A Beautiful Time Machine

“The tour will begin at eleven thirty sharp, so please line up. And,” the woman standing on the white-painted wooden steps eyed us over the top of her lavender glasses, “when we do go inside, do not touch anything.”

I recognized the woman’s self-assured voice from our phone conversation last week. This must be Iris Winnow, caretaker of Kirk House. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, but it was hard to tell in the weak illumination of the looming Victorian house’s porch lights. 

“Will we have time to look at the painting before midnight?” asked a man standing near me in the waiting group of ten or twelve.

“You’ll have a few minutes to view it both before,” the woman on the stairs paused, “And of course, after. If you want more time, you’ll need to book a private tour.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “You can’t be serious. We already paid a nine hundred dollar entry fee for this tour.” 

The woman sighed. “Sir, it’s a minimum donation, not a fee. There are many expenses to keeping up Kirk House, and demand for tours has increased massively in the last month, for obvious reasons.”

The man shook his head, but didn’t argue further.

  I took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“Excuse me, Iris? I’m Allie O’Connor. With Pretty Arcane? Would it be okay if I snuck in a little early to take some photos?” I grabbed my Nikon from where it hung on the strap around my neck and raised hopefully. 

Iris hadn’t been exactly congenial on the phone - congenial, I thought, that’s a good word. Maybe I can work it into the next blog post - but I expected a polite smile of recognition at least. No such luck. 

“I’m afraid not. No one may enter without an authorized tour guide. You may stand at the front of the line, however. We do appreciate you wanting to feature us on your website.” 

I lowered my camera as others in the lineup turned to look at me. A child of eight or nine looked up at her mother with round eyes.

“That’s not fair! She can’t budge!” 

A few of the others laughed, I ducked my head. This was exactly why I preferred to stay behind my desk and avoid talking to people. And wasn’t it too late for a child that age to be up?

“Oh, that’s okay, I don’t need to - ”

“I insist! We want the very best photos to encourage others to visit.” Iris said, extending a hand to indicate the front of the line. 

My cheeks burned, but I stepped forward. 

“Sorry,” I muttered to the man at the front as I stepped ahead of him, throwing an arm over my shoulder bag so it didn’t bump him in the midsection.   

I felt the rawness in my chest and throat that meant tears weren’t far off. Come on, Allie. Pull yourself together. I lifted my camera and started adjusting the aperture and shutter in preparation for taking photos in the low indoor light. The familiar motions were soothing, and I felt my heart rate returning to a steadier pace.

We still had a few minutes to wait, so I pulled out my phone and recorded a short video panning over the exterior of the cream and white house. My boss, Keiko, had reminded me many times to take videos with my phone for Pretty’s Arcane’s social channels, as well as higher quality images with my Nikon for the blog.

“There’s already a million videos of the house online,” I had argued. 

Keiko had waved a hand at me and shaken her head so her shiny black chin-length hair swayed. “People want to see all the things. Over and over. You’re a great writer, Allie, but you’re worse than my grandmother when it comes to tech sometimes. Like, literally. My Grandma has a Tiktok account where she posts videos of her cooking. It’s adorable.” 

Iris cleared her throat. 

“It’s time! Please follow me inside, and stay in single file.”

The foyer opened into a wide hall, lined on either side with hip-high stands holding various devices inside plexiglass cases. I raised my camera and took a few shots.

“These,” Iris was saying, stepping backwards along the hall with practiced ease, one arm extended, “Are some of Professor Kirk’s earliest invention attempts. He was well-known for his fantastical ideas.” She pointed to a metal tube with a glass lens in the end that sat on top of what appeared to be a leather helmet. “This gadget was a prototype for a telescope that could identify the names of stars and planets and transfer them directly inside the viewer’s head.” I smiled at the far-fetched idea, and murmurs of appreciative laughter came from the rest of the tour group behind me. 

We passed an invention for creating edible food out of scraps of paper, one for removing the memories of bad dreams, and another for communicating with birds. I swapped between my phone and camera, not wanting to bring Keiko’s wrath down on me. Some of the others stopped to take photos as well. 

We moved into a larger room, and I glanced around as the group filed in around me. 

“Here,” Iris spread her hands, “Are some of Professor’s Kirk’s most prized projects. In his later years, he became highly focused - some have called it obsessed - with inventing a working time machine.”

Polite laughter rippled though the room again, and I turned in a circle while holding my phone to get a video of the collection of objects lining the walls of the room. Each was completely different from the next. I panned my shot from what looked like a copper microwave, to something that resembled a shower stall with tubes running down its sides, to what appeared a small, glossy green teapot. 

“Um,” the little girl who had accused me of budging said, “Isn’t that a toilet? How can that be a time machine?” 

