Introduction

Originally conceived as a novel that stalled, I’m now attempting to write this in serialized form to see if it will, someday, turn back into a novel.

On a clear August night in coastal Maine, astronomy student Emily watches a man materialize from a mysterious light in the woods — a Continental Navy sailor from 1779 who is either delusional or impossible.

Hundreds of miles north, Callie wakes from injuries she can't remember to find her life full of holes: a year of college she can't recall, friends she doesn't recognize, scars she can't explain, and a devastatingly handsome stranger who seems to know her but won't speak to her.

When her sister Amanda — whom she has no memory of ever having — hands her a journal written in her own handwriting, Callie begins to uncover the truth: there was no accident. She made a choice. And the life she forgot, the love she forgot, may be the only thing that can repair a fracture in time that has already begun pulling people out of their lives and dropping them into the wrong century.

Parts

• Part 1.1: Astronomer (12 minutes)

• Part 1.2: Sailor (10 minutes)

• Part 2.1: Huntress (12 minutes)

• Part 2.2: Sister (8 minutes)

• Part 3.1: The Hunt (10 minutes)

• Part 3.2: Doppleganger (7 minutes)

• Part 4.1: Displaced (8 minutes)

• Part 4.2: Attraction (13 minutes)

• Part 5.1: Subsistance (7 minutes)

• Part 5.2: Necklace (9 minutes)

• Part 6.1: Vision (9 minutes)

• Part 6.2: Mrs. Scriber (9 minutes)

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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“Um, where is Mr. Humphries?” Callie asked, trying to regain some sense of normalcy.

“He’s on a leave of absence. I’m afraid I can’t go into personnel details, but he won’t be back for the rest of this year. I’m here to guide you instead.”

“So,” Callie said, her heart pounding. “You were talking about the necklace, right? I got it from an owl.”

Mrs. Scribner smiled and said. “It was my job to keep it for you.”

Callie looked at her, stunned. “Keep it for me? I don’t understand. Mom said it was a family heirloom, but it’s been missing since World War II.”

Mrs. Scribner laughed. “No, not missing. I’ve had it since Lily.”

“My great-great-grandmother Lily? I didn’t even know her name until yesterday. You couldn’t have known her. It was like eighty-five years ago.”

“Is that all?” Mrs. Scribner asked. “So, a short time between incidents then. Why one time I held onto the necklace for four hundred years.”

“Four hundred years?” Callie’s eyes went wide. She clamped her mouth shut when she realized her jaw had been hanging open.

“Oh, I’m much older than I appear. I’ve been visiting your family for a long, long time. It’s great to finally meet you. Only five generations this time, and you look exactly like Lily, but I wouldn’t have expected anything else. Same eyes. Same little freckles on your nose.”

“I saw her picture last night for the first time,” Callie said. “But—” She stopped.

“Go on,” Mrs. Scribner said. “What were you going to say?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Crazier than wearing a pendant that gives you perfect vision overnight?” Mrs. Scribner asked, a smile turning up the corners of her lips.

“Good point,” Callie said. “Ok, well, I thought—maybe—that I saw her in the woods when I was out hunting. She was almost like a ghost, but not a ghost. Not cold. Her hand felt warm. She told me she’d been watching me. So, was that my great-great-grandmother somehow?”

“So, you did see her?”

“Yes, I just said I did.”

“How did she look?”

“Beautiful,” Callie said. “She only looked a little older than me, actually.”

Mrs. Scribner chuckled. “Well, she is ageless,” she said.

“My great-great-grandmother is ageless?”

“Oh, heavens no. I’m sorry. That wasn’t your great-great-grandmother.”

“Then who was it? Another family member? She looked like Lily. Like me kinda.”

“You could say that,” Mrs. Scribner said. “She’s the one who started your family legacy. She’s the beginning of it all.”

“Who?” Callie asked.

“That’s a very long story,” Mrs. Scribner said.

“I have the whole period free,” Callie said.

“It will take more than just forty-five minutes,” Mrs. Scribner said. “But I can summarize.”

“Please do,” Callie said.

“Very well, Mrs. Scribner said. “But I never know where to begin with these. Hmmmm. Have you heard of the nephilim?”

“I don’t think so,” Callie said.

“Let’s start there, then,” Mrs. Scribner said. “Do you know of the account of Noah from the Bible?”

“Yes. But you’re going to quote the Bible to me?” Callie asked. “I thought you couldn’t do that in school.”

“Of course I can,” Mrs. Scribner said. “Besides, it’s necessary for the story. Chapter six of Genesis is where the account of Noah begins. God finds that the world has become evil and he intends to destroy it with a great flood, saving Noah and his family.”

“Right,” Callie said. “I know the story about the birds and the forty days and forty nights of rain.”

“Well, it did kill most people back then,” Mrs. Scribner said. “But the interesting part of that story, as far as you might be concerned, is the first few verses of that passage. When people began to populate the world and their numbers increased, God’s angels found human women to be beautiful and some decided to marry human woman.”

“Angels married humans?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Scribner said. “Now, how much do you know about your Greek mythology?”

“A bit,” Callie said, “I guess.”

“So you know about the two primordial spirits Uranus and Gaia, right?”

“Sure, they created the titans, and then the titans created the gods,” Callie said.

“What if I told you that Uranus and Gaia were not single beings, but were plural instead. Uranus, the god of the sky and Gaia, the goddess of earth. Suppose with me for a second that this is where those two stories intersect. What if I were to say that Uranus was plural and was a reference to the angels. And what if I were to say that Gaia was plural and was a reference to the daughters of humans?”

“You’re suggesting,” Callie said. “That multiple sky gods and multiple earth goddesses made the titans, rather than just one of each, and that they were really just angels and human women.”

Mrs. Scribner nodded and continued. “The book of Genesis says that ‘The nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of man and they bore children to them. These were the mighty men who were of old, the men of renown.”

“That’s in the Bible?” Callie asked, astounded.

“It is. Now, you know that almost all of humanity was killed by the flood, save for Noah and his family. But notice in the text here that it says, “The nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward,” meaning that there were nephilim who survived the flood. This is because the nephilim, children of of immortal angels and mortal humans, were immortal themselves, and they were known to be heroes, if you will.”

“Okay,” Callie said.

“So there was this hierarchy. God, the creator. Then his angels. And then the children of angels and humans, called the nephilim, also immortals.”

“Got it,” Callie said.

“What if I told you that’s where all of the various pantheon throughout the world came from? What if I told you that Zeus was a nephilim? What if I told you that Odin was? What if I told you that Buddha was? What if I told you that all of the African, Aztec, Native American, Japanese, Sumerian, Egyptian, Irish, Greek gods were all part of the nephilim, immortal children of angels who were deified in the minds of humans and writers of mythology?”

“Interesting idea,” Callie said. “But I don’t get the point.”

“What if it’s not just a bunch of stories, but real?” Mrs. Scribner asked.

“It can’t be real,” Callie said, “Or we’d have immortal nephilim and angels still walking amongst us.”

“Let’s say that God removed the immortals form the world,” Mrs. Scribner said. “Let’s say he did that thousands of years ago to reduce their influence on humanity. Some of them were still good angels, still worshippers of God and are now in heaven. Some of them rebelled and are now elsewhere. But let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that they are no longer on Earth.”

“Then they are gone and that’s why we have just mythology left,” Callie said. “The immortals either went to heaven if they were followers of God, or they went to hell if they were fallen.”

“Quite so,” said Mrs. Scribner, smiling.

“I don’t really understand what this has to do with anything,” Callie said.

“What if the nephilim left children behind? Children that lived a long time, but weren’t immortal. Children that still had some angelic powers, but weren’t gods. Then you’d get heroes, wouldn’t you? Heroes that showed up in our early mythologies around the world. Gilgamesh, let’s say. Or Hercules, or Rama, or Beowulf, or Alexander the Great.”

“Fascinating thought. That perhaps some of these heroes still had a touch of divinity,” Callie said.

“Well,” Mrs. Scribner said. “According ot the Bible, the nephilim were real, and they still took wives post flood for some time before God put a stop to that. And they had children. And heroes exist in our mythology. And now thousands of years have gone by. Let’s say that’s all true, wouldn’t there still be a drop of divinity in some descendants?”

“I suppose,” Callie said. “But then we’d see people who can do more than others.”

“Olympians? Great leaders? If the nephilim created giant offsppring like Goliath and Og, back then, or entire giant people like the Rephaites. What if today, that only shows up in rare men that are over seven feet tall and play in the NBA? What if it shows up today in rare women at six-foot five, who can jump thirty inches and play professional volleyball?”

“And what if,” Mrs. Scribner continued, narrowing her eyes,”That it isn’t just giants, but people more capable than others in various walks of life. What if, let’s say, there is a girl in northern Maine who can hunt like no other person? What if that girl is the descendant of Artemis, a nephilim, who passed down a necklace of power and started it all? What if she has a tiny drop of divinity still in her despite generations going by with no sign of it?”

“Artemis? Like, the Greek goddess, Artemis?” Callie asked. “What do you mean about Artemis starting it all?”

“I should think that would be obvious by now,” Mrs. Scribner said, almost indignantly.

“Let’s pretend I’m slow and don’t understand,” Callie said. “Enlighten me.”

“You, Callista Eleanor Thorne, are a direct descendant of Artemis. Yes, that Artemis. The pendant you are wearing is called the Silver Crescent of Selene, a gift from Selene to Artemis a very, very long time ago.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Your family line up through your mother and her mother are all descendants of Artemis.”

In the midst of it she heard a distinct noise, a buzzing she recognized. She smelled a scent which she somehow identified as the pungent smell of cuticular hydrocarbon and knew what it was before she saw it. She saw it first as movement out of the corner of her eye. A housefly passed by her right side as if in slow motion.

Before she knew what she was doing, she snatched the creature out of midair, crushing it in her hand. She felt her heart rate slow again and the sounds and smells faded. Nonchalantly, she grabbed a tissue from Mrs. Scribner’s desk and wiped her hand clean, before dropping the tissue and dead fly in the wastebasket along the wall.

Callie lifted her eyes to look at Mrs. Scribner and realized that for the first time in the conversation, it was Mrs. Scribner who was showing signs of surprise. The old lady closed her mouth and then smiled.

“What?” Callie asked.

Mrs. Scribner said, “The Huntress has awoken.”

“I killed a fly,” Callie said. “It’s not that impressive.”

Mrs. Scribner just smiled at her.

“Not convinced of any of this,” Callie said.

The bell rang, indicating three minutes before third period was to begin.

“I gotta go,” Callie said.

“Best if we keep this between us,” Mrs. Scribner said. “You never know who is listening.”

“Who could be listening?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Mrs. Scribner said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Callie left Mrs. Scribner to go to history class but had a very hard time concentrating for the remainder of the day. It had to all be nonsense. Right?

Except she could sit in the back of the room, sans contacts and glasses, and see everything perfectly.

[ Index | Prev | Next ]

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Callie woke the next morning with blurry vision in both eyes. When she looked across the small bedroom to the other twin bed, she couldn’t focus on her sister. She blinked rapidly and sighed, frustrated.

“How does that happen overnight?” she asked herself. It had happened once or twice before, but never so instantly. Contacts get build-up and go blurry, needing to be discarded. She tossed them out, opened the single shared desk between the beds, opened the second drawer, her drawer, and picked up her last packet of new lenses.

But when she put them in, they were blurry as well. She blinked her eyes several times, went into the bathroom, and washed the contacts with cleaner before rinsing them with saline. She put them in and took them out again.

How could a new set of lenses be blurry too? She looked in the mirror seeing that her eyes were now red with irritation. She had no more contacts, so she crossed into the living area and grabbed her purse from its position on the coat rack.

“Do they go bad on their own?” she wondered aloud, feeling a sense of helplessness creep in. She sighed and opened her purse, pulling out her glasses case.

But her glasses were also blurry.

“What is going on?” she asked out loud, panic rising in her chest. She took them off and looked them over. Maybe they were dirty. But they weren’t. She could clearly see that they were clean.

She could clearly see.

How could she clearly see?

She put the glasses back on and took them off several times, each time confirming the inexplicable truth. No question about it, she could see far better without her glasses. Heart pounding, still in her pajamas, she opened the front door, and stepped out into the cold morning air.

She could see everything! She could see everything better than she’d ever been able to see before with glasses. She could read the mailbox from the front steps. She could see individual pine needles rather than just masses of green. It wasn’t just that she could see as well without glasses as she had yesterday. She could see better than she’d ever been able to see in her life.

Callie went back inside, pulled her chemistry textbook from her backpack, and opened it. She could read it. Without glasses. Without contacts.

“What’s going on?” Amanda asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning as she opened the humming refrigerator and grabbed the carton of milk.

“I don’t need glasses anymore,” Callie said, her voice a mix of excitement and bewilderment.

“What?” Amanda blinked, trying to wake up fully.

“I’m not wearing contacts, but I can see everything. Like. Everything.”

Amanda grabbed two bowls, spoons, and the box of cornflakes, setting them on the table, along with the milk. Preparing to sit down, she stopped mid-way to her chair. “Wait! You’re wearing the necklace,” Amanda observed, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Callie felt it, lying comfortably against her collarbone.

“Take it off,” Amanda suggested.

