Outside, two cloaked figures moved in a slow, deliberate dance around the house, their haunting wails piercing through the thick silence. The sound sent shivers down Peter's spine, as if the cries were echoing from the depths of his own fears. As his eyes focused on their faces, he recoiled at their inhuman features. Their hollowed eyes glowed with an unnatural light, like two fiery orbs in the darkness. Their bone jaws were covered in decaying skin, emitting a putrid odor that mingled with the mist, creating a sickening stench that permeated the air.
Sensing danger, the man in the room swiftly grabbed Peter by the shoulders, his touch firm. "Those are diseur' fade, and you boys best not have any dealings with them," he warned, pushing Peter towards the center of the room. Concerned, he asked, "What are you doing out this late in the first place? I'm bloody asking."
As he settled into a chair, the man gestured towards a small rough couch made of animal skins, possibly deer or maybe even bear. None of the three boys recognized the unique scent that definitely didn't come from a department store. The item had a distinct impression of being homemade or incredibly ancient. How old they did not know. The couch had clearly seen better days, and its worn appearance added to the overall atmosphere of the room.
Ceric plopped down onto the dusty sofa, causing a cloud of particles to swirl in the air, which made Mark and Peter cough and rub their irritated eyes. However, the man smiled, seemingly unconcerned about the swirling dust that the boy had disturbed. In fact, his smile grew even wider, and he let out a quick, quiet chuckle that echoed through the room, sounding like a swarm of bees' nests from the depths of a well. He muttered something about the room being fit for visitors and how the boys were making a mess, but then his expression turned serious.
"Like I told you boys, it's best not to be dealing with those," he said, pointing to the door. "You boys are better off dealing with the devil himself than having those after your backside. You should head home at first light because they hate the light." He paused, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room, as he whispered under his breath, the words escaping like a faint breeze. The air, quiet as a whisper, wrapped around him like a gentle caress, making every word he utter seem delicate and fragile in the midst of the serene atmosphere. A mix of anticipation and anxiety filled his senses, as he pondered whether his voice reached their ears. The soft murmurs of his speech blended harmoniously with the faint rustling of papers, stirred by an unseen breeze that brushed against his skin. The distant ticking of a flickering lantern and the soft hiss of the gas lights lining the walls added to the ambient symphony.
With bated breath, he hoped they remained oblivious to his presence, not wanting to disturb the delicate tranquility that hung in the air. "Not that you have a home to go back to or life for that matter, considering I and my friends have taken care of that." he continued, his voice slicing through the silence like shards of glass, the words piercing the air and lingering like a bitter taste. The room, bathed in a soft, golden glow, revealed the faint outlines of dusty books, their worn pages whispering tales of forgotten stories. The scent of aged paper hung in the air, its delicate fragrance evoking a sense of nostalgia, as if the room itself held memories of a bygone era.
But beneath the soft glow and the scent of aged paper, another presence lingered. The mustiness of the air clung to his skin, heavy and oppressive, as if it carried the weight of secrets which it did, his and theirs. It filled the room, seeping into every corner, creating an almost tangible anticipation, as if the very air held its breath, waiting for the next move. Jack O'farian, his enigmatic presence captivating, stood before them, his eyes scanning their reactions like a predator stalking its prey. He withheld certain details, his face betraying nothing. The room seemed to hold its breath, as if in anticipation of the secrets about to be unveiled.
A soft sigh, filled with a hint of weariness, escaped his lips, blending harmoniously with the echoes of his inward chuckle. As he pondered the complexities of the past, present, and future, a visible weight of shared responsibility loomed in the air, pressing upon their shoulders like a heavy burden. The flickering candle, casting a warm glow, illuminated the room, its soft crackling sound mingling with the faint scent of melted wax. The dancing shadows it created danced restlessly on the worn wooden floor, symbolizing the uncertain path that lay ahead for the four of them. Unbeknownst to the boys, a sense of mystery hung in the air, blending with the crisp scent of anticipation. The Time Travelers, including him, had brought them to this unfamiliar place, their purpose shrouded in the unknown. As he braced himself to become their teacher and guide, the air crackled with an electric energy, as if time itself held its breath. He could feel a nervous tremor coursing through his own body, mirroring the fear that lurked within him. The boys, unaware of the truth, might soon discover that everything they once knew and loved had vanished, leaving only fading memories. Such was the clandestine nature of the Time Travelers, who operated behind the scenes like ghosts, vanishing once their mission was complete.