I looked where she was pointing. It was, indeed, an old-fashioned toilet with a tank on a tall pipe above the bowl. I vaguely remembered seeing a picture of it online somewhere.

Iris laughed easily, as if she’d been asked this question a hundred times. “Yes, it is! Professor Kirk was extremely eccentric, which is why so many of his invention attempts are so charming. According to his notes, he believed that everyday items were some of the best conduits for magic.”

“When do we get to see the painting?” The man who I’d cut in front of outside asked. “That’s why we’re all here. We didn’t pay our donations to see old toilets.”

Iris smiled again and smoothed her skirt. “Soon! First we will go upstairs and see Professor Kirk’s bedroom and study, as well as his collection of prototypes for teleportation devices, and then,” she glanced at her watch, “it will be time to view the painting.”

There was a brief bathroom break after we’d seen the upstairs. I took the opportunity to flip through the photos I’d taken. I hoped it was enough. My phone buzzed, and glanced down to see a text from Keiko.

You see it yet?

About to, I typed back. 

Maybe you should do a TikTok live! I could almost hear Keiko’s excited voice through the text. 

There’s been lots of those already. I thought we wanted mostly aesthetic, thought provoking images. 

That should be easy. That place is a whole VIBE.You sure you can’t do a live?

Not doing it. I’m trying to get some stuff with more depth. 

The people don’t really want depth, but fiiiine.

There was a pause, then Keiko began typing again. Are you doing ok? I know this was a big ask. 

I’m managing. 

You got this, girl. 

Thanks Keiko. TTYL.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to go into the drawing room, where the painting hangs,” Iris announced a few minutes later. The little group was quiet, expectant. 

“A few rules before we enter. First, you may take as many photos and videos as you like, but absolutely no touching of the painting. Second, the moment you’re all waiting for will happen at exactly midnight. There’s a large digital clock in the room, so keep an eye on it and do not blink when the moment comes, or you’ll miss it. Third, we do not know why this is happening to the painting. Do not ask me questions about how or why it’s happening, because I don’t know. So far, no scientific explanation has been found.”

There was silence from the group. Even the little girl had nothing to say. 

I shivered. It was one thing to see something weird and unexplainable on the internet, and another to see it right in front of you. I gripped my Nikon as Iris stepped through the drawing room door.

“It’s so creepy,” Keiko had said to me as we ate lunch at the Indian restaurant down the street from Pretty Arcane the week before. “And like, no one knows how it’s happening.”

“It just…changes? Instantly?” I flipped through a carousel of images on my phone. The painting was medium-sized, maybe two by three feet, and was surrounded by an ornate gold frame. I studied the painting itself, which depicted a river cutting through two green banks, with a series of trees in the background. It clearly wasn’t painted by a master, but it wasn’t half bad. The colours worked well together and the brush strokes were reminiscent of Impressionist oils. 

“Yes! Look at the next one.” Keiko reached across the table and swiped to the next image. 

The image showed the same painting, but something had been added. A small yellow rowboat floated in the river in the foreground. I flipped to the next image. The rowboat remained, but now there was also a red and white striped blanket laid out on the right riverbank. In the next image, a young girl was seated on the blanket, her face turned towards the boat in the river. 

“It’s some kind of prank.”

Keiko shook her head violently. “No! It’s for real. It changes every day at exactly midnight. Every night something new is added!” 

I raised my eyebrows, skeptical. “It’s AI or something.” 

“Nope. There’s tons of videos and live feeds. From all different angles and people. At midnight, just pop!” She flicked her fingers outwards at me. “New part of the painting added.”

“And why do you want me to go?”

“Because!” Keiko smacked her hands on the table excitedly, knocking my butter chicken covered fork off my plate. “This is exactly the kind of thing Pretty Arcane viewers want to see. Pretty painting, gorgeous old house, mysterious and unexplainable as fuck.” She crossed her arms and grinned at me. 

“Why don’t you go?” I asked. I loved my job as a writer at Pretty Arcane, but I liked to do it from the safety of my desk. Or at the very least, from a distance with a long zoom lens so I didn’t have to talk to anyone. 

“Because you need to get out there. You need to see stuff. In real life. I think it’ll help.”

“Help what?” I asked, feeling a lump form in my throat. 

Keiko grabbed my hand. “Look, we’ve been friends for a long time, Allie. When I hired you - “ 

“It was because you felt sorry for me,” I snapped, angry at the tears I felt forming. I tried to pull my hand back. 

“No!” Keiko shook her head, her dark brown eyes earnest. “I mean, maybe a little.”

I snorted and tried to pull away again, but she tightened her grip.