“Wh—? Oh,” Callie said, reaching back, unclasping the necklace. As soon as she did, the world blurred.

“Holy shit,” she said.

She reconnected the clasp, let the necklace drop and sighed. “It’s changing my vision,” she said, her voice tinged with awe and fear.

Amanda gaped at her. Callie stared back.

“What the actual f—?” Amanda asked, wide-eyed.

“Amanda!” Mom called from her bedroom. “Language.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Amanda said, then mouthed the same thing to Callie again, eyes still wide.

Callie shrugged. “I have no idea,” she said, a nervous laugh escaping her lips.

“An owl gave you a magic necklace belonging to our ancestor that it’s been saving for eighty-five years,” Amanda said. “Literally.”

“Barred owls live like ten years, maybe twelve,” Callie said, her mind spinning.

“So, it’s an owl conspiracy? That’s even weirder,” Amanda said, her voice tinged with a mix of sarcasm and disbelief.

“For real,” Callie said, shaking her head in wonder.

“So, you can see better at night, and you can see, like, better all the time?” Amanda asked.

“Yes,” Callie said, nodding.

“I’d say don’t lose that necklace,” Amanda said, a grin spreading across her face despite the bizarre situation.

“I’d show you,” Callie said, “but I don’t think it works on you.”

“Plus, I have perfect vision,” Amanda said, smirking.

“True,” Callie said. “And color acuity.”

“Wait, has that gotten better too?” Amanda asked, her eyes lighting up with curiosity.

“I don’t know,” Callie said, her voice trailing off as she considered the possibility.

Amanda tapped on her mobile phone and scrolled the screen. “Here,” she said. “Try this.”

Callie had seen them before. Color vision tests. Circles with numbers supposedly in them. Usually, she got about half of them right. Some of them, she was convinced, were straight lies. There was nothing to see. But this time, she saw them all.

“Well, sis, I think you’re going to be able to see sunsets now,” Amanda said after showing her an online color test, a note of envy in her voice.

Callie immediately wondered what this would mean for deer hunting. She knew she had better-than-average ability to detect camouflaged creatures. Would that change negatively? If so, she could always remove the necklace and go back to glasses while hunting, although she’d prefer contacts if they could buy more of them.

“Do you think mom knows?” Callie asked quietly.

“She never had the necklace, right? How would she know?”

Callie shrugged, finished her cereal, and then beat Amanda to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Amanda sat behind her, resting her butt on the clawfoot tub and waiting her turn.

“Why would a necklace give you better vision? And better night vision?” she mused.

“You’re asking me? You’re the smart one,” Callie said.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Amanda said.

“What?”

“You’re just as smart as anyone I know,” Amanda said. “It’s just some things I’m good at are more obvious to people.”

“I don’t get the grades you get though,” Callie said.

“That’s because I actually do homework rather than sitting in the woods all afternoon every day of my life. It’s not an issue of ability. It’s an issue of willingness to do the work.”

“Think I’m lazy?” Callie glared over her shoulder.

“That’s the very last thing I would accuse you of,” Amanda said. “You’re just selective about what matters most to you.”

“I guess that’s true of everyone,” Callie said.

They rode together in the pickup mostly in silence, interrupted only by the occasional wild theory about what the necklace might be, but in each case, nothing could explain what was going on, and they eventually fell silent for the last ten miles of the ride into school.

District School held three hundred thirteen children ages 4-19, from pre-K to high school seniors, all in one building, with twenty-four teachers, a dozen ed techs, and several other staff including Principal Hayward who also acted as the district superintendent. Split roles weren’t uncommon. For instance, Mr. Humphries acted both as guidance counselor and as AP English teacher for the upper classes.

Callie was enjoying sitting in the back row of her chemistry class with no glasses and no contacts, seeing the board better than she had her whole life, not that she really wanted to be in class. She wanted to be back in the woods where she was comfortable. For one thing, the smells of the forest were reliable, whereas in this classroom, a cacophony of scents overwhelmed her. Derrick smelled of pancake syrup. Millicent smelled of cigarettes. Sarah smelled pleasantly like pine shavings, but Tammy smelled like too much perfume, something by Chanel that Callie couldn’t even afford and wouldn’t wear if she could.

Aaron smelled like sweat, like he always smelled, but it was especially strong today. She wondered how often he took showers and when the last one might have been. Peter, sitting three rows over, had taken a shower this morning, but he had also used his sister’s shampoo: strawberry essence.

What the heck? Why all the smells? Just a weird day, she thought. She calculated in her head, wondering if her period was coming, as her senses were always heightened just before it arrived, but that was two weeks away.

Callie had study hall for second period and decided to wander over to see Mr. Humphries, just in case there had been any feedback about her essays sent to the eleven different college programs a month prior. She didn’t expect there to be any news, but Mr. Humphries was a kind man who always smelled pleasant in a way that reminded her a little bit of her father. Woodsy and masculine, with a hint of pipe tobacco always lingering in his beard. She could take that over the myriad of Eau de High School scents assaulting her.

She crossed the main hallway, wondering why Caroline and Jack were whispering so loudly about their plans for a party on New Year’s Eve but decided to ignore that, put her head down and walked quickly toward his office while wondering why everyone seemed to be shouting.

Callie wondered if, perhaps, she was getting ill, and she stopped at Mr. Humphries’ door to breathe deeply and control her heart rate. To her surprise, she was able to silence the noise assaulting her senses and found that she could tune in or out what she wanted to hear, see, or smell. She sought out the smell of Mr. Humphries, but she knew he couldn’t be in his office. His smell was stale. He was gone.

In his place was something familiar and new at the same time. What was it?

Just then, the door opened and a short stout woman with horn-rimmed glasses greeted her.

“Callie!” she said, her voice warm and inviting. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Callie had no idea who the woman was. “You have?” she asked, her voice hesitant.

“Of course, dear,” she said. “Come in, come in. Shut the door behind you and kick on that white noise box, will you? Can’t have people listening in to guidance, can we?”

“Who? Who are you?” Callie asked, confusion evident on her face.

“You can call me Mrs. Scribner. You were expecting me, as well?”

Callie looked her over. Mrs. Scribner had to be in her fifties. She had white and black hair, but no apparent gray. Every other strand was white, and the way her hair was cut it cascaded over her shoulders as if her hair were a hood. She had a slightly hooked nose and wore a large white and gray stitched sweater over a black skirt and blouse.

Callie felt her hand touch the pendant, without realizing she had reached for it.

“You did get the gift! Great. It looks very pretty on you. It’s going to be very helpful for you,” Mrs. Scribner said.

Callie eyed the old woman again and suddenly realized that she did not look entirely unlike a barred owl.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Then she heard it, the very faint sound of air passing through feathers.

She turned her head in time to see a barred owl approaching and she drew back as the bird passed her, swooping on into the silhouette of black trees standing against a dark blue sky.

Callie looked down at her feet. Lying between them was something the owl had dropped. Something shiny. She stooped down to pick it up. It was a chain with a pendant, but it was now too dark to make out any details.

She walked back to the house, holding the necklace in her hand, peering at it under the outside light.

“Silver,” she said almost breathlessly. It was quite tarnished, but definitely silver.

Callie returned to the shed, rummaged around one cabinet, and produced a blue can labeled Nevr-Dull. She popped the top open, happy to see that a little of the cotton wadding with polishing compound remained in the can.

She returned to the house, grabbed an old newspaper from the kindling box, and opened it up on the kitchen table where she carefully laid out the necklace.

“What’s that?” Amanda asked, curiosity piqued as she joined Callie at the table.

“I think it’s silver,” Callie said. “Weirdest thing. An owl dropped it next to me.”

“Weird,” Amanda said. “Did you smell it?”

Callie looked up at her, her eyes questioning.

“You’ve told me before that you can tell birds apart by their smells.”

“I guess I did kind of guess what it was. I didn’t really see it other than its silhouette. But it was definitely a barred owl.”

“Which you could tell from smelling it,” Amanda said, a hint of teasing in her voice. “Weirdo.”

“Whatever,” Callie responded, focusing back on the pendant. It was shaped like a crescent moon, but there seemed to be more to it, hidden under the tarnish. She opened the can of polish, then slid the pendant from the chain and passed the chain to Amanda.

“Yeah, it’s silver,” Amanda said. She grabbed a bit of wadding from the can of metal polish and began working on the chain. “So, the owl just dropped it?”

“Yeah,” Callie said. “Right at my feet.”

Callie polished the pendant, revealing more moment by moment. She folded the wadding over on itself multiple times, finding a clean bit to use while being as economical as she could with the material. Very gradually, the whole image began to take shape.

“Is that a sapphire?” Amanda asked, her eyes wide open looking at the pendant in Callie’s hands.

“I think so,” Callie said. “Wonder if it’s real?”

Amanda went to the cupboard by the sink and returned with a soft, white tea towel, which she handed to her sister.

“Thanks,” Callie said.

When she was finished polishing the pendant, she was astonished at its simple, but intricate design. It was a gleaming silver crescent moon in an open circle with its points almost touching, nearly completing the circle. Cradled in the moon’s open center was a beautiful sparkling blue sapphire looking like a dusky evening sky.

Amanda rummaged in the junk drawer and returned to the table with a magnifying lens left over from a broken magnifying glass, handing it to Callie.

Callie grabbed it and examined the pendant in more detail, amazed at the fine details.

“Can I look?” Amanda asked, her voice almost reverent.

“Yeah, sure,” Callie said, handing it to her.

“What have you girls got?” Mom asked, her voice breaking the spell of the moment.

“A necklace,” Callie said. “An owl just dropped it out by the shed.”

“Let me see,” Mom said, suddenly more alert than she had been in a long time.

Amanda handed over the necklace and magnifying glass.

Mom looked at it for a few seconds and said, “What on earth? An owl really dropped this in the yard? Really, Callie?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I think,” Mom said. “Wait. This can’t be.” She placed the necklace back on the tea cloth and rushed to her room. The girls heard her talking under her breath and rummaging around in her closet.

Mom returned a couple of minutes later with an old photo album. She sat down at the table and began flipping through pages. About halfway through the book she stopped and pointed.

It appeared to be a professionally made photograph, in color, but it was very old. A woman, about thirty years of age, was wearing the very same pendant, lying gracefully on her collarbone.

“Who is it?” Callie asked, her curiosity piqued.

“That’s your great-great-grandmother, Lily. My great-grandmother.” She took the photo out of the album, turning it over. A Kodachrome logo was printed on the back. “This was an amazing photograph for the time. It’s the oldest family photo we have in color. It was expensive, I know that, to have this picture done in those days.”

“What days?” Amanda asked, leaning in closer.

“1938,” Mom said, pointing to a date mark. “August 13, 1938, was the day it was developed.”

“World War II,” Amanda said, a hint of awe in her voice.

“Yes, war was brewing. Her husband, my great-grandfather, did not return from Normandy.”

“So, why did the owl have this necklace?” Callie asked, her mind racing with possibilities.

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “I believe it was a gift from her grandmother to the oldest daughter. It was a family heirloom, but it was lost somehow during the war.”

“Could it have been lost in the woods?” Amanda asked.

“I guess,” Mom said. She ran her fingers over the pendant, much to Callie’s chagrin. She’d have to polish it again.

“It should go to you,” Mom said, looking at Callie with a mix of pride and sadness. “If it had stayed in the family, I would have given it to you when you turned sixteen.”

“But you were the oldest daughter too,” Callie said, her voice softening.

“Yes, but you’re over sixteen now. It’s yours to keep until, someday, you have a daughter turn sixteen.”

Amanda looked at it in wonder, smiling at her sister. “It’s very pretty, and I agree. It belongs to you.”

Callie wasn’t much of a jewelry kind of person. She had a few pieces, including some pretty opals Daddy had bought her when she was twelve. But she’d never owned a necklace before.

“Try it on!” Amanda said, glee written all over her face.

“I just don’t understand where it could have gone!” Mom said. “It’s been lost for something like, I don’t know, like eighty-five years. How is that even possible?”

“Maybe it just looks like it?” Callie said, her voice uncertain.

“But it’s real silver,” Amanda said. “Definitely old.”

“Here’s the other thing,” Mom said, looking at it through the magnifying glass again. “I don’t see a single scratch on it. It looks brand new. Maybe it is just a duplicate, but it’s uncanny. The original one has to be over a hundred years old.”

She put the glass down, picked up the necklace and said, “Turn around.”

Callie did and watched it settle onto her own collarbone, just like in the photograph. Mom clasped it for Callie and said, “You know, you look an awful lot like her. Same green eyes.”

Callie looked down and it all felt familiar again, as if she were seeing the strange figure in the forest again. She shook her head, trying to dismiss the thought, but it crept back into her mind. Could it have been something like the ghost of her great-great-grandmother come to visit her? Shouldn’t that frighten her?

But she felt no sense of foreboding. Somehow, Callie felt wonderful wearing the necklace. She had expected to feel the weight of generations fall on her neck. But instead, it felt almost like generations were lifting her up.

“Where did the owl drop it?” Amanda asked.

“Out by the shed,” Callie said.

“Show me?” Amanda asked.

“Uh, it’s cold.”

“It’s Maine. Of course it’s cold,” Amanda said, rolling her eyes.