Mark's eyes fixated on the window, drawn towards the vibrant burst of light that painted the sky. The deafening roar of cannon fire reverberated through the ground, sending tremors coursing through his body. With caution, the man approached the window, the cold metal of his bayonet firm in his grasp. As he slid closer, the whistling sound of the cannon fire grew louder, passing perilously close to the house. A blaze of orange and yellow illuminated the street, casting eerie shadows that danced near the window.
Suddenly, a man outside let out a piercing scream, his horse's hooves thudding heavily on the ground, disturbing the silence. The cloaked figure near the house recoiled, the horse's baying adding to the cacophony. The man on horseback bellowed, "Die, you widow maker!" In response, the figure hissed, its long, gnarled arms flailing wildly, each hand wielding a menacing red sword. The closed door amplified another cry, "Die, you thieven bastard!"
With a menacing hiss, black smoke billowed from the figure's decaying body, lifeless on the cobblestone street. Silence fell abruptly, the only sound now was the crackling of wood as the fire devoured the surroundings. The glow of the flames cast an eerie orange hue, illuminating the scene. A triumphant shout rang out. "Chalk up another for the bloody devil of King bloody George, fellas! For he bears the shadow of death well! May he soon meet his maker!" Echoes of agreement resounded through the street, mingling with the crackling fire.
Floating newspapers drifted towards them, catching Peter's attention as he quickly picked one up, his eyes scanning the headlines of The Boston Gazette from the year 1775.
Declaring Independence (1775-76)
When the Second Continental Congress convened in Philadelphia, delegates—including new additions Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson—voted to form a Continental Army, with Washington as its commander in chief. On June 17, in the Revolution's first major battle, colonial forces inflicted heavy casualties on the British regiment of General William Howe at Breed's Hill in Boston. The engagement, known as the Battle of Bunker Hill, ended in British victory, but lent encouragement to the revolutionary cause.
Throughout that fall and winter, Washington's forces struggled to keep the British contained in Boston, but artillery captured at Fort Ticonderoga in New York helped shift the balance of that struggle in late winter. The British evacuated the city in March 1776, with Howe and his men retreating to Canada to prepare a major invasion of New York.
Peter's hands trembled as he cautiously handed the worn newspaper to his two best friends, Cerick and Mark. The dim lamp light cast a pale glow on their faces, highlighting their growing anxiety. They peered towards the road they had just travelled on, their eyes searching for any sign of the fog that had engulfed it moments ago. But now, all that remained were vast green hills, devoid of the homes they once knew. The air hung heavy with a mysterious scent, as if the fog had left its lingering mark on everything it touched.
Peter's head spun and his stomach churned, causing him to stagger backwards, overwhelmed by a sense of dizziness. As he fell to his knees, clutching the crumpled newspaper, the weight of the situation hit him with full force. The gravity of what had transpired was inescapable. He glanced up at Jack, the old man who stood silently nearby. Jack's face appeared as hard as stone, his attempt at a smile only accentuating the seriousness of the situation. The obliviousness of the people around them, their attention directed elsewhere, made the boys feel like ghosts, invisible to the world.