“I hired you because you’re a great writer, or you used to be and can be again, but also because I thought it’d help you. It’s been really hard since you lost Taylor. Like, really fucking hard. But it’s been a year. You barely leave your apartment. I think I’m the only person you hang out with and I love hanging out with you, but you used to be so…curious, about everything. I want to see that girl again. It’s not too much to ask to have you go on a tour and take a few photos is it? Maybe it’ll inspire you to write a great article.” She smiled and squeezed my hand. 

I swallowed the raw burn in my throat and took a deep breath. I thought I’d made a good show of acting “normal” lately, but Keiko was too smart for that. If I was being honest, I missed the version of myself who didn’t hide from other people and the rest of the world. Going to Kirk House wouldn’t fix the broken parts of me that I did my best to ignore, but maybe it was a little step forward. At least I’d have my camera to hide behind if things got to be too much. 

I sighed, and Keiko grinned and raised her eyebrows. 

“Fine. Send me to the weird dead inventor’s house to take pictures of the haunted painting.”

It was 11:51. The tour group was spread out in the drawing room, most people taking photos on their phones. 

The painting looked different now than the last time I’d seen it online. There was another girl sitting on the blanket, a dog just behind them, and a picnic basket between them. There were more trees, and a man sat in the rowboat holding a pair of oars. 

I lifted my Nikon and snapped a few photos, then stepped closer and examined the thick paint. None of it looked new - not even the newer additions that must have appeared in the last couple days. Every brush stroke looked like it’d been there for a long time. I looked for an artist’s signature, but there was nothing.

“How long has the painting been on this wall?” I asked Iris, who stood to one side of the group, keen eyes watching. 

“Professor Kirk himself hung it, as far as we know.” Iris glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 11:55. 

“If he hung it here, maybe it’s one of his inventions? Maybe one that actually worked?” 

“Worked for what?” It was the little girl again. She was staring at me.

I looked back at her. She had large brown eyes and dirty blonde hair. I shrugged. “I don’t know, really.” 

The girl looked thoughtful as she turned away towards a plaque on the opposite wall. 

“Look at this!” She called. 

I glanced at the girl’s mother, but she was holding her phone up in front of the painting and didn’t respond.

“Edward Kirk was an avid painter in his later years,” the girl read out loudly. “Did he make the painting?” 

“Isabel! Shhh!” The girl’s mother called over her shoulder. “I paid a lot of money for us to come see this, so come see! It’s 11:59!” 

Iris cleared her throat. “It’s time. Get your cameras ready!” She sounded a little breathless. 

I lifted my Nikon, then dropped it and pulled out my phone. A video would probably be better. I looked over at the others in the group. Every one of them held up a phone, except the girl, who was staring at the painting with unblinking eyes. It was 11:59. 

I hesitated, then put my phone back in my pocket. I had a sudden, strong urge to see the painting change with my own eyes. 

We waited. 

The digital numbers on the clock flipped to 12:00. 

Nothing happened. 

For a few seconds, there was no sound. Then one of the men in the group swore. “What the hell?” He directed this at Iris, who stood frozen, her eyes wide, staring at the painting. We all turned to look at her. I lifted my camera and snapped the shutter. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. 

“Maybe it’s just late today,” Iris whispered. 

“Has it ever been late before?” I asked. 

Iris didn’t answer. 

“I want my money back!” One woman said loudly, and a few of the others echoed her. “I knew this was bullshit,” said the man from the lineup. 

I took a few more photos, focusing on their outraged faces. 

“Look!” The little girl, Isabel, called again. Her mother was texting angrily, ignoring her daughter. I walked over to where the girl stood. 

At the top of the plaque was a black and white photo of a man with a moustache and wire-rimmed glasses. Underneath, the caption read:

Edward Gordon Kirk

March 25, 1847 - November 8, 1924

“Today is November 9,” Isabel said. “November 9, 2024. He died yesterday, one hundred years ago.” 

“And now the painting doesn’t change anymore,“ I said, turning back to look at the gilt frame. The tour group had surrounded Iris, who had her hands up and was saying something, but it was drowned out by angry voices. 

“It still works, I think, but he died and can’t add to it anymore. I wonder if it’s finished, or if he had more he wanted to do,” Isabel mused, tilting her head to look at the painting again.

I looked too. 

“I think it looks finished,” I said, “It’s beautiful.” 

Isabel glanced at her mother, but the woman was still scowling at her phone. “Me too. It’s a beautiful time machine. A lot better than a toilet.”

A laugh burst out of me, and I covered my mouth. 

Isabel grinned at me, then walked back to her mother.

I walked out of the house alone, closing the door behind me and trading the sound of angry voices for the quiet, chill night air. The Uber I’d ordered was waiting in the driveway. I was bone tired, but as we drove back to my hotel I opened the notes app on my phone and started a new entry. I thought for a moment, then began to type. 

A Beautiful Time Machine

By Allie O’Connor