They donned their jackets, left the house, and walked over to the shed. It was easier to see now than it had been when she’d finished her work on the coop. The moon had risen, and it was dazzling, practically like daylight.

“Weird night,” Callie said, her breath visible in the frosty air.

“Yeah,” Amanda said. “It’s so dark, even with the moon.”

“Dark?” Callie asked. “I was just going to say the opposite.”

“Where was it?” Amanda asked.

“Right here,” Callie said, pointing.

“Okay,” Amanda said. “Fess up. Where did you find the necklace? Was it in the shed or something?”

“I’m not lying,” Callie said. “An owl literally dropped it, right here.” She walked back over to the spot where she had been standing.

Amanda caught her breath, looking back at Callie. “What the heck?” she said. “It’s glowing!”

Callie looked down and there did seem to be a faint light coming from the stone. “It’s just reflecting the moon, silly,” Callie said. “It’s very bright out.”

“No, it literally is not,” Amanda said. “That’s coming from the necklace. From. The. Necklace.”

Callie reached behind her neck with both hands, found the clasp and opened it, intending to take a closer look at the stone. Immediately, darkness closed around her and the pale moon gave insufficient light to the land. It was as if someone had suddenly turned off a light switch, leaving behind just a night light.

“It’s gone!” Amanda said. “The glow. It’s gone.”

“It got dark,” Callie said.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. The stone is dark.”

“No, silly. The sky is dark,” Callie said.

“What the heck are you talking about?” Amanda asked, a mix of confusion and curiosity in her voice.

“The sky literally got darker,” Callie said.

“When you took it off? At the same time that the stone stopped glowing?”

Callie re-clasped the necklace again and as it settled on her collarbone, it was as if someone removed sunglasses from her face and she could see all the way to the mailbox as if it was still a half hour before sunset.

“What is even going on?” Callie asked herself. She took the necklace off, the glow from the stone disappeared, and she was plunged back into darkness. She tried it several times. As soon as the pendant landed on her collarbone, she saw brilliantly well. When she took it off, it was nighttime again with the pale moon barely making shadows.

“Here,” Callie said. “Try it on so you can see what I’m seeing.”

Amanda did, but the stone did not glow, and her vision did not change.

They both stared at each other, the weight of the discovery hanging heavily between them.

“What the—?” Amanda asked but did not finish the question.

“I know,” Callie said, her voice filled with a mix of wonder and apprehension.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Callie finished packing the deer meat away in the old chest freezer in the fieldstone cellar, wishing the appliance was fuller. She climbed the rickety steps back to the cluttered but cozy main living area, pulling back the spare wool blanket that served as the door between the cabin and the cellar.

Amanda, sixteen, smart, and plain apart from her infectious smile, stood tending a skillet filled with venison backstrap fillets. “How much did you get?” she asked, turning from the stove.

“Sixty-one pounds,” Callie said, dropping into one of two mismatched armchairs that sat on either end of a two-person love seat that had seen better days.

“Not bad,” Amanda said, turning the fillets over on a cutting board and sprinkling a pinch of salt on each, followed by four turns of the pepper mill. Satisfied, she placed the whole cutting board in the old refrigerator, listening for the compressor to come on once she shut the door. You could never be too certain with appliances older than her mother.

She washed her hands at the sink, glancing out the small window toward the shed and forest beyond.

“Gonna be dark in an hour,” Amanda said as she washed, rinsed, and dried two mismatched dishes before stowing them in the cupboard.

“I’m going to have twenty-two bags of hamburger,” their mom said as she sat at the table, grinding the last of the venison scraps.

“Sure felt like a lot over eighty-three pounds dragging it,” Callie said.

“Yeah,” Amanda said. “If only we could eat the head, hide, and bones. Or better yet, if only we could bring just the meat easily. Less dragging.”

“Believe me, once I’m done with the hunt, I’m not done with the hunt,” Callie said. “If I could teleport the meat back, I totally would.”

“Speaking of,” Amanda said. “Are you going to make that deerskin throw this time?”

“Yeah,” Callie replied. “But it will not be ready for Christmas.”

“It’s okay,” Amanda said. “It’ll be ready for my birthday.”

Wordlessly, they made a chain down to the freezer, Amanda at the bottom, Callie at the hanging blanket, and their mom by the table, handing the hamburger packets down the line until twenty-one of them were put away. The last one went in the refrigerator.

“Venison chili tomorrow,” Amanda said.

They ate medium-rare venison steaks, mashed potatoes, and green beans together. As usual, their dad’s position at the end of the table was left empty. Amanda and their mom sat across from each other on the longer sides of the table, and Callie sat at her end, her back to the sink, opposite where her father used to sit. As usual, Callie had store flyers spread out on the table while she ate.

“Five hundred ninety-two dollars doesn’t go a long way anymore,” she said, frowning as she looked through a flyer from the Food-Mart, circling what she called loss leaders. The grocery store wanted to entice you into the store for a few items at low prices and then hammer you with high prices on everything else you need while you are there. But Amanda had gotten very good at being strict with her buying plan.

She had a head for numbers that surpassed Callie by a long way. Callie could tell you where to hunt a deer, where to find its likely paths between bedding, water, and food sources, how to aim, where to shoot the deer, how to field dress it and butcher it. Amanda could tell you what length rope you needed for the block and tackle, the numerical measurement of the gear ratios, and the mechanical advantage in foot pounds when lifting the deer, all off the top of her head.

“Okay. If we go tomorrow,” Amanda said, “We’ll save fourteen dollars and nine cents, but we also gotta go Friday to get the chicken when it goes on sale, but that’s all we’re gettin’ on Friday. No surprises, okay?”

This meant that Callie could not get Twizzlers this week, which kind of bummed her out. “How do you do that?”

“What?” Amanda asked, looking up from her meticulous circling.

“You just know what it’s going to cost without writing anything down.”

“I told you,” Amanda said. “It’s my stupid pet trick.”

“It’s more than that,” Callie said, a touch of admiration in her voice. “You’re smart, ‘Mandy.”

“I ain’t nuthin’ special,” her sister replied, but a small smile tugged at her lips, betraying her pride.

Whatever it was, Callie was grateful to have her sister filling in where their mother was no longer capable. Callie looked over at the older woman who had already left the table and was curled up under an afghan on the ratty old love seat, watching reruns of some fantasy show from ten years ago. Mom was in her spot. The spot she had hardly vacated in five years. Callie was sure there was a permanent indentation in the couch.

At one time, not that long ago, her mother had been athletic, engaging, outgoing, and a wonderful caretaker of their modest home. Now she just sat there, complaining that she was tired or that her legs hurt or that she just wanted to chill out. There wasn’t enough food for her to get fat, but she certainly wasn’t fit like she had been. It was like she just didn’t care about life anymore. Just her TV shows and the seemingly ever-full wine glass topped off far too often from the boxed red blend wine her mother kept in the fridge.

Cleaning, grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, bill-paying, you name it. It had all fallen on the two girls when they’d been thirteen and eleven. Now they seemed to be experts.

Callie stood up and put on her coat.

“Where are you going?” Mom asked, her voice a blend of curiosity and detachment.

“I’m gonna fix the chicken coop.”

“There’s no point,” Mom said, her tone flat, almost as if the words were automatic.

“If I can get it fixed, then I can get seven free hens from Barb Smith. She offered them. We could use the eggs.”

“Then we gotta buy feed,” Mom said, the same monotonous tone, eyes never leaving the TV screen.

“I can budget it once in a while,” Amanda offered, her voice tinged with the same weary resignation.

“Frank Penley says we can get his leftover corn,” Callie said. “I can get it in the pickup. He says some of it’s mildewed, but the hens won’t care that much. They’ll eat what’s still good. Plus we got table scraps, and they can forage some.”

“Suit yourself,” Mom said. “But if you let them forage, they’re just going to be fox dinner.”

“If the foxes come to take my girls, I’ll have a new fur coat before winter’s over,” Callie said, a touch of defiance in her voice.

“It’s all stove to hell. Good luck fixin’ it,” Mom said.

Callie ignored her, closing the door behind her. It was colder today, and the snow was crusty underfoot from refreezing after yesterday’s slight thaw and rain.

“Glad I’m not trying to go through the woods today,” Callie said out loud to herself, her breath visible in the frosty air.

The coop was in shambles. It hadn’t been taken care of in over three years since they last had chickens and one side of it had been damaged, but Callie made short work of it, mostly by shortening the coop itself. She found some pieces of plywood under the old shed and her father’s toolbox inside. An old rusty Maxwell House can held odds and ends of various nails and screws, and she sat down on the shed steps pounding nails straight so she could reuse them for her project.

Callie stopped in the middle of her work and looked at the hammer, running her fingers along the shaft where her dad’s hand had worn the finish away from the wooden handle. She grasped it again, feeling like she could almost still feel the warmth of his hand.

“Miss you,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

Callie turned her head when the outside light over the house steps turned on. That had to have been Amanda, remembering she was out here as darkness approached.

Suddenly, Callie stood up straight, startled. There was a smell, very faint, like the smell of old meat. Instantly, her mind went to the word predator, and she crouched into a defensive position, melding back into the looming shadows, her eyes alert.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Marcie Niles had remade the guest bed, tossed the washed sheets into the dryer, and had been staring at the two plates and two glasses in the sink for twenty minutes. The news was on her phone. Men in strange clothing. The Penobscot River. She didn’t know what any of it had to do with her daughter, but she had the uneasy feeling she was about to find out.

She heard the garage door open, then close, followed by the interior door.

“Emily? Have you seen the news? There’s talk of some men arrested in Bangor. Strange clothing. Strange manner of speech. There are rumors all over Facebook.”

Emily stepped into the kitchen with Caleb in tow.

“Oh,” Marcie said. “Hello.”

“Good morning, madam,” Caleb said.

Marcie did a double take.

“Mom,” Emily said. “This is Caleb. Caleb, this is my mom, Marcie.”

“Are you English,” Marcie asked. She raised an eyebrow as thoughts started working their way through her head. She stared at Caleb, then at Emily, and back to Caleb.

“I’m from Nashua,” Caleb said.

“What are you wearing?” Marcie asked.

Caleb looked down at himself. “Trousers and a tunic, madam.”

Marcie turned to Emily. “And you found him by the Penobscot River.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“What is going on?” Marcie asked.

“Mom,” Emily said. “Why don’t we sit down?”

“I think I’d prefer to stand.”

“It would be safer if we sat somewhere. Somewhere with soft cushions.”

“The—the men—are claiming to be from 1779,” Marcie said. It was a statement, but her eyes held a question as she looked between Emily and Caleb.

“Yes, Madam,” Caleb said. “It appears that we have been displaced from our own time.”

“I think—,” Marcie said. “You might be right about cushions.” She walked numbly to the living room and sat in an easy chair.

Emily and Caleb sat together on a sofa, as if they were together. Marcie found this odd.

“You were really in the Revolutionary War?” Marcie asked.

“So I have been told,” Caleb said. “Emily has told me what you call it, but as I said to her, we did not think we were having a revolution. We thought we were just defending our lands.”

“But this is no joke?” Marcie asked. “Those men on the news and you. You are all from the Penobscot Expedition? Like from 1779?”

“Yes and no, Madam,” Caleb said. “At least one man is a redcoat. He would not have been with our flotilla. Instead, he’d have been one of those we were trying to expel from Fort George. The other two, I don’t know. I have not seen them or heard anything about them.”

“Well, let me show you,” Marcie said, playing several videos from her phone.

“Astonishing!” Caleb exclaimed as the first one played. “I have seen so many wonders these past hours. These moving pictures in miniature may be the most bewildering.”

“Do you know who they are?” Emily asked. “The men in these moving pictures?”

“I do not think so, but I did not know everyone on all the forty-two ships we had,” he said.

Marcie studied Caleb as he spoke. “You know, young man. There is bewilderment on both sides. You are not alone.”

“That is a kindness,” Caleb said. “And appreciated.”

“But how did it happen?” Marcie asked.

“Yet another bewilderment,” Caleb said. “I had just buried my mate and stepped into the woods. I saw a flash of light and thought I had died.”

“Died?”

“It was as if an angel appeared from the light. But I now know she was—is—Emily.”

Marcie stared at him, and then caught herself.

“I’m sorry for being such a bad hostess. Have you had breakfast?”

“I have not, madam,” Caleb said.

“How do pancakes, bacon, and eggs sound?” she asked.

“I would not want to be even more of a nuisance,” Caleb said.

“Oh, it’s no bother. You both need to eat. Come sit at the bar, both of you, and I’ll make some food.”

They followed Marcie to the kitchen, taking stools at the bar.

“So you met at the campground then?” she asked as she pulled eggs and bacon from the refrigerator.

“I was planning to photograph Saturn,” Emily said. “Doesn’t rise until about ten now, and two to three in the morning is the best viewing time. It’ll be better in an all night viewing position next week, but I was worried about the weather.”

“Saturn, the planet?” Caleb asked.

“You know about that,” Emily asked.

“Of course I know about Saturn,” Caleb said. “I have read that it has rings around it, though the matter of their substance remains subject of much debate. Cassini discovered that there is more than one ring and some say the rings are debris from ancient moons, but that speculation is questionable, at best.”

“Have you seen the rings of Saturn?” Emily asked.