Jack approached them, his footsteps barely making a sound on the ground. Jack knew he had a lot of explaining to do, but he also understood the overwhelming emotions his friends were experiencing. He didn't want to add any more stress to their already burdened hearts. They needed to know that what they were about to embark on was of utmost importance, even if they couldn't fully comprehend it yet. The weight of their mission rested heavily on their young shoulders, and time, unforgiving as it was, refused to wait. They had a purpose to fulfill, and whether they liked it or not, they would soon have to face it head-on. Life as they knew it would be forever changed
Jack calmly placed his hand on Peter's left shoulder, the slick poncho rustling like wrinkling plastic, emitting a distinctive sound that pierced through the chaotic scene. The cacophony of running footsteps and frenzied voices filled the air, overwhelming the senses. The scent of panic and desperation lingered, as if it could be grasped in the air. Jack knew they needed to remain unnoticed, like ethereal ghosts amidst the bustling crowd. Their time period clothing, a stark contrast to the modern surroundings, would surely draw unwanted attention. Only the Time Travelers and their formidable adversaries possessed the ability to perceive their presence. This realization compelled Jack to guide them back into the safety of the dwelling, its protective aura providing a limited shield against detection. For now, at least.
Jack said in a soft, gentle tone, like a caring father would, his words barely audible over the chaotic sounds of the streets. "Peter, Cerick, Mark. We need to get you boys inside. There is more happening here than you probably realize, and I cannot fully explain it out here amidst the bustling noise and commotion. As you gaze at the road where you three boys had been about an hour ago, the realization hits you that your home is no longer standing. The sounds and sights around you indicate that you have been transported to a different time period. But fret not, for I can unravel this mystery for you, as we share a bowl of soup that warms not just our bodies but also our hearts. Inside, I will provide you with all the information you need, and my friends will join us to shed light on why we brought you here. Time is of the essence, my young companions. We mustn't linger in this perilous place, as the grotesque monsters that roam these streets are incredibly perceptive. We wouldn't want them to notice you, for it would be quite disastrous, if you catch my drift."
Peter gave a sigh, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. He glanced around, his eyes taking in the remnants of chaos that surrounded him. The smoldering remains of a demon monster in the street released an acrid stench into the air, making his nose wrinkle in disgust. The sight alone served as a stark reminder to avoid drawing attention to themselves.
With the folded newspaper in hand, Peter slowly rose from his knees, feeling a slight weakness in his body from the shock. He cast one last cautious look at the place he once called home, which now had vanished into air like the fog. The surroundings seemed frozen in time, transporting him and his friends Mark and Cerick to a bygone era, over two thousand years in the past. It was as if they had been whisked away to a different world entirely.
As Peter clutched the newspaper tightly, he couldn't help but feel a mix of curiosity and frustration. The old man they had encountered held the answers they desperately sought. The rustling of the paper echoed in his ears, reminding him that the truth awaited them, buried within its pages and with the old man.
Once inside, Peter's eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, filled with old furniture and forgotten objects. The air carried a musty smell, a mix of age and neglect. The sound of creaking floorboards echoed as he walked further into the space, adding to the eerie atmosphere.
As he observed his surroundings, Peter noticed a woman entering through the back door, her footsteps muffled by the worn wooden floor. As she carried the groceries in the old, tattered sack, the air was filled with the subtle aroma of fresh produce. As she walked in placing the sack on the counter near the old stove, Peter could hear another man behind her, his heavy footsteps mingling with the clatter of firewood being stacked near the stove and the crackling of the old Livingroom fireplace, forming a rich tapestry of sounds.
Nodding in acknowledgement, Peter and his friends exchanged glances, their eyes filled with a mixture of nostalgia and caution. The room was dimly lit, with a faint scent of mustiness lingering in the air. As the woman spoke, her voice echoed softly, breaking the silence. "Peter, Mark, Cerick - if you wouldn't mind, change your wet clothes and leave your muddy shoes by the door." Peter's fingers brushed against the rough texture of his yellow poncho as he removed it, the fabric scratching against his skin, evoking a sense of time passing. A realization washed over him - they had no spare clothes, only the ones they currently wore.
