them into its embrace, with the wind gently whispering words of comfort to those they were leaving behind. The scene was a mix of both heartache and hope, as the boys left their families, friends, and loved ones behind to embark on a mission to save humanity from impending destruction.
It was a bittersweet moment, as each Time Traveler carefully wiped the memory of the boys from those who knew them, leaving behind only a slight tug and empty space where they once resided in their hearts and minds. Now, as each item and representation of their existence vanished one by one, it was as if their very existence was being washed away, stored into the chambers of their own memories. Goodbyes were never easy, but they were necessary, and the Time Travelers knew this all too well. As they watched and prepared the new travelers, a sense of both sadness and celebration filled the air.
The storm outside raged with an otherworldly fury, its thunderous roars shaking the very foundations of the earth. Lightning cracked through the darkened sky, illuminating the scene with its brilliant flashes. The air was heavy with the scent of rain, carrying a hint of electricity that charged the atmosphere. The howling wind whipped through the trees, their branches thrashing in protest. It was as if the gods themselves had orchestrated this magical tempest to cloak the boys' disappearance, ensuring they would vanish without a trace. In the midst of it all, a sense of eerie silence hung in the air, as if time itself had been frozen, and the boys would become like ghosts, forgotten by all who once knew them.
Mark cautiously peered into the dimly lit room, his heart pounding in his chest. The musty smell of old furniture and dust filled his nostrils, making him wrinkle his nose. He pressed his ear against the cold, wooden door, straining to detect any signs of wakefulness. The silence was broken only by the distant sound of a clock ticking, echoing through the empty hallway.
Satisfied that the coast was clear, Mark discreetly signaled to his companions, his hand movements precise and calculated as he leaned down and tied his shoelaces. The air around them felt heavy with anticipation, as if holding their breath. Unbeknownst to Mark, the Time Travelers were watching them, their presence sending shivers down his spine.
In a brief moment, Mark felt a slight tug, like a gentle pull on his sleeve. It disappeared just as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling disoriented. He turned his gaze towards a picture hanging on the wall, where his best friend Peter and his family stood frozen in time. The image shimmered and flickered, as if teasing him with its transient existence. Then, just like that, Peter vanished from the picture, leaving behind an empty space that seemed to mock Mark's memories. Confusion clouded his thoughts, as if a thick fog had settled inside his mind. He tried to form a question, to make sense of the bizarre events unfolding before him, but the words eluded him. Instead, he found himself drawn to the window, where the raging storm outside mirrored the turmoil within him.
As he stared at his reflection in the rain-streaked glass, Mark could almost see his own brown puppy dog eyes, searching for answers. His hand instinctively touched the puffy outline of his cheeks, feeling the warmth against his fingertips. His short brown wavy hair clung to his forehead, dampened by the misty raindrops that tapped on the windowpane.
Standing there, Mark couldn't help but feel small in comparison to his two taller friends, Peter and Cerick. Their absence from his memories made him question his own existence, his place in the world. The once vivid memories of his privileged upbringing now seemed distant, like fragments of a forgotten dream.
The storm outside raged on, unleashing its fury with thunderous booms that drowned out Mark's thoughts. He was left with a profound sense of unease, as if the very fabric of his reality was unraveling before his eyes. Cerik, his broad shoulders burdened by their nap sacks, his long blond hair slightly grazing his steely blues, which said it would need cutting soon, his broad chiseled boyhood face seemed nearly confused as his friends. Like them, they couldn't shake off the sensation that something big, something important was going on. Yet, just like them, he couldn't comprehend the events unfolding around them, as if they were being manipulated by unseen personages lurking outside in that dreadful storm. The question lingered, why? As they each looked at one another, there was a lingering uncertainty, a shimmering uncertainty as if reality itself was wavering. He gently opened the door, the creaking hinges adding an eerie soundtrack to their clandestine mission. Raindrops began to drench them, their icy touch sliding down their faces and seeping into their clothes, leaving a chilling sensation. Ceric handed each of his friends an ugly yellow poncho, its pungent smell of rubber overpowering their senses, adding another layer to their discomfort. Despite their makeshift shelter, the relentless downpour managed to seep through, chilling their feet with its dampness. Making their way to an unknown destination, they felt a sense of intrigue and curiosity about where they were headed. Peter couldn't contain his excitement, and it showed in his wide grin. As he hurried clumsily, he accidentally splattered mud on Mark, eliciting a playful scolding from his friend. "Mind your step, pal!" Mark whispered, his voice a mix of amusement and caution.