“No, but I have heard with some telescopes that it is possible. Can you see the rings with your telescope?”

“On some nights, depending on the atmosphere. Maybe we could try tonight?” Emily said.

“That would be most interesting,” Caleb said.

Marcie’s eyes narrowed as she looked between the two young people. She placed six strips of bacon on her cooktop, cracked eggs in a bowl and put a few drops of vanilla in, along with a small amount of whole milk. She whisked the eggs while talking.

“So, did you spend the night with my daughter last night?” she asked. Her tone was even.

“Yes, madam,” Caleb said. “It was a matter of happenstance. I was—unwell, yesterday evening and Emily attended to me.”

“Did she?” Marcie asked, raising her eyes to look at Emily.

Emily mouthed, “Stop It” to her mother.

“Indeed,” Caleb said. “She gave me water when I was parched and fed me twice. She gave me something called a shower which was luxurious.”

“She gave you a shower?” Marcie asked.

“I showed him where the showers were on the campsite,” Emily said hastily. “He needed one, believe me.” She stopped and put her hand to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to offend by saying that.”

“No,” Caleb said. “You are quite right. I had been on the ship for nearly a month. It had been two since I’d had a bath. Aside from the occasional swim in the ocean, I was not particularly clean, plus I had spent two days trying to forage and carry a wounded friend. I’m sure I did not smell great.”

“Where is your friend?” Marcie asked.

“He has gone on to the Maker,” Caleb said. ‘I buried his body beside the Penobscot River yesterday morning.”

“I’m so sorry,” Marcie said. She poured the eggs into her pan and began scrambling them.

“Many men were lost,” Caleb said.

Marcie nodded and continued cooking. Emily got up and made coffee while her mother worked. Caleb watched, curious about everything they did.

“Tell us about yourself,” Marcie asked Caleb.

“Certainly, Madam,” he said. “I was born in Nashua, New Hampshire in 1759 to my parents Jonathan and Abigail Harding. I was the first of nine children, three of whom died very young. Their names were Francis, Drake, and little Gabriella.”

“Oh my gosh,” Emily said. “I had no idea.”

Caleb shrugged. Infant mortality was almost a way of life in his time.

“My father is a silversmith, same as Mr. Revere.”

“Wait, Paul Revere?” Marcie asked.

“Yes, Madam,” Caleb said. “It’s the whole reason I was on the Warren. You see, Mr. Revere was our demolitions expert, and as he and my father were friends, I had the good fortune to accompany him on the Warren.”

“You knew Paul Revere?” Marcie asked, her eyebrows raised.

A look of doubt crossed Caleb’s face. “Yes, you would say knew, not know. Because Mr. Revere would be gone now, wouldn’t he?”

He paused letting that sink in for himself before continuing. “I was educated by tutor until age twelve, learned to read and write, became fluent in Latin and Greek and natural philosophy. I went to University when I was fourteen.”

“Wait, you’ve already been to college?” Emily asked.

“Yes, Miss Emily,” Caleb answered. “I graduated Harvard University with my bachelor of arts degree in philosophy in 1777, after which I enlisted in the colonial navy.”

“You went to freaking Harvard?” Emily asked.

“That’s a strange expression,” Caleb said. “But yes, dear Emily, I graduated at eighteen before my enlistment.”

Emily flushed slightly at the words he chose.

“Is that normal for you, to refer to a girl you’ve just met as Dear Emily?” Marcie asked.

“Oh,” he said, putting his hand to his mouth. “Have I offended you?”

“No, she’s just being silly,” Emily said.

“Well, I apologize if I’ve failed at decorum. Your customs are likely to be different.”

“Why enlistment instead of officer?” Marcie asked.

“That’s only for folks with aristocratic blood,” Caleb said. “Navy appointments, far too often, are based on parentage, not capabilities. Plus enlistment was a quicker route. I wanted to defend my country.”

“So what happened on the Warren?” Emily asked.

“It went badly,” Caleb said. “Our leadership quarreled, and we lost the advantage. When the British were reinforced by sea, we were forced to scuttle the ships and make our way back to Boston overland.”

“On foot?” Marcie asked.

“Yes, Madam,” Caleb said. “I traveled with Benjamin Haskins. Around nightfall, poor Benjamin took a musket ball to the — well, I shant say in mixed company. I buried him just north of the campground where Emily found me.”

“So, you are twenty,” Marcie said. “Just a year older than Emily.”

Caleb glanced at Marcie, as if finally recognizing the line of inquiry.

“I am nearly twenty. Next year, I shall be counted as an adult and can buy land. I was the Warren’s boatswain, a position I earned early, perhaps in no small part the result of Mr. Revere’s influence. I am to be paid fifteen and two per month.”

“Fifteen and two?” Emily asked.

“Aye,” Caleb said. “Fifteen dollars and two bits.”

“Two bits?” Emily asked.

“The two bits is nothing to sneeze at. It would buy a man a gallon of whiskey.”

“Did you often buy gallons of whiskey?” Marcie asked.

“Why no, madam! I am not a drinking man, myself, although I did try beer twice on the ship, as it was more palatable than thirty-days’ old water. But I don’t particularly care for it,” he said. He sipped his coffee for the first time, enjoying the flavor. “This is quite good though. Very enjoyable.”

“So you’re a sailor and you have a very outdated degree in philosophy from Harvard. Do you have other skills?” Marcie asked.

“Outdated?” Caleb looked at her quizzically. “As I said, I have a history in silverwork.”

“Mom,” Emily prompted. “What’s with the third degree?”

“Well, he’s stuck here in 2025. I’m wondering what skills he might possess, which I think is pretty important for a young man who refers to my only daughter as dear.”

“Mrs. Niles,” Caleb said. “I have apologized for that offense already and I beg your forgiveness a second time. I was not aware of how your customs now differ from those of my day. I would have thought it would be welcome news that an employed and loyal sailor found Miss Emily to be enchanting; but I shant speak of such things any further if it offends you.”

Emily, for her part, didn’t mind hearing these kinds of things and she knew she was blushing as the result of his words, and not for the first time.

Marcie stared at him, as if weighing options. Finally, she said, “I need to speak to my daughter in private.”

“Certainly, madam,” Caleb said. “May I step into your garden?”

“The backyard? Sure.”

Emily showed him how the sliding door worked, and he stepped out into the backyard.

Marcie turned toward her daughter. “So, just how much time did you spend with Caleb last night?”

“It was nothing like that, Mom,” she said. “I fed him and put him in the guest bedroom. That is all that happened. Oh, and I shaved him.”

“You what?”

“He needed his beard trimmed.”

“You should have woken me,” Marcie said.

“So you could say ‘No’? I don’t think so. I wanted to get him at least one good night’s sleep. He was dehydrated, exhausted, hungry, tired.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Marcie said. “The question is, what are we going to do with him?”

“I want to ask him to stay here,” Emily said. “I’m worried about what will happen if they find him. I’m worried they’ll take him somewhere and who knows what will happen to him.”

“And I’m worried about what will happen to my daughter around a handsome, but lost, twenty-year-old who thinks my daughter is enchanting,” Marcie said.

“Is that such a bad thing?” Emily asked.

Marcie considered for a moment, tilting her head to the side. She scratched her forehead. “No. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just fast. And you have to admit it’s not really normal.”

“He’s an eighteenth-century man,” Emily said. “Already with a degree from Harvard. Already with military experience. Already seen men die. He’s not like modern twenty-year-old boys.”

“That’s precisely what worries me,” Marcie said. “He’s not a boy. He’s all of a man. And you’re still a girl.”

“But he’s also gentle, Mom. I just know he is.”

They stared at each other for a while as Marcie tossed the options around in her head. It wasn’t really matching up with her dream for Emily; but then again, it wasn’t exactly matching up with so many worse nightmares she had envisioned.

Finally, Marcie said, “There will be no hanky-panky. Do I make myself clear?”

“Mom, be real. He said some things using words we don’t hear these days. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s just being kind. It’s nothing like what you think.”

“No,” Marcie said. “That man likes you. He likes you and he wants you. If you can’t see that, then I’m inclined to say no. It just means you’re not ready.”

Emily sighed, looked out at Caleb standing in the backyard, and then turned back to her mother, trying to overcome her frustration. “I know, okay? I know. I can tell,” Emily confessed. “Yes, I know he likes me. And—you’re right. If I’m being honest, there’s something in his eyes that’s a little scary, but not too scary, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Marcie said. “But you just said it was nothing like that.”

“I was just trying to calm your fears.”

“I’d rather you just be honest with me,” Marcie said.

“Fair,” Emily said.

Marcie brushed her daughter’s cheek and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Honey,” she said. “Is the feeling mutual?”

“I’ve known him for less than twenty-four hours!”

“Yes, but there’s always a moment of attraction long before people admit what they’ve known all along. Are you introspective enough to see that?”

Was there an attraction? Yes. Undeniably. When he'd stepped out of that shower, cleaned and shaved, she'd seen him differently. And when she'd shaved him the night before, something had stirred in her that was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying, leaving her caught between wanting to flee and not wanting to leave at all. She didn't know what he would have done if she'd stayed. She wasn't entirely sure what she would have done either. What she did know was that she'd lain awake for hours afterward, fighting the urge to go back downstairs just to be near him again.

“Well?” Marcie asked.

“Yes, Mom. It’s mutual,” she said.

She looked out the window at Caleb standing in the backyard, his hands clasped behind him, studying the garden with the same quiet attention he gave everything. As if the world were endlessly worth examining.

She turned back to her mother. “I’m also worried that the police will manhandle him if it becomes known that he’s here. I need to help him. I want to help him. And I can either do it here or elsewhere. Please don’t think that’s a threat. I just need to do what I think is right.”

“Then he can stay,” Marcie said.

Emily was breathing heavily, prepared to continue the debate. But she stopped at the look in her mother’s eyes.

“Really, Mom?”

“Now that you’ve confronted the truth and the risks. This is why I wanted honesty from you, Emily. The man likes you. You like him. If you’re not aware of that, then things can happen by accident even with well-intentioned gentlemen and careful young ladies. I want you to be aware of it, so that your choices are purposeful. So there are no accidents. Do you understand that?”

“I do, Mom. And, thank you. I will not disappoint you.”

“I don’t want you to disappoint yourself,” Mom said. “That’s what’s important.”

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Emily woke with a start, sitting up quickly in bed.

She checked her phone. 7:30. Mom should be up already. Why had there been no confrontation?

“Oh, no no no!” she said.

She dressed as quickly as possible, but took the time to brush her teeth. Just in case.

Just in case what? she wondered.

She practically ran down the stairs, bursting into the guest room to find it empty with the bed made.

Had she imagined it?

He was not in the living room. Not in the bathroom. She did not see him outside.

“Emily,” her mother called from the kitchen.

Emily tried to control her breathing, purposefully calming her body as she walked into the kitchen as if nothing at all unusual had happened.

Her mother stood in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew, and watching the morning light come through the window. Mom was a young looking forty. At a distance, they’d been mistaken for twins more than once. The same petite frame, honey blonde hair, narrow face with the upturned nose. The same smattering of freckles and pale blue eyes that looked almost grey in certain light. Pixie-ish was a term Emily had grown to hate, but she supposed it applied to her mother as well.

“Do you want to tell me about last night?” her mother asked.

“Why? What do you mean about last night?” Emily asked innocently.

“I stripped the guest bed this morning,” Mom said carefully. “There were… black hairs in the bathroom sink. We’re both blonde. You obviously had someone here.”

“What—?” Emily stammered.

“Come on, Honey. You cleaned up pretty well, but two plates, two glasses in the sink.”

“I thought I got all those,” Emily whispered. “Did you see—?”

“What are you looking for?” Mom asked.

“Um,” Emily said.

“What is it?” Mom said, a worried look on her face.

“It’s hard to explain,” Emily said.

“Try me,” Mom said, watching her daughter glance outside and move around the house, looking out windows. She followed her daughter, a bewildered look on her face. “What is it?” she asked.

“A man,” Emily said. “I’m trying to find a man.”

“Aren’t we all?” Mom said.

“A specific man, Mom,” Emily said.

Her mother looked at her a strange expression coming over her face. “Did you bring a man home last night?”

“It’s difficult to explain,” Emily said.

“Emily. I will not ask again. Did you bring a man home with you last night?”

“I did,” she said. “But it’s not what you think.”

“Oh, really? Explain.”

“Not now, Mom,” she said, heading to the garage.

“Where are you going?” Mom asked.

“I’ve got to find him. I’ll be back. Soon, I hope.”

Emily opened the garage door and walked out toward the street, looking both ways and across the backyards, but Caleb was nowhere to be seen.

She returned to the car and started her SUV. The radio came on, mid-broadcast.

“—still no official comment from Homeland Security on the three men taken into custody along the Penobscot River south of Bangor yesterday. The first, a man wearing what appeared to be an authentic Scottish military kilt, was pulled from the river near Brewer by Maine State Troopers after reportedly brandishing what has been described as a revolutionary-era pistol. The man claimed to be a member of the 74th Regiment of Foot and demanded to be returned to Fort George. Two additional men were found on the west bank of the Penobscot within hours of each other, one claiming to be colonial militia. All three men insist the current date is August 18, 1779. Authorities are treating the incidents as a coordinated hoax, though social media speculation continues to grow. Analysts have confirmed that the tartan worn by the first man is consistent with the Montgomery family of Argyll, Scotland, prompting some to question the resources required to stage such an elaborate—”

Emily turned the radio off. Her hands were shaking.