The room grew colder, a chilling sensation that seeped into Peter's bones, intensifying the confusion that enveloped him. Before he could utter a word, the old man stepped forward, his weathered and worn hands reaching out. As he twisted the lamp handle by the door, a faint creak resonated through the air, sending shivers down Peter's spine. The sound lingered, echoing in the silence of the room. Suddenly, a soft click pierced the air, and a hidden mechanism was revealed, a little knob jutting out. In an instant, the room was transformed, bathed in a warm, golden glow that illuminated the secrets that lay within. The light danced off the walls, casting shadows that whispered of untold mysteries.
And as Peter stood there, he could feel the static electricity in the air, a tingling sensation that hinted at a power not from their time, nor from any time they knew. The room pulsed with vibrant energy; its walls adorned with sleek, modern designs that defied expectations. The air was charged with a symphony of electric murmurs and whispers, as if the room itself held secrets waiting to be unraveled. With each breath, the mingling scents of nostalgia and anticipation filled their nostrils, like a fragrant blend of old books and freshly cut grass. As they stood in awe, time seemed to twist and turn, wrapping around them like a velvet cloak. The sights before them danced and shimmered, a kaleidoscope of past, present, and future intertwining. It was as if the very essence of magic had materialized, surpassing the realm of mere illusions and tricks. Doubts dissolved in the face of this extraordinary spectacle, and he could no longer deny the existence of the unseen. With wide eyes and a racing heart, he surrendered to the enchantment, immersing himself in the sensory symphony that unfolded before him.
Being a cautious and responsible person, he felt a slight pang of sorrow and guilt for leaving without permission, his parents' and teachers' teachings echoing in his mind. As he stood there, a sense of unease washed over him, intensified by the sights and sounds around him. The once familiar scent of his home was replaced by an unfamiliar, musty odor that hung in the air. Looking out the worn wooden door, he could see the winding road ahead, flanked by towering, gnarled trees that reached towards the sky. Their emerald leaves danced and whispered in the gentle breeze, filling the air with a soothing rustle. The silence of the scene was occasionally interrupted by the distant chirping of birds, their sweet melodies floating on the wind. Every now and then, the rumble of a passing carriage echoed in the distance, reminding him of the world beyond.
Clutching the yellowed newspaper in his trembling hands, dated June 17, 1775, he felt the weight of the situation settle heavily on his shoulders. The crinkling paper served as a tangible connection to the past, a stark reminder that they had somehow been transported to a different time period. The musty scent of old ink mingled with the earthy aroma of the ancient trees, creating a sensory blend that only deepened his disorientation.
As he stood there, his mind filled with anger and curiosity, questions swirled like a tempest in his head. The burning desire for answers intensified his emotions, making him yearn for an explanation. The resolute expression on his face mirrored the determination that pulsed through his veins.
A smile briefly graced the woman's lips, but it quickly dissolved into a cross and a confused frown. She noticed how Peter, without care, had not bothered to move from his spot, leaving behind wet droplets from his poncho on her creaking wooden floor. Muddy footprints marked the path he had taken, evidence of his disregard for the cleanliness of the unfamiliar surroundings. With eyes fixed on Peter, she waited and watched, sensing his role as the leader of the group, wondering what he would do next.
She had an uncanny understanding of Peter, Mark, and Cerick, their very essence laid bare before her. She observed their subtle gestures and expressions, listened to their breaths and heartbeats, smelled their nervous anticipation, and felt the weight of their emotions. Having observed them since they were young, she knew the boys better than anyone, including their parents. Fully aware of Peter's crucial role, she had no doubt that the rest would emulate his lead. As she strategized, she could almost hear the resounding clang of an iron bar being bent, envisioning the sheer strength it would require. However, she understood that such a display would not be fitting in the eyes of her fellow Travelers. Instead, she resolved to put the young traveler at ease, like a gentle touch guiding him towards tranquility. Only then would she proceed, hoping that her limited knowledge, delicately shared, wouldn't overwhelm the boy and his two friends. She needed to embrace them with a mother's soothing presence, ensuring they felt safe and secure before unveiling the truth: they were not to be harmed.