Read Online Somewhere in Time by Richard Matheson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Matheson
Tags: Fiction - Sci-Fi/Fantasy
Ads: Link
come. I don't know why she didn't notice. Maybe she did and was too polite to mention it.
We went to the wrong place first. We moved around in a series of rooms that had once been cisterns; openings had been broken through the thick walls, connecting them. "They were going to collect rainwater in them at one time." I'm sure she said that; it sticks in my mind.
Then we were walking again and she was telling me about the hotel. What she said is vague and disjointed in my mind. Something about the structural soundness of the timbers, I think. Something about a tunnel somewhere. Something about every room in the hotel being furnished differently; I must have gotten that wrong. Something about a circular room in a tower where some old lady lives permanently.
Finally, then, after hiking through endless cellar corridors, up stairs, and through the noisy kitchen, past the banquet rooms, outside, around the hotel, down through another doorway, finally we were in the corridor which ends in the Prince of Wales Grille and she was stopping at a plain brown door, unlocking it.
We went inside. The room was warm. There were chairs piled up. We had to move them to get to another door. "This other room is really hot," she said as she unlocked the inner door and opened it, switching on a dusty bulb near the ceiling. The room was approximately ten feet by seven, its ceiling low, no more than a few inches above my head, with wrapped pipes crossing it. She was right about the heat. It was unbelievable; like walking into an oven. "Those pipes must be heat ducts," she said. "It's really a terrible place to keep important records."
I glanced around the room. The walls were cement, their whitewash fading. Everywhere I looked were shelves with books, a tabletop piled high with books. Immense books, some of them a foot and a half long and almost a foot wide, several inches thick. Everything was covered with a layer of gray dust such as I'd never seen in my life-the dust of attics and cellars left untouched for generations.
"Is there something in particular you're looking for?" she asked.
"Not exactly." Lying again. "Just color .. . information." She stood in the next room, -watching me. I rubbed my thumb across the faded, red-leather spines of the books. My thumb became gray. I lifted a heavy book and a cloud of dust rose in the air. I coughed and put the book aside. Already, sweat was trickling down my neck. I brushed my hands off and removed my jacket.
She seemed hesitant but finally said, "I'm going to get some lunch. You want to stay here while I do?" "If that's all right," I said.
"Well ..." I knew she was concerned for the records. "Just be careful."
"I will." I managed a smile. "And I appreciate your help, Miss Buckley. You've been very kind." She nodded. "That's all right."
I was alone then and the anxiety I'd had to hide from her seemed to emerge with a rush; I began breathing through my mouth as I moved around. There were covered boxes stacked behind the table. I crouched to pull off one of the dusty covers and saw sheafs of yellowing bills and receipts inside, heavy ledgers books. I put the cover back and stood, the movement making the room go dark in front of me. I staggered and caught hold of the table, shook my head. Recovering, I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my face. I moved from shelf to shelf, rubbing off the thick-ridged book spines. Everything I touched or bumped against scaled gray dust into the air. I had to keep clearing my throat and coughing. I felt ominous tendrils of pain in my head. I had to finish soon or I'd never make it.
I found a book spine dated 1896 and pulled it from between two heavy ledgers, gagging at the dust that clouded around my head. It was a book of correspondence carbons. I glanced through them quickly; maybe there was something there.
Many of the pages were as blank as though the carbons had been typed with vanishing ink. My heartbeat jumped as I saw a letter dated October 6 which began
We went to the wrong place first. We moved around in a series of rooms that had once been cisterns; openings had been broken through the thick walls, connecting them. "They were going to collect rainwater in them at one time." I'm sure she said that; it sticks in my mind.
Then we were walking again and she was telling me about the hotel. What she said is vague and disjointed in my mind. Something about the structural soundness of the timbers, I think. Something about a tunnel somewhere. Something about every room in the hotel being furnished differently; I must have gotten that wrong. Something about a circular room in a tower where some old lady lives permanently.
Finally, then, after hiking through endless cellar corridors, up stairs, and through the noisy kitchen, past the banquet rooms, outside, around the hotel, down through another doorway, finally we were in the corridor which ends in the Prince of Wales Grille and she was stopping at a plain brown door, unlocking it.
We went inside. The room was warm. There were chairs piled up. We had to move them to get to another door. "This other room is really hot," she said as she unlocked the inner door and opened it, switching on a dusty bulb near the ceiling. The room was approximately ten feet by seven, its ceiling low, no more than a few inches above my head, with wrapped pipes crossing it. She was right about the heat. It was unbelievable; like walking into an oven. "Those pipes must be heat ducts," she said. "It's really a terrible place to keep important records."
I glanced around the room. The walls were cement, their whitewash fading. Everywhere I looked were shelves with books, a tabletop piled high with books. Immense books, some of them a foot and a half long and almost a foot wide, several inches thick. Everything was covered with a layer of gray dust such as I'd never seen in my life-the dust of attics and cellars left untouched for generations.
"Is there something in particular you're looking for?" she asked.
"Not exactly." Lying again. "Just color .. . information." She stood in the next room, -watching me. I rubbed my thumb across the faded, red-leather spines of the books. My thumb became gray. I lifted a heavy book and a cloud of dust rose in the air. I coughed and put the book aside. Already, sweat was trickling down my neck. I brushed my hands off and removed my jacket.
She seemed hesitant but finally said, "I'm going to get some lunch. You want to stay here while I do?" "If that's all right," I said.
"Well ..." I knew she was concerned for the records. "Just be careful."
"I will." I managed a smile. "And I appreciate your help, Miss Buckley. You've been very kind." She nodded. "That's all right."
I was alone then and the anxiety I'd had to hide from her seemed to emerge with a rush; I began breathing through my mouth as I moved around. There were covered boxes stacked behind the table. I crouched to pull off one of the dusty covers and saw sheafs of yellowing bills and receipts inside, heavy ledgers books. I put the cover back and stood, the movement making the room go dark in front of me. I staggered and caught hold of the table, shook my head. Recovering, I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my face. I moved from shelf to shelf, rubbing off the thick-ridged book spines. Everything I touched or bumped against scaled gray dust into the air. I had to keep clearing my throat and coughing. I felt ominous tendrils of pain in my head. I had to finish soon or I'd never make it.
I found a book spine dated 1896 and pulled it from between two heavy ledgers, gagging at the dust that clouded around my head. It was a book of correspondence carbons. I glanced through them quickly; maybe there was something there.
Many of the pages were as blank as though the carbons had been typed with vanishing ink. My heartbeat jumped as I saw a letter dated October 6 which began
Similar Books