She drove around the neighborhood, but found no sign of him. It was such a strange feeling to worry for someone she shouldn’t be worried about. Why should this stranger matter to her?

But the thought vanished from her mind. Something strange had happened, and he was caught up in it. No matter what, he was still just a human being in over his head. She couldn’t just abandon him.

She didn’t find him in the park or the shopping center or the town square.

Where could he have gone? Where would a sailor—?

She found him seated on a park bench overlooking the harbor, filled with boats of all kinds.

“Thank God,” she said, pulling into the harbor parking lot. “Caleb!” she called out to him.

He waved her over, and stood when she arrived at the bench.

“You left!” she hissed.

He looked her in the eyes, questioning.

“I was worried, Caleb.”

“My apologies, Miss Emily. The house was still sleeping, and I did not wish to disturb anyone. Also, I thought it best to not be there when your mother awoke. I had no wish to harm your reputation.”

She sighed, and sat with him on the bench. “You’re probably right, but she wasn’t fooled. She knows I was with someone last night.”

“I am sorry,” Caleb said.

“It’s nothing,” Emily replied. “What are you doing?”

“I have been observing these boats since dawn,” he said. “There are very few boats with masts and sails, yet they move about swiftly making noise as if thunder were captured within them.”

“They are motorboats,” Emily said. “They have motors that burn fuel, typically made of petroleum. The motors spin an angled blade that cuts through the water, propelling the boat.”

“Petroleum. Tar? I know it burns.”

“I think so,” Emily said.

“But I don’t see any fire.”

“It’s complex,” she said. “The fire is contained within the motor. It isn’t seen.”

He turned to her. “Emily, what has happened to me?” he asked.

“You have come forward in time,” she said, thinking of no other way to say it.

“I gathered this must be the case,” he said. He started to say something, but stopped himself.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s been two centuries. That means everyone I ever knew is dead now. Gone. My parents are gone. My siblings are gone. You are the only person I know.”

Emily said nothing. Instead, she took his hand in hers.

“Everything is so strange,” he said. “We are no longer at war with the British.”

“No, we are friends again and have been for a long time. We are allies.”

“And this is still America, still the thirteen states?”

“Yes, it’s still America, but there are fifty states now.”

“Fifty?” he asked in astonishment.

“All the way to the Pacific Ocean.”

“That’s real?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “The Pacific Ocean is real.” She stopped talking for a moment, watching him as he watched the bay. “Caleb?”

“Yes, miss Emily?”

“There were three more men found, like you, who claim to be from 1779,” she said.

“Really? Who were they?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “There have been some social media videos. Lots of them, that are trying to piece it together. It was on the news and there’s lots of speculation, but it’s now being portrayed, officially, as a hoax. But still on social media, people are following up on it. There seems to be a lot of things that, if a hoax, were done very well.”

“What is social media?” Caleb asked.

“Oh,” Emily said. “It’s where—I don’t know how to explain it. Anyone can write anything they want and everyone in the world can see it, instantly.”

“Everyone is a publisher then?” he asked. “How does the distribution of papers work?”

“Oh, you have so much to learn!” Emily said. “Do you know anyone with the last name Montgomery?”

“Can’t say that I do,” he said. “Why?”

“One of the men was wearing a kilt with a tartan of a family known as Montgomery that originated out of or near of Argyll, Scotland.”

“That’d be a Scotsman from Fort George then,” Caleb said. “He’d be part of the 74th Infantry, I think they called it.”

“So not a friend of yours,” she said.

“Definitely not,” Caleb said. “Nothing against him personally, but we were on opposite sides.”

They sat in silence for a moment until Emily realized she was still holding his hand. She slipped her fingers free and balled her hand into a small fist which she placed on her lap to keep from doing something so foolish again.

“Did you—Did you see men die?” she asked.

He dropped his gaze to his empty hand, rubbing his fingertips with his thumb. “I buried a mate. You knew that. But, yes, there were others.” He paused. “Some things are best not to talk about.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

When he turned to look at her, she said, “The police have arrested the other three.”

“For what crimes?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but they have ways of locking people up. So I think it would be best if you came back to the house with me. In case they are looking for others.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I apologize for leaving this morning without telling you.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

“You’ve brought your carriage again?” he asked.

“It’s a car, Caleb.”

“That’s just a shortened version of carriage,” he said.

“But that’s how we say it,” Emily said.

He nodded and followed her to the car.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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The buck spun in place and turned back the way it had come, trying to return to an area it thought safe.

Only now did my hands start to shake. My breath came in great gasps as adrenaline overwhelmed me. In moments, my whole body shivered and trembled, and I needed to lean back against the tree for support.

The wait after the shot was the hardest part of hunting for me. I didn’t mind the cold. I didn’t mind sitting in nature for hours on end. I didn’t mind still hunting all day. What was hardest was waiting after you’ve shot the deer to pursue it. I checked my cell phone and set a timer. I was going to wait forty-five minutes before pursuing the animal.

The goal when harvesting a deer was to achieve a quick, clean kill in a matter of seconds. That was achievable with a well-placed shot. A poorly placed shot, however, could cause unnecessary suffering, something that I avoided.

An inexperienced and anxious hunter often begins chasing a wounded animal immediately, but this can be a mistake. My father had taught me I was better off waiting to pursue an animal to ensure it has enough time to die, minimize stress and suffering, and to improve recovery of the meat.

When you let a wounded deer stop to lie down, it will typically go to sleep and expire quickly. If you chase it, you can trigger a flight response, causing it to run further and faster, allowing the deer to cover more ground, making it harder to track and recover.

I nocked a blunt arrow while I waited, hoping the second grouse would return, but when my phone vibrated to indicate the timer was up, I returned the arrow to my quiver and walked straight to the spot where the deer had been standing.

The first order of business was to identify a blood trail and, perhaps, find my arrow. I found it in less than a minute, the blaze orange fletching making it stand out against the snow. I picked up the arrow and inspected it. It was covered in blood and a bit of pink flesh was stuck on the fletching.

“Lungs,” I said, pumping my fist.

The blood trail was easy to follow even in the drizzle and fading light. I had taken no more than ten steps along the trail when I stopped and clapped my gloved hands. The deer had run no more than twenty yards before falling against a downed tree, where its body now lay.

I took a blunt arrow from my quiver, approached the animal cautiously, and touched its open eyeball with the blunt tip. As I expected, there was no reaction. I had waited forty-five minutes, but the animal had died within a few seconds. Still, as my dad would say, “Better to be safe than sorry.”

I checked my cell phone again. It was 2:34 pm. I had about ninety minutes to get the animal field dressed and back to the road before dark.

I knelt beside the deer and placed a hand on its still-warm flank. A wave of gratitude washed over me, mingled with a profound sense of loss. Each hunt brought me back to memories of my father. I remembered his strong hands guiding mine, showing me how to hold the bow steady. “Respect the life you take,” he had always said. “It’s a grave responsibility.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. I felt a connection to this creature, a silent bond forged in the shared wilderness. Harvesting an animal was never just about food; it was about survival, respect, and an unspoken understanding of life’s delicate balance.

As I began the process of field dressing, my hands moved with practiced ease, but my mind was full of thoughts. “Dad, I hope I’m doing this right,” I whispered, closing my eyes against the sting of cold and tears. The memory of his voice, his guidance, and his love for these woods gave me strength.

As I worked, the forest around me seemed to quiet. The drizzle slowed, the wind stilled, and the silence became almost tangible. I looked up and noticed a soft, ethereal light filtering through the trees. The air seemed to shimmer, making the snow-covered ground sparkle.

I caught my breath, my eyes wide. Emerging from the mist, a figure approached with the grace and silence of a deer. It began first as a humanoid shadow moving toward me, as if the person was backlit by a lantern. But that wasn’t quite right.

It took only a moment for me to realize the light was coming from the figure. It was a girl, a woman. It was very nearly like looking in a mirror, except the reflection was far more beautiful than me. Like me, the figure was lithe and athletic, but her presence was more commanding while, at the same time, gentle, with an aura of untamed wilderness that seemed to meld seamlessly with the forest around her.

Like me, the figure’s hair, dark as the night sky, cascaded down her back in loose waves. Unlike me, delicate silver vines entwined her tresses, and tiny glowing flowers shimmered in her hair with a faint, otherworldly light. Her eyes, a striking shade of green that seemed to capture the essence of every forest, glowed with wisdom and fierce independence. She wore a tunic of soft, supple leather that blended perfectly with the natural hues of the woods, adorned with intricate patterns of leaves and animals. Astonishingly, her feet were bare and nimble, seeming to float above the ground, leaving no trace in the snow.

I still knelt, looking wordlessly at the woman, astonished as she moved closer. Her eyes locked on mine, radiating a sense of recognition. She reached out a hand, her touch light as a feather, and placed it on my shoulder. The warmth of her presence seeped into my very bones, bringing a sense of calm and reassurance.

“You honor the hunt, young one,” the figure said, her voice a melodic whisper that echoed through the trees. “Your respect for the life you take and the balance you maintain does not go unnoticed.”

Awestruck, I could only nod, my breath catching in my throat.

“Much is needed of you, young one,” my more beautiful doppelganger said. “When my emissary comes, welcome her.”

I began to speak, but then the image was gone. The light was gone. I was alone in the woods with my kill. I jumped to my feet, twirling, looking for the familiar stranger, but there was no one there.

“Hello? Hellooo!”

There was no response. The only sound was water dripping from pine needles. I blinked, suddenly aware of the cold seeping back into my bones. I looked around, half expecting to see some trace of the vision, but there was nothing. Only the deer, the snow, and the quiet forest.

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of awe and disbelief. “It couldn’t have been real,” I whispered to myself. I wondered if I had a fever. Maybe I was getting delirious. Or I could have made a mistake with those mushrooms from yesterday. Maybe one of them was bad.

“I must have imagined it... a hallucination from hunger and the cold,” I said. I shivered, but it was more from the experience than the cold. As I resumed field dressing the deer, the warmth of that touch lingered on my shoulder. Whether it had been real or a figment of my imagination, the experience left me with a sense of awe.

Finishing the field dressing, I wiped my hands on the snow and stood up, looking down at the deer one last time. I felt a deep appreciation for the life that had been given to sustain mine. It was a cycle as old as time, but one that always carried a weight of sorrow and respect.

With a sigh, I began the task of dragging the deer back to the road with the grouse in a game pouch and my bow slung over my shoulder. The physical effort warmed my muscles and provided a welcome distraction from my swirling emotions. I knew that tonight, as I prepared and shared this hard-earned meal, I would honor the deer’s life, just as my father had taught me.

I loaded the deer in the back of my dad’s old pickup and wondered how many deer the vehicle had carried in its nearly half million miles of life. This would probably be the last one. There was no way it would pass inspection in the spring.

When I got in the truck, I blinked my eyes. My right wasn’t focusing. I reached up and touched my eye.

“Dangit!” I said. I’d lost a contact lens.

I drove home, both the road and my mind in a fog, my vision blurry. The memory of those green eyes, wise and kind, stayed with me. What astonished me most is that the eyes had been my own somehow, as if an older version of me had come back in time to visit. But if so, what the heck had the mysterious figure meant by an emissary?

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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My name is Callista Eleanor Thorne. Everyone calls me Callie.

I was going to say that it all started when I was seventeen, but it really started many years before I was even born and I hope that writing it down will help me remember. Having intellectual knowledge of something is not the same as remembering. But I think having intellectual knowledge of something is better than pure ignorance. Or at least I hope that’s the case.

I guess it began with my father’s death when I was twelve. It’s one of my worst memories, but I’m afraid to lose it. It makes me who I am. Losing it would, I guess, ease the pain of loss, but then, I wouldn’t know who he was, who he had ever been, and losing that might just kill me.

My dad was a park ranger in the Allagash. I know what that is, of course, because I spent many summers there with my dad, but if I’m writing to a future self with no memory of it, then I guess I should say that it’s a preserved wilderness in the northwest of Maine. It’s called the Allagash Wilderness Waterway, a 92-mile run through interconnected rivers and lakes, and it is the most spectacular place on earth, at least in my estimation.

From the south, it technically begins at the southern end of Chamberlain Lake, but I kind of think of it as starting at Churchill Dam, which his where dad and I always put in when we headed north. Speaking of north, most people don’t know that this waterway is like the Nile River in that it flows north rather than south. I think that was worth remembering.

Dad was killed by a bear when I was twelve. Kind of. He was chased by a bear. Dad climbed a tree to get away from it and yes, he knew that black bears are great climbers too, but he figured that having the higher ground would help. He might have been right, if the branch he’d climbed on hadn’t broken, sending him twenty feet to the ground. I hope he died that way and not from being partially consumed while alive. Also, he might have lived had park rangers been allowed to carry firearms on duty. Thankfully, the state changed this policy shortly after my dad’s death. Unfortunately, it was too late for my father.