Peter, trying to stifle his laughter, replied in a hushed tone, "Come on, quiet down! We don't want to wake up the entire world, do we?" Their voices were barely audible over the splashing sounds of Peter's muddy antics. The three boys slowly make it out of the house with Peter in the lead. Loud crashes of lightning are heard as a roaring boom then a big flash of light just above them. Lightning streaks across the night sky, then the boys hear another loud boom resembling cannon fire in the distance, which seems impossible to them because it is not the fourth of July. As the boys slowly approach benches of rolled fog along the narrow streets, they hear the sounds of war and people screaming in total panic.
"Why would we hear cannon fire at this time of the night?" Mark shouts, his voice echoing through the stillness of the night. Mark shouts, his voice echoing through the stillness of the night. He ducks near the ground, feeling the dampness of the grass beneath his trembling hands. Suddenly, a ball of fire soars past him with a deafening whistle, its brightness illuminating the surrounding darkness. The acrid smell of burning fills the air as the fiery projectile crashes somewhere towards the north of town.
Startled, Mark's eyes widened as he watched a ghostly horse and its rider thunder past him, their hooves pounding against the cobblestone streets, creating a symphony of echoing thuds. The sound of their galloping reverberated through the silent night, sending shivers down his spine. The sight of the ethereal figures moving swiftly, their spectral forms illuminated by the dim glow of the flickering lantern lights, added an eerie and otherworldly touch to the scene.
As the horse and rider disappeared into the distance, Mark's curiosity piqued. He couldn't help but wonder why there were horses and old wagons along the road instead of cars. Before he could voice his question, the screams of terror erupted in the street, filling the air with a cacophony of fear and panic.
The lantern lights flickered eerily, casting a dim, greenish glow that danced and shimmered, adding an otherworldly aura to the mist-laden atmosphere. The air itself felt thick and heavy, carrying a mixture of dense fog and wisps of smoke, which hung in the air like a cloak. The scent of damp earth permeated the surroundings, mingling with the faint odor of burning wood, creating a sensory cocktail that enveloped Mark's senses, making him feel both disoriented and intrigued. The sight of his two best friends, their faces mirroring his own bewilderment, only added to the surreal atmosphere. They all turned to look back where they had come, only to find their path blocked by an impenetrable wall of unearthly fog. As they watched, their once familiar homes became shrouded in the mysterious greenish mist, leaving behind nothing but ghostly outlines frozen in time.
Looking up, Mark noticed small smokestacks jutting out from the tops of the houses, releasing thin wisps of smoke into the already mist-laden air. The houses themselves cast long, ominous shadows that seemed to dance and twist in the dim light. Mark's heart skipped a beat as his gaze followed the shadows, his imagination running wild with the possibilities that lay ahead.
Emerging from the fog is a hooded figure, its black cloak billowing in the night breeze. The figure's eyes glow with an eerie, greenish light, piercing through the darkness and locking onto Mark and Cerik. A gasp escapes Mark's lips, a sound barely audible amidst the chaos surrounding them. His body tenses, and he instinctively pushes against the boys, trying to create distance between them and the mysterious figure. But his efforts are in vain, and they trip and fall onto the cold, damp ground, the sensation of wet grass seeping through their clothes.
Mark carefully extended his finger, indicating the approaching cloaked figure. Meanwhile, Cerik directed his attention to another figure in the opposite direction. The boys huddled closely together, averting their gaze from the two mysterious figures on the street. Suddenly, a loud wailing noise pierced the air, accompanied by the sight of black, tentacle-like arms lunging towards the boys. In the midst of the chaos, a man urgently shouted, "Quickly, get in here, your bloody arse's asses!" The boys stood transfixed; their eyes locked on the two mysterious figures as they swiftly darted into the quaint cottage. The flickering glow of a small lantern held by a man illuminated the scene, casting eerie shadows on the cobblestone street. The boys could hear the faint crackling of the lantern's flame and the distant echo of their own pounding hearts. "Quickly, boys! Hurry inside!" the man urged; his voice tinged with urgency. The boys could sense the urgency in his voice as he scolded them, comparing their sluggishness to his agile grand da. The scent of the cool night air mingled with the faint aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from the nearby bakery.
