Message from a Traveler

It was exactly as you remembered it — your parents’ house at the end of the cul-de-sac — welcoming you as it did when the scrapes and bruises were on your limbs, not your soul.

The two-story faux brick monstrosity — pinnacle of middle class wealth in 1990. And in much better shape than you had imagined on your drive here.

It was all there. The garden bed your father mulched but never planted anything in. The porch where you and Jen sat drinking pop on hot days. The last window on the left — your old bedroom, and Eric's next to it. Not a single blade of grass out of place.

The familiarity gripped your wounded heart. But there was no time to cry. Every last dime in your bank account you'd sank into this asinine Hail Mary. The only part of this old house that mattered was the hidden cellar off the basement — and only if no one had found it since 1999.

You parked down the street — outside of what had once been the Maguire house — and approached as nonchalantly as possible, knowing from experience that every house had a pair of eyes, watching.

Your footsteps crunched the gravel border of the garden bed louder than you expected as you gingerly approached the front door. You winced. But you pressed on, pressed the doorbell that played a tune you knew well.

And you bit your nails like you used to as you waited, marveling at how little had changed in so much time. Why had no one replaced the screen door, sagging from all the times you pressed your face into it? Or repainted the wood door frame chipped from your careless steps?

No one answered, much as you expected during working hours on a Tuesday. That had been the plan, after all. You tried the doorbell again, just to cover your tracks.

Something about this felt familiar. A day in your childhood when a stranger came to the door and rang the doorbell urgently, incessantly. And you pulled back the curtains on the front window before you remembered what your mom had said about not opening the door for anyone while she was at work.

Thankfully, the woman who had arrived in the red car and parked far away didn't seem to notice you before she gave up and drove away.

The curtains covering the window by the door rustled a bit but still, no one answered.

“Hey. I saw that. Open up,” you said. “Please? I have a question.”

Maybe that sounded more desperate than you intended. Maybe you should have said you were selling Avon. Did people even do that anymore?

“I have an offer for you on switching to DirectTV.” God, did people have DirectTV still? Obviously you had cut out everything but Netflix as the money dwindled.

You could almost see the inside, a reverse of this view, holding your breath behind the heavy silk curtains, waiting for the stranger to leave.

The silence went on and on.

Perfect.

You dove into the mulch and followed it around the side of the house, past the bins and the wilting daylily shrubs, until you came to the lip of the well window and slipped in, kicking the glass open with a quiet crunch just like you always thought it would sound.

You scraped your sides on the splintered wood — had you had a tetanus shot? But a few lean months had left you just thin enough to wiggle inside.

You expected someone else's furniture. You even prepared yourself for dead bodies. But as your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you rubbed them until you could see stars, because you didn't expect — couldn't have expected — to see your father's blue La-Z-Boy perched in front of the TV.

Because everything had had to go.

Dad was already gone. Mom couldn't afford the house on her own and there wasn't any room in your new apartment. Everything that didn't fit in your suitcases would have to fit in the black garbage bags mom gave you to clean out the basement. It had to be you because Eric had locked himself in his room and wouldn’t come out.

So you picked through your toys and wiped back the snot from your nose. And slowly, you you hatched a plan.

You screwed your courage to the sticking point and reached for the door to the crawlspace — the one that almost certainly held Pennywise within. As it fell open, it released stale, humid air, but no evil clowns in sight.

One bag at a time went into the darkness, and then with a sigh you shut it tight again, promising yourself that you’d come back for it all someday.

Well, here you were. Under slightly different auspices, of course.

But somebody must have found everything in the cellar already. Somebody must have arranged it all just as you and your brothers had. The Barbie dreamhouse. Samantha and her pretty velvet hat having tea. All your brother's games piled in front of the old set. Somebody — your head swam from trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. Somebody must have —

“I saw you outside,” a small voice said and you jumped and stifled a scream. “I just want you to know I'm gonna call 911.”

The owner of the little voice was hidden in the stairwell leading to the basement.

“It's okay,” you said. “I just need to get something of mine that I left here a long time ago.”

You said it slowly, singsong, with small words, hoping to hold that particular phone call off.

Of course, you didn't really need to open the crawlspace door again. But you had to check. So you creaked it open and released the stale air — the same smell of wet wood shavings — only to find it empty. Of course, everything was already in its place.

The corner of a pink nightgown swished back into the safety of the stairwell.

“That’s where the evil clown from IT lives,” she said. “Can you shut it please?”

You did. Harder than you needed to, maybe. The chill up your spine had nothing to do with clowns.

Maybe you had hit your head on the gravel bed. Maybe you'd crashed your car and never really made it here.

So — a gift, but not the one you were expecting.

“I'm sorry, I — I didn't mean to freak you out,” you said. “I kind of used to live here.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“No,” you said, but you ran your fingers over your person just to be sure.

“So —”

“I am a traveler. And I bring a message for you.”

There's an impressed silence as you — both of you — consider this possibility. You always did love sci-fi, aliens, time travel. It's just fantastical enough to be believed.

Small fingers, nails covered in chipped red polish, wrapped themselves around a wood beam. You were listening.

“What's the message?”

“Can you — can you come out?”

“I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.”

Right.

“Okay. Good. That's good.”

You turned, too, so that you faced Samantha as you spoke. You always wanted a checkered coat like that.

“What’s the message?”

“Don't let mom throw this shit away,” you said abruptly. “Okay? That doll is worth like $3,000 where I come from.”

“Okay,” you said. “That’s a lot.”

“And — “

Think, think of something compelling to tell her. My Little Pony nightgown, so she can’t be more than eight, with everything ahead of her.

Tell her that dad leaves for his secretary, Susan, tell her to spit in Susan’s face the next time she offers you a gross caramel in the office. Tell her that mom will cry for months and she’ll get good at riding her bike so she doesn’t have to hear it, but if she comes back one day with roses she picked from the Maguires’ rose bush, mom will finally crack a smile.

“What?” she said.

Tell her. Tell her not to say “I love you” to her first boyfriend because he’ll laugh with his friends about it. Tell her Mr. Ferdinand is a creep.

Tell her that she got a big job in the city like you always wanted, then tell her to want something else. Tell her Jen is still her best friend.

“When you're 25, Eric is gonna ask you to drive up and see your new niece and your nephews, but you'll have work.”

You paused and took a breath to add some gravitas to your shaking voice.

“It's really important that you go see Eric.”

There was a pause as you chewed this over.

“Okay.”

“You should go upstairs now.”

You always liked to argue with yourself, but this interaction must have weirded you out sufficiently, because the next sound was the basement door slamming shut.

And you boosted yourself through the well window again, taking one last look back. Maybe if you left a note for mom. Then again, maybe you would remember.

As you approached your car, you noticed how much taller the trees lining the sidewalk had gotten, how their roots cracked the pavement now. The vinyl sides of the Maguire house were dirtier and warped.

You thought about looking back.

But you drove away with your eyes locked ahead.