His death colored the rest of my life. We were poor and mom went into a funk from which she never recovered. I hope she doesn’t read this and think that I hated her for it. I didn’t. I understood. But I wish she’d have stayed away from the boxed wine. My sister, Amanda, and I, were forced to fend for ourselves from early on. I was twelve. She was ten. We became adults in function overnight.

Aside from my father’s death, the biggest event that changed my life was a late November afternoon when I was seventeen, hunting for deer near our house.

I shivered as the biting wind from the southwest tried to penetrate my wool coat, gnawing at me from the outside while my empty stomach gnawed at me from within. I’d been in the woods since an hour before dawn and had only seen a yearling doe at fifty yards, twenty minutes after sunrise. It was now afternoon, and my hunger pangs had only worsened.

“I should have taken the shot,” I muttered under my breath. My sharp eyes swept the forest, my head remaining still. Fifty yards was a long distance for a bow in these woods, with too many branches in the way. Too much risk of merely wounding the animal.

Hunting wasn’t like in the movies. Deer rarely paused in the open, offering an easy target. More often, I caught just a flicker of movement—a foreleg shifting, an ear twitching, or a tail’s brown tip flicking to reveal white underneath. I adjusted my stance, blending with the shadows cast by the trees, every sense alert to the forest’s whispers.

I glanced down at my weapon, a compound bow, adjusted to forty-five pounds of draw weight. I could raise or lower it by an additional seven pounds, but forty-five was where I felt most comfortable for safe draw, accuracy, and sufficient power to take a deer. It was nowhere near the seventy-pound draw weight of my father’s bow, but he had been a full-grown man before his death, well stronger than I could ever hope to be at any age.

I could have been hunting with my dad’s rifle or shotgun, but I had never found it fulfilling to hunt that way. There was nothing wrong with it, of course. Harvesting your own meat rather than outsourcing that role to butchers was preferable all the way around, as far as I was concerned, so I wouldn’t fault people who used firearms, but it just wasn’t my preference. I felt it took more skill to close within forty yards with a bow than to shoot an unsuspecting deer from three hundred yards away. Still, there comes a point when you can’t be too picky about the sport of fair chase, and I was just about there after three days of trail mix as my only source of food.

I had another advantage: my color blindness. I was diagnosed with mild deuteranomaly at age five. While others marveled at vibrant sunsets, I often mistook green with brown. But in the woods, this disadvantage became an asset. Camouflage did not easily fool my eyes, allowing me to spot shapes that others missed. This unique vision had fed me more times than I could count.

Hunting today wasn’t strictly legal. Maine law barred hunting on Sundays, and I had already exceeded my bag limit back in September. But with Christmas approaching and the last of that meat long gone, I faced my annual moral dilemma: to obey the law and starve, or hunt and survive.

I knew I could get more permits along the coast, but that was a world away from the vast, silent woods of my home. That was for rich people—people from New York who had holed up in their congested city, made more money than I could even conceive, and then came to Maine in their forties or fifties, already retired, buying up all the land along the coast where the best deer hunting was and then putting up “no hunting” signs everywhere. They weren’t even natives to my state. Just people from away—transplants.

None of them hunted, of course, which meant that the deer population exploded along the coast to where deer starvation had become a real (and largely ignored) problem. Coyotes had appeared on the streets of coastal towns before I was born, and no domestic cat was safe to roam now.

But those concerns were a long way off for me, who lived two hundred miles north of the ocean in a township that had a number rather than a name, northeast of Mount Katahdin and west of Route 11 in an area just east of the “big woods.” Woods that stretched on for hundreds of miles into Quebec, Canada. It made me think of my dad and I wished for one more time to start with a canoe at Churchill Dam and make the trip to Umsaskis Lake with him. Someday, I’d have to do it on my own.

I caught a motion in the corner of my eye. Very slowly, I turned my head and then stopped when I saw it again. I waited, watching intently. A pair of ruffed grouse were making their way towards me, meandering over roots and under a fallen log. They disappeared behind some short firs, which gave me time to swap out arrows from a broadhead to a blunt. I quietly nocked the blunt arrow and waited.

At some point, I would draw the bow, pulling forty-five pounds to get the cams to rotate, at which point the mechanical advantage of the compound bow would come into play. This bow had about an eighty percent let-off, meaning that I could hold the bow at full draw with only nine pounds of force and hold it for a long time; something I could not do with a more traditional bow.

I waited for the birds to pass behind a downed tree and then drew the bow full, anchoring my thumb in the corner of my lip. I exhaled slowly, calming my breathing and my heart rate. Food was nearby, and I needed it.

When the grouse came into view, I smoothly released and watched, almost in slow motion, as the arrow flexed and sped toward my target, hitting it in the head and killing it immediately. The second grouse took off, the sound of its beating wings almost like a percussive drum as it fled the scene.

I looked up into the sky and whispered, “Thank you.”

I placed a broadhead arrow on the string, nocking it in place, and leaned back against a fir tree, taking some pressure off the soles of my feet.

A half hour later, I was rewarded for my patience when the second grouse returned. Again, I watched it, waiting for an opportunity to swap arrows. It hopped along the snow, three or four hops at a time before stopping to look around. It repeated the pattern every minute or so before hopping up into a gnarly old leafless crabapple tree that still had a handful of tiny green apples clinging to branches.

The grouse was looking for food, but so was I.

I stopped mid-draw as another motion caught my eye. Sixty yards further on, behind the crabapple, I spotted a deer. I could see the V of its white chest and wondered how it could have appeared standing straight on without my noticing its arrival. I must have been distracted by the grouse.

I waited. There was no clear shot, it was too far away, and a head-on shot was a bad choice anyway. I dared not move, for the deer was looking right at me. It lowered its head just enough to expose seven points. Three symmetrical points existed on each antler, plus the right antler bore an extra brow drop tine.

The deer lifted one leg and stamped it on the ground, as if testing me for a reaction. The animal wasn’t sure what it was seeing, but something was unusual, making the deer skittish. I watched as the deer licked its nose, wetting the tip and distributing invisible scent particles to improve its sense of smell.

For a half hour, we watched each other, the deer moving its head from side to side, up and down, taking an occasional short step, and I moved so slowly as to be imperceptible. I was still holding my bow with the wrong arrow nocked but was just now reaching into my quiver for a broadhead.

When the buck turned to look over its shoulder finally, I swapped arrows, causing the deer to snap its head back to look at me.

I stopped moving, the arrow nocked, but not placed against the bow.

Just then, the grouse took off from the crabapple tree, a lost meal, but probably worth passing on, assuming the deer just came a bit closer.

The buck made a blowing sound in response to the drumbeat of grouse wings and then began moving to my right.

It’s going to circle around me to get upwind of me, I thought. The deer was about at an eleven o’clock position from me; once it moved to about two o’clock, it would be directly upwind and have the best chance of smelling and identifying me.

But in order to reach that point, the deer would have to pass the one o’clock position, which would open it up for a broadside shot if things worked out.

I picked an opening between trees and very slowly turned my body to afford a bow shot into the opening. It was no more than three feet wide between a low white pine and a tall, leafless ash.

When the deer stepped behind the pine, I drew my bow, anchoring in the corner of my lip again. The shot would be about forty-two yards, just at the outside edge of what I could shoot accurately.

It seemed like ten minutes went by, and my fingers were aching as I held at full draw. I couldn’t see the buck anymore. It was fully hidden behind the pine, and it was even possible that it had turned and run away, shielded from my vision.

I was ready to release the draw and lower the bow when the buck stepped out, broadside to me, but looking directly at me.

Another step, I thought, willing the buck to move.

It did, and I released the shot.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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The next morning, Callie, Mom, and Amanda went to breakfast together. It wasn’t something her family normally did. Going out to eat was a huge expense that they weren’t well equipped to handle, but Amanda had insisted, saying it was her treat.

They arrived at the Old Post Cafe in time for breakfast and slid into a booth, Amanda and Mom on one side, Callie on the other. Callie studied them quizzically, wondering how they knew each other, but they had clearly known each other for years, given how comfortable they were around each other. Really good friends somehow, although it seemed strange to Callie that her forty-year-old mother should befriend an eighteen-year-old.

When the waitress came, Amanda ordered coffees for herself and Callie’s mother, knowing that two sugars and one cream was how her mother liked it. Why did Amanda know this?

Callie’s eyes narrowed. There had to be something more to the story. There was something they weren’t telling her. Maybe Amanda had been her nurse or a social worker that she couldn’t remember. She felt torn about it. Were they protecting her from something or just lying to her? It was time to get to the bottom of it.

“How did you two meet?” she demanded.

Mom and Amanda exchanged a glance. “I told you, honey. I’ve known Amanda since the day she was born.”

“That’s not an answer,” Callie said. “That’s a deflection. How? How do you know—”

She stopped mid-sentence and took a sharp intake of breath. “Don’t look,” she said. “But my stalker has just come through the door.”

“Maybe he thinks you’re stalking him,” Amanda offered, giggling.

Callie gave her a bland look. “I’m serious,” she said. “He’s going to walk on by me, not look at me, and then go sit at the other end of the bar, where I can’t see him, and then he’s going to watch me eat.”

“How do you know that?” Mom asked.

“Because I can see his reflection in the napkin holder,” Callie said, as she positioned the stainless steel face to focus on the bar stool where the tall, dark stranger sat down and removed his hat.

She watched him order, knowing exactly what he was going to get: ice water, espresso, toast with grape jam, and a fruit cup. It’s what he ordered every time. After he finished his order, he slyly turned his head to look at her and then returned to watching the cooks move about the kitchen.

“See!” she hissed. “He looked over here.”

“A man looks at a table with three gorgeous women,” Amanda said. “And you think that’s strange?”

“He is quite handsome,” Mom offered. “As stalkers go.”

“Mom!” Callie hissed again. “This is not funny!”

She felt like her mother was teasing her rather than taking it seriously. Yes, the man was a rare specimen, maybe a couple of years older than Callie, no sign of ever having worn a wedding ring, well-groomed, too tan for Maine, wavy dark hair that was almost in need of a haircut that she secretly hoped he wouldn’t get, and possessing cheekbones and a jawline crafted by Michelangelo himself out of the most pristine marble. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a creeper, stalking her around Ashland, Maine.

He finished eating before they did, mostly because Callie spent her time spying on his reflection rather than eating her breakfast.

When he walked by their table, he tipped his hat to them and said, “Buongiorno, signore.”

Callie nearly inhaled her coffee, sending her into a coughing fit. That accent! Italian? He’d spoken in Italian!

But he was a stalker. She was sure of it. She wasn’t quite sure why her mother and her mother’s friend were smirking when it really was a concerning matter. She watched him leave the restaurant and then turned her attention back to her table.

“You’re not taking this seriously, mom. Some creeper is stalking your only daughter, and you think it’s funny or something?”

“Honey,” her mother said. “We live in a small town. There are fewer than 1500 people who live in the whole area. You’re going to run into the same people over and over. That does not make them stalkers.”

“You’re not hearing me, mom!” Callie said, exasperated. “I know we live in a small town. I see the same people all the time. But you’re missing the point. He sees me. He pays attention to me like no one else does.”

Just then a different waitress came by the table, one Callie didn’t recognize.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked. Then she did a double take. “Callie? Oh my goodness. I haven’t seen you since high school! You going to the University of Maine now?”

Callie blinked, not recognizing the girl. Someone she had forgotten from high school? Another memory lost? Rather than admitting her failure, she played along, greeting the girl like they had once been best friends.

Somehow, Amanda sensed her confusion and had the good sense to use Jill’s name, so Callie could hear it. Jill. That was the waitress’s name. But it didn’t bring back any memories. But then Callie wondered, how should Amanda know Jill’s name?

After the greeting, the girl returned to work, and Amanda said, “You had no idea who that was, did you?”

Callie shook her head, looked down at her empty plate, and bit her lip. The doctors had called it retrograde, dissociative, possibly transient. They kept encouraging her that the memories might come back. But names like Jill’s never surfaced, and the clinical labels didn’t make the blankness any less frightening.

“It’s okay, Callie,” Amanda said, reaching across the table to take her hand in a calming, reassuring way, as if they were old friends.

But it did not feel okay. She had lost so much of her memory that no matter how well the physical scars faded, she just knew that some of it wasn’t going to come back with time despite assurances from doctors that in cases like these, memories do come back.

For Callie, nothing had come back. She contemplated this on the ride home. None of her questions were being answered. Instead, all she gained was more questions. Who was the stalker and why wasn’t anyone worried about him? Why did Amanda know the waitress? It’s not like Amanda would have spent any time in this town or Callie should have remembered it, right? And while it was true that her mother had admitted to knowing Amanda since she was born, what did this really mean?

They were like puzzle pieces she couldn’t seem to fit together. Even the car ride presented her with new pieces. She could remember streets and houses. They went by Paulie Smith’s house. Callie had gone there for a few birthday parties when they had been in grade school. But the next street over, that looked just as old, held houses that seemed entirely new to her, as if a forger had painted them as foreign objects in a painting she thought she knew well.

Back at the house, they sat at the kitchen table talking. It was mostly comfortable, aside from Amanda sitting in the chair across from Callie, which felt strange. They played several hands of Rook, taking turns setting the trump color, but losing to Amanda for every hand. After cards, they sat with coffees in hand, chatting.