Without wasting a moment, the boys obeyed the man's command, their adrenaline pumping. As they entered the cottage, Cerick's breath came in ragged gasps, the exertion evident on his flushed face. He leaned over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath amidst the musty scent of old books and the faint smell of the man's cologne.
Grateful for their escape, Cerick mustered the strength to thank the man, his voice strained. The man nodded, his movements swift and efficient as he wiped the dirt off his boots with a handkerchief, the fabric rustling softly in the dimly lit room. He quickly dabbed at his sweaty face, the scent of his aftershave mingling with the faint aroma of wood smoke.
As Mark surveyed the room, his eyes were drawn to a bayonet resting against the doorframe. The wooden handle showed signs of wear, while the silver blade shimmered in the warm glow of the crackling fire in the stone fireplace. His eyes were drawn to a quaint wooden table, its surface adorned with chairs that mimicked the delicate branches of a tree. The air was thick with the scent of burnt wood, a lingering reminder of its recent transformation. This fragrance mingled harmoniously with the mouthwatering aroma of smoked beef, suspended from the ceiling nearby. The old stove, unlike the one his mother would typically use, added a touch of nostalgia, reminiscent of a bygone era that he had only ever encountered in dusty history museums.
In the dimly lit corner of the room, a worn-out twin-sized bed stood, its faded sheets invitingly crinkled and awaiting weary bodies. The room itself seemed frozen in a bygone era, devoid of modern conveniences, as if time had reversed its course. The absence of electricity hummed in the air, and the silence was only broken by the distant echoes of a forgotten era. As he fumbled in his pocket, searching for his phone, a pang of desperation filled his fingertips, longing for the familiar touch of his lifeline that was now absent. The crisp scent of freshly laundered sheets mingled with the musty aroma of the room, reminiscent of decades past. The air was filled with a peculiar odor coming from a tin cup next to an ancient bottle of brown liquid, possibly a leftover from a homemade brew at a local pub.
The small square-shaped windows, with their cracked glass panes, were arranged in a neat box formation, casting slivers of sunlight onto the dusty wooden floor. The sight of the dirty brown curtains, tattered and chewed by mice, added a musty smell to the air inside the cottage. Cerick, Mark, and Peter couldn't help but notice the similarities between the cottage and the faded pictures they had seen in their history books, transporting them to a long-forgotten era. The sound of creaking floorboards echoed through the room as they cautiously stepped closer, their footsteps mingling with the faint sounds of panic in the streets outside.
The old man, standing before them with a weathered face, added to the rustic ambiance. He wore odd-looking farming pants, the fabric worn and coarse to the touch, and an old, checkered shirt, with its faded colors blending with the peeling paint on the walls. The scent of earth and sweat lingered around him, as if he had been toiling in the fields just moments before. Atop his head, a round brown turban hat with ragged edges revealed only a glimpse of his hazel eyes, shining with a hint of wisdom and mystery. The man seemed like a relic from the late 1700s, a blend of the old and the somewhat modern, his presence enveloping the room with an inexplicable aura of timelessness.
Peter, on the other hand, leaned against the small wooden window of the old man's house, his eyes fixated on the scene before him. As he gazed out, he noticed the road they had come down, now fading into the distance, blending seamlessly with the hazy horizon. The air hung heavy with a strange fog, its ethereal tendrils wrapping around everything, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. Its soft, pillow-like appearance seemed to muffle even the faintest of sounds. He knew it, he feared it, that if his two friends saw what he saw they would panic. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled his nostrils, adding to the eerie feeling. The chill of the fog brushed against his skin, leaving a damp and clammy sensation. The sight of their once familiar homes, now gone, evoked a sense of loss and confusion, as if they had been erased from existence.
The scent of damp earth and moss wafted through the open window, mingling with the crispness of the air. Goosebumps formed on Peter's skin as he felt a chill running down his spine, a mix of anticipation and dread. "Oh God, Why did we not stay home?" he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. He sighed inwardly, the weight of the situation pressing against him like a heavy blanket. As he watched outside into unfamiliar surroundings, he couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped, the suffocating claustrophobia creeping in. Yet, he didn't want his friends to panic either. Not that he wasn't doing that himself feeling the uneasiness in the air and the sense of loss.