Callie looked back and forth between the women throughout the conversation and finally gave into her curiosity.

“Are you going to tell me how you two met?” she asked. “It’s like you’re old friends, but you’re barely out of high school, Amanda.”

“It’s complicated,” Mom said.

Callie went wide-eyed in realization. “Wait,” she said. “I’m wondering, since I forgot about my waitress friend. I’m wondering, and I hope it’s not true, but were you one of my friends? Did I forget you? Do I have amnesia about you too? The things I remember, I remember clearly. But the things I don’t remember, I don’t remember at all.”

Mom spoke first. “I told you that I’ve known Amanda since she was born.”

“Yeah,” Callie said. “But how?”

Amanda reached across the table, grasping both of Callie’s hands in hers.

“Not yet. Not now,” Mom said.

“It’s time,” Amanda insisted. “It’s time, Mom.”

“Mom?” Callie asked.

“Callie,” Amanda said. “I am your sister.”

“You’re what?”

“Why do you think there are two beds in your room? That was our room. We grew up together, both of us, in this house. You just don’t remember me.”

Callie pulled her hands free, pushed back her chair, half rising, tears falling from her face, her lips trembling. “No. No. No. That’s impossible! No way. If I had a sister. If I ever had a sister. I would never—could never forget someone like that. No way. No how.”

“Just wait,” Amanda said. She left the table and went into Callie’s room, returning a few seconds later with a journal. She sat down again, opposite Callie, who had slid back into her chair, horror written all over her face.

Amanda opened the journal to the first page, spun the book around, and slid it across the table to Callie, who looked down at it, seeing her own handwriting.

“You wrote this,” Amanda said. “To try to remember. To remind yourself. Before the memories were gone.”

“Before? Why? How would I have known about the accident before it happened?”

“There was no accident,” Amanda said. “Read.”

Callie looked down and placed her trembling hand on the first page, sliding the journal closer.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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A charcoal Subaru crossover parked in Callie’s usual spot in the driveway signaled Mom had a visitor. Callie briefly wondered who it might be. She turned her pickup truck around and backed it against the large pine tree between the shed and the house. She glanced up at the block and tackle hanging from the pine, then untied the rope to free it. She grabbed the lower block with the hook, pulling it toward the truck and listening to the block wheels spin.

Callie found the spreader bar hanging from its usual spot on one of the shed’s rafters and returned to the truck. She lowered the tailgate and stood looking at the small buck, a four-pointer. She took her knife from her belt, felt along one leg of the deer above the hock joint until she located the Achilles tendon, then slid the blade through the skin, creating a small slit between bone and tendon. She repeated the process on the other side.

Sliding the spreader bar’s hooks through the incisions, she ensured it was securely in place. Callie grabbed the lower block hook and attached it to the spreader bar. She then tied the standing part of the rope to her canoe rack, got in the truck, and drove forward slowly, raising the lower block toward the upper block. Just before the deer’s upper body slid off the end of the truck bed, she got out, grabbed it by the horns, and pulled it off the truck, lowering the head gently to the ground. She returned to the truck and drove it forward about twenty more feet until the deer was high enough to be out of the range of predators.

With the deer raised, she used her body weight to pull down on the rope, lifting the deer slightly and creating slack in the standing end so she could untie it from the truck using her off-hand. Then, she walked the rope back to the tree, keeping it tight by holding the rope against the ground with her foot as she moved. Finally, she tied the rope off to a lower limb of the tree and gently released the tension, allowing the deer to drop six inches before coming to rest. Stepping back, Callie inspected her work. If the weather held, she’d be able to keep it here for three of four days, letting the meat age to improve flavor. She wiped her brow and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction before turning to the house.

Callie’s home was a small one-story cabin made from weathered logs and aged timber, standing in a small clearing surrounded by towering pine trees and dense underbrush. Her dad had painstakingly worked to keep the old place standing against the harsh Maine winters, but seven years had passed since he was gone, and it was showing. Moss and lichen clung to the north side of the cabin, adding a touch of green to the earthy browns and grays. The mismatched patch of asphalt shingles over the kitchen area, installed seven years ago, kept the interior dry, but it wouldn’t be much longer before a complete roof replacement would be needed.

A stone chimney jutted out from one side, emitting wisps of smoke that hinted at the warmth within. The front porch, though small, featured a pair of old rocking chairs and a well-worn doormat, welcoming visitors with its homely simplicity.

Callie stepped into the house. The living space comprised four rooms: the living area, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. A large cast-iron wood stove that provided heat and a cooking surface dominated the living area. Warmth from the stove permeated the room.

The kitchen area, though small, was functional. An old refrigerator hummed in the corner, and a battered wooden table served as the hub for family meals and homework sessions. A mismatch of dishes and an array of canned goods filled the doorless cabinets. A small window over the sink offered a view of the shed and the forest beyond, often providing glimpses of wildlife. This afternoon, her deer was proudly displayed just outside the window.

Mom was sitting in her usual spot on the loveseat. Seated next to her, rather than in one of the two mismatched end chairs, was a girl around Callie’s age—possibly a year or two younger. It was no one Callie knew, but the girl smiled brightly and said, “Hello.”

Callie nodded, not really answering, and went to the sink where she began washing out organ meat. “Heart and liver,” she said.

“Great, Callie!” Mom said. “I wanted to introduce you to someone—a friend of mine.”

“Sorry, just let me finish this up and I’ll wash my hands,” Callie said. After washing the heart and liver, she dissolved some salt into a bowl of water, put the organs inside it, and placed it in the rickety refrigerator. She washed and dried her hands and then walked over to stand by the loveseat.

Callie felt a shudder, feeling strange, as if the girl had been watching her for unknown reasons. She shook it off and smiled, reaching her hand to their guest.

“I’m Callie,” she said.

“Amanda,” the girl said. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you.”

“Thanks,” Callie said. “You too. Are you a friend of Mom’s?”

The girl spoke, but Mom interrupted. “Oh, I’ve known Amanda all her life.”

“Nice,” Callie said.

“Did you see him again?” Mom asked.

Callie looked over at Amanda and then back to her mother, a question in her eyes.

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” Mom said. “Amanda is trustworthy.”

“Okay,” Callie said, hesitating. “Well, yeah. I did. I saw him at the feed store early this morning when I was picking up the chicken feed.”

“He say anything to you?” Mom asked.

“No,” she said. “He never does. He just shows up wherever I am and pretends he’s not looking at me.”

“A secret admirer?” Amanda asked, taking a sip of water.

“A weirdo,” Callie said. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m paranoid. He doesn’t belong here.”

“What makes you say that?” Amanda asked.

“Well, he’s not from Maine, that’s for sure. He’s got a foreign accent. Something European, I think.” Callie walked back to the kitchen area, opened a cookie jar shaped like a teddy bear, and pulled out a molasses cookie. “Anyone else want one?”

They both declined, and Callie returned to the living area, taking the chair closest to Mom.

“So he has spoken to you?” Mom asked as she picked up her crochet basket and fished in it for her current project, a baby blanket for the preacher’s new daughter who was due in two weeks.

“No, but I have heard him speak to other people. What’s weird is that everyone seems to know who he is, which makes little sense to me.”

“You’ve forgotten a lot of things, dear,” Mom said. “Since the accident. Maybe you knew him before or something?”

“I don’t think so,” Callie said. “I’d remember that.”

“What makes you so sure?” Mom asked.

“You don’t forget someone that handsome. Plus that voice. I’d remember him if I’d known him before,” Callie said. A brief look of confusion passed over her face and then faded away. She turned her attention to Amanda. “What do you do?” Callie asked.

“I’m a college student,” she said.

“Where?”

“Tennessee. Go Vols!” she said, smiling.

“What you doing up here?” Callie asked.

“Visiting,” Amanda said. “Just here for a couple of weeks over Christmas.”

“Amanda will be staying with us for the holidays,” Mom said. “I hope you don’t mind. We’ve got the extra bed.”

“In my room?” Callie asked.

It was a strange idea. There were only two bedrooms in the house. Callie had the smaller of the two, but it had always held two twin-sized beds, set apart from each other along the opposite walls. This had been in case any family or company were going to stay, not that any did.

“If it’s a bother, we can swap rooms,” Mom offered. “You can stay in mine and I’ll stay in yours with Amanda.”

“Nah,” Callie said. She turned to look at Amanda. “I don’t mind getting to know you. As long as you don’t snore.”

“Snore free here,” Amanda said, laughing.

“Well,” Callie said. “I’m going to take a quick shower before dinner. I’ve been sweating a bit and cold, so getting warmed up will help.”

She dismissed herself from the living area, going to her bedroom first, where she saw a small suitcase sitting on the opposite bed. Apparently, having someone else stay there, a friend of Mom’s, had already been decided. Callie felt strange that she hadn’t asked more about the girl. But she’d get to that maybe this evening.

Once in the bathroom, she stripped down, shocked again to the scars on her body. Forearm, thigh, a slash near her clavicle. The latter one was the only one that still seemed ugly to her. The others must have been glass or very sharp metal. The one on her clavicle had to have been from something jagged that tore at her. But she had no memory of getting the scars. Most of the lacerations had healed very well. They were noticeable but faded. Still, they made Callie feel ugly, and once the shock of seeing them again began to fade, the tears started again.

The trouble with having amnesia like this, having forgotten things, is that she didn’t even know what she had forgotten, or how many things she had forgotten, but it had been a lot, she gathered. She had spent a year at a university, but had no memory of it. She had no memory of any classes she had taken. She couldn’t even name the subjects she took without looking at the transcript. She’d gotten good grades, but couldn’t remember a single thing from the syllabus of any class.

Worse, she couldn’t remember any of the people at this supposed university, couldn’t remember having been accepted, couldn’t remember being excited about that. She couldn’t remember traveling there, couldn’t remember any parties she might have gone to, couldn’t remember if she’d had a boyfriend, and couldn’t remember what the cafeteria food was even like, assuming she had eaten some.

Callie stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash away her tears. She stood there, letting the shower head pelt her back and wondered, briefly, if she had more scars there that she hadn’t even seen yet. Supposedly, it had been a year since her accident, but given how well the scars had faded, it felt like it must have been more time than that.

But it couldn’t be. She’d been in high school before that. She remembered the principal and—wait. Who had her teachers been? She reached out in her mind trying to remember, but could not picture a single teacher. No names came to her. A few students, but not as many as she expected there should be. This realization frightened her.

Callie soaped up, shampooed and conditioned, and dried off before putting on her pajamas and stepping back out into the living area.

The smell of deer heart and liver cooking surprised her. Amanda was tending a cast iron pan on the stove, to which she was adding squares of butter. Callie looked at her mother in surprise.

“Our guest is cooking for us?” Callie asked in a whisper.

“She likes to cook,” Mom said. “She used to cook all the meals in her house where she grew up. Let her do it. She likes to do it.”

Callie shrugged and stepped into the kitchen area.

“Can I help?”

“How about some biscuits?” Amanda asked as she turned to give Callie a smile.

“I don’t know how to make them,” Callie said, frowning.

Amanda gave her a very strange look, which confused her.

“What?” Callie asked.

“Oh, I—I guess—never mind. I can teach you how to make them,” Amanda said.

The biscuits came out only okay, but Amanda seemed to like them and Mom said they were delicious. The three women enjoyed a meal together at the table. Dad’s chair had been empty since his death, and was empty tonight, but it was sure strange to see someone seated in the fourth chair by the window. No one ever sat there, but Amanda seemed quite at home chatting with them over dinner.

When they finished clearing and washing the dinner dishes, Callie headed toward her bedroom, but was stopped by her mother.

“I have a gift for you,” Mom said.

“Oh, okay,” Callie said.

“Come back to the kitchen and sit,” Mom said before disappearing into her bedroom.

A minute later, she returned to the table and joined the two younger women.

“So,” Mom said. “I have a piece of jewelry I want to give you. It’s a family heirloom, passed down from one generation to the next. I know it’s a bit early for your birthday and Christmas, but I wanted to give it to you.”

“You don’t have to, Mom. Why don’t you keep it for a while longer?”

“I think it would be good for you to have,” Mom said, insisting.

She laid out a piece of jewelry that was one of the prettiest things Callie had ever seen. It was a silver necklace comprised of a thin silver chain and a pendant. The pendant was a semi-circular crescent moon designed so that the tips of the crescent almost touched. Suspended in the middle of the open crescent was a beautiful blue gem.

“Sapphire?” Callie asked.

“It is!” Mom said.

Callie looked down at it and placed her fingers on the chain and then looked up to see both Mom and Amanda looking intently at her. The looks on their faces were strange, as if they were hopeful or needy or something. It gave Callie the creeps.

She pulled her fingers back from the chain and said, “I don’t think I can take this. I just don’t feel right about it. You keep it for now, Mom.”

“Oh, just try it on,” Mom insisted, and she stood up, took the ends of the necklace, and dropped her hands over Callie’s shoulders, letting the pendant drop until it rested gently against her collarbone. She then connected the clasp, walked back to her seat, and looked at Callie with a strange smile on her face.

Callie looked down at the pendant. It certainly was beautiful, but it gave her a very strange feeling. She began to feel dizzy as her eyes went out of focus, her nerves were on edge, and she felt her pulse quicken. She reached up and disconnected the clasp, dropping the necklace to the table.

“I—I can’t,” she said. She got up from the table, leaving the necklace behind, and quickly crossed the living room to disappear into her bedroom.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Emily checked her cell phone. It was nearly midnight and time to be going home. Mom wouldn’t start worrying for another hour. It was sky-watching time, so being late wasn’t unusual.

Caleb held on for dear life as she drove them back to Belfast, real fear on his face for the first several miles, only to be replaced by hooting and hollering as adrenaline rushed through him on the ride.

“What manner of conveyance is this?” he asked, his voice shaking a little.

“How long are you going to keep up this pretense?” she asked.

“Pretense?” he asked, his face appearing to be a mask of innocence. “I think I must have died and gone to heaven. None of this is real and I may wake up face down in a ditch, or it might be that my mind has taken me to a faraway place so I can avoid the torture of the British.”

“Caleb,” she said. “I’m serious now. I don’t know where you’ve come from, but you were clearly in need of clean clothes and food, so where are you really from?”

“I told you, miss. I’m from Nashua, New Hampshire.”

“How did you get here?”

“On the ship the U.S.S. Warren, which is now at the bottom of Penobscot Bay,” he said. “I told you, we scuttled our ships, and we’ve been ordered to cross back to Boston overland. I was with a group, but one of the militia members, Benjamin Haskins, took a musket round, and we were separated from the main body of men. I buried him on the bank of the river yesterday morning and have been trying to catch up with the rest of the men since.”

“What do you think the date is?” Emily asked.

“It’s August the eighteenth,” he said. “Unless I lost track of time.”

“Well, you’re right,” she said. So that meant his mental faculties were still intact. He knew the date. The problem was the year. “You actually think you’re from the Revolutionary War,” she said.

“Revolutionary?” he asked. “That’s an interesting description of our present troubles with the British. I suppose you could call it a revolution, but I see it more as maintaining an established state of being. We’ve been an independent, sovereign nation for years now. Britain just doesn’t want to accept it. It’s less about fighting to be independent and more about defending the independence we’ve already achieved.”

“Okay,” Emily said. “Tell me what happened, if you were there.”

“We landed hundreds of marines more than two weeks ago, but then we didn’t provide them sufficient naval support. We were too slow. I don’t mean to speak badly about the commodore, but he became timid when he should have been brave. We took some damage to the forestay and main, but we had thirty-two guns, which are sitting below the waves, now worthless. We were forced to retreat upriver by the British navy, once they arrived. I still think we could have taken them if we could have just been more coordinated. Instead, we fled. Like cowards. And we burned our own ships. Like cowards.”

“You’re talking about the Penobscot Expedition,” Emily said, looking at him in wonder.

“I don’t know it by that name,” Caleb said. “We called it nothing so grand. It was the assault on Fort George. A disaster by any— Aaaah!”

His sudden yell caused Emily to nearly lose control of the car.

“What on earth? What was that?” she asked.

“The sudden lights in our faces from another conveyance coming toward us. I thought we would collide!”

“It’s just another car going the other way,” Emily said. “See this double yellow line?”

“I do, you are right on top of it.”

“It only seems that way,” she said, “Because of the angle from your point of view. I am to the right of the lines. People coming the other way will also be on the right. That’s how we avoid collisions. Don’t be afraid.”

They arrived at the house about fifteen minutes later, although the ride was not without a few moments of subdued panic from Caleb whenever they met an oncoming car. Emily watched him grip the dash each time it happened. But once he got used to it, he became enthralled by all the lights and buildings in the town.

“It’s like New York City,” he said.

“Nothing like that,” Emily said, giggling.

“I’ve never actually been,” he said. “I was just guessing.”

They snuck in quietly through the front door, which Emily locked behind them.

“My mother is upstairs, sleeping,” she whispered. “We need to be quiet.”

Caleb stopped in the entry, taking in the home, his eyes rising to the vaulted entry ceiling, glass windows, and chandelier.

“Wonders,” he whispered.

He glanced at the polished hardwood floor, taking tentative steps, and then chose to walk on the carpet runner instead, stopping to look at framed photos on the wall.

Emily stopped when she heard him gasp behind her and turned to look.

“It’s you!” he said, pointing to her eighth-grade photo. “But younger.”

“Yes,” she said, taking a step back toward him. “Nearly six years ago.”

“You were always lovely, then,” he said. But then he covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide. “My apologies for vocalizing that.”

Emily blushed, took him by the hand and led him into the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator.

Caleb stopped and gaped. “It has a light inside. And it’s like winter! An ice box with a light.”

He watched Emily move back and forth between the abundance of produce and the counter where she placed ingredients, and then overwhelmed by what he was seeing, Caleb opened and closed the refrigerator six times, watching as the light turned off and came back on each time.

“Sit,” she said, indicating one of four padded wooden stools on the other side of the counter.

Caleb did as she asked, watching as Emily constructed a pair of ham and Swiss sandwiches with lettuce and pickles, topped off with a dab of spicy mustard on brioche buns. She added barbecue potato chips and root beers to their late dinner.

Caleb tested the root beer. “It sparkles!” he observed. “It is quite good.”

He smiled and then looked around the open concept downstairs. “So much isinglass,” he observed. “But it is so clear to see through!”

“It’s just glass,” Emily said. “Glass windows.”

“But there is so much of it,” he said. “It must not handle winters well.”

“Seems to do okay,” Emily said. “I think it’s two layers of glass.”

Caleb took a tentative bite of the sandwich, chewed, then smiled. “This is delicious,” he said.

“Thank you,” Emily said. “It’s easy to cook when there’s no cooking to do.”

“Are you a good cook?” he asked.

“I do pretty okay,” she said.

“I’m sure you do,” he said, scratching his scraggly beard while she looked at him thoughtfully. “You live here with your mother? What about your father?”

“Divorced,” Emily said. “When I was a baby. He lives in California now.”

“Divorced? Are you scandalized?”

“Sadly, it’s become normalized since the Revolutionary War.”

“You have used that phrase a few times.”

“That’s how we know it,” she said. “It was our war for independence from Britain.”

“It is a shame we did so poorly,” he said sadly.

“We lost some battles, but we won the war,” she replied, smiling. “We have been independent from Britain for two and a half centuries.”

Caleb stopped chewing and stared at her, raising his eyebrows.

“Yep, it’s true.”

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “The sacrifices were worth it after all.”

Emily couldn’t think of a good response to that, so she just nodded as he sat there in silence, finishing his sandwich.

Caleb finished first, enjoyed his potato chips (which he spent as much time examining as eating), and covered his mouth to hide a belch after finishing his root beer. “Excuse me,” he said.

After the meal, Emily busied herself cleaning up and wiping down the counter.

“Water is so easy to obtain,” Caleb observed. “It seems like it’s everywhere.”

Emily caught him eyeing the butcher block knife set.

“What?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, being careful with his words. “You have ready water, and knives, and I have not had a good shave in weeks.”

He scratched his scraggly beard as he said it.

“I think I could help you with that with better tools,” Emily said.

“You wish to groom me?” he asked.

Emily paused, wondering how she had arrived in this situation. Either one or the other of them was crazy or, maybe it was just the situation that was crazy. Or maybe it was all a dream. In any case, it surprised her when she heard herself say, “You could use a trim.”

Fifteen minutes later in the downstairs bathroom, he sat on the toilet with his shirt off and a towel wrapped around his shoulders. An electric trimmer covered with stray hairs sat on the sink. Emily sat on a stool in front of him, tilting his head back with her left hand, and using a safety razor with her right hand to clean up the stubble on his chin.

She worked in silence as they sat close to each other, and it amazed her just how young he appeared now, as the last remnants of his beard went down the sink. He was a very handsome young man, and she found herself very drawn to him. The more time she spent in close proximity to him, the stronger the pull until she felt her heart racing as she finished the last strokes of the razor.

“These strange machines will launder my clothing?” Caleb asked as he listened to the washing machine tumble next to him.

“They’ll be clean and smelling fresh in the morning,” Emily said. She warmed two washcloths in the sink, using the first to clean the remaining shaving cream from his face and the second to simply wrap his jaw and cheeks to steam his skin.

Caleb’s eyes were closed in a blissful peace and more than once he whispered something about heaven.

When she unwrapped the last washcloth, he opened his eyes, blue as the morning sky, and Emily was shocked at just how close her face had come to his. It was almost as if her mind was no longer in control of her body, which seemed to make decisions for her.

Oh, I’m in trouble! she thought.

She stood up and backed away from him, but it took all of her will to do so.

“What do you think?” she asked, pointing him to the mirror.

He stood and turned to look. His reflection smiled at her. “A very good shave,” he said. “Thank you. I feel almost human again.”

“Almost human?” she asked.

“I was a sailor for so long,” he said.

“Sailors aren’t humans?” she asked, chuckling.

“It’s debatable,” he offered.

“The guest bedroom is right across the hall. I’m going to leave the light on down here so you can go back and forth to the bathroom if you need it, okay?”

“Thank you, Miss Emily,” he said.

She nodded as he left the bathroom, leaving her to clean the sink and sweep up the floor where bits of his beard had littered the cold tiles.

Emily climbed the stairs, but stopped at the landing, looking back down at the door to the guest bedroom. It was slightly ajar. Wouldn’t it be best to warn him about her mother? She should probably talk with him about what to expect in the morning, right? Best not to leave that to a surprise.

She hesitated at the edge of the landing and then slowly walked down the stairs and approached the gap in the door.

“Caleb?” she asked. “Everything okay?”

She pushed the door just slightly, and it opened a bit more—enough for her to peek in.

He was standing, shirtless, the skin of his arm and shoulder nearly glowing from the light of the bedroom lamp.

Against her better judgment, moving slowly as a war raged within her, she pushed the door the rest of the way open to see him, naked from the waist up.

They both stood there, taking each other in. She fidgeted while he stood calmly, broad-chested, but with wonder in his eyes.

“Emily,” he began, “should this all prove to be a mere dream—though a most wondrous one at that—or should I awaken in some distant infirmary, a prisoner of war at Fort George, or perishing in a ditch of thirst, I must speak these words to you now, whilst I am able.”

“What words?” she asked, barely whispering.

“If you are a dream, you are the most beautiful of all dreams,” he said.

She blushed and looked down at the oriental rug on the floor, trying to get lost in its patterns.

“Good night, Caleb.”

“Good night, Miss Emily,” he replied.

Emily hurried up the stairs to her room, pushing the door closed with her back and leaning heavily on the door, more out of breath than she expected. Despite the late hour, sleep evaded her for a long time.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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Saturn was clear tonight, and Emily decided she would use a Barlow lens to double the magnification. It might be a little more blurry that way, but she was hoping to glimpse the Cassini Division, and maybe even capture a long exposure image with her ten-inch equatorially mounted telescope.

The only real problem was the light pollution in Belfast, Maine, which is why she had set up at the Bayside Campground south of town. She unpacked her SUV, carrying the telescope, equatorial mount, battery, lenses, and lights in separate trips.

With just red lights on to illuminate her workspace and keep her eyes properly dilated, she consulted her charts. It was August 18th. Her twentieth birthday was approaching, as was her sophomore year at the University of Maine. Astronomy was on her radar for the coming year, and she’d convinced her mother to give her a head start with the telescope at Christmas.

“Nice rig,” a man said as he and his wife walked by on the path between their pop-up camper and the showers.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling. “Wanna see?”

“We might stop by after we take showers,” the woman said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” Emily said.

She turned the computerized telescope on, and it took only a few seconds to find itself with the built-in GPS receiver and properly align itself. Once it was ready, she scrolled to Saturn and hit the go button. Normally, she preferred to do the finding on her own, and Saturn was completely obvious in the sky tonight, but this was a little quicker, and she didn’t have all night. It was already close to ten o’clock by the time she was viewing the rings of her favorite planet.

She was just looking down at her printed sky chart when she shivered as a sudden chill swept through the air. She glanced up, noticing a strange, ethereal glow emanating from the woods to her north, amidst the pines that lined the campground property. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees, and an uneasy feeling crept over her. Intrigued but a bit unnerved, Emily set her sky chart down and rose to her feet, her curiosity driving her towards the source of the mysterious light.

Emily climbed the fence bordering the property. It wasn’t really meant to keep anything out, just a simple wooden fence to mark the boundary. On the other side, she passed between pine trees moving towards the glow. While it seemed brighter to her as she got closer, it didn’t really seem to illuminate anything. It remained both ethereally light and still pitch black at the same time. The sounds of the night muted around her, and she felt cold.

She found the center of the light amidst pine trees, well-hidden from the campground, and watched it. There didn’t seem to be a source—just a disembodied light seeming to hover over the grass and dead pine needles.

To her astonishment, a figure materialized before her eyes. At first, it was barely discernible, a mere wisp of mist. But slowly, it solidified into the form of a man. As she came to this realization, her first instinct was to reach into her pocket for her pepper spray. Once she had it in her hand, she held it in front of her while squinting against the light as the silhouette of the man solidified in front of her.

The ghostly light began to fade, leaving the man behind. Emily grabbed her flashlight, turned it on, and pointed it at the man, who shielded his eyes. Emily gasped, astonished at the sight.

The man wore a loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt made of unbleached linen, loosely laced together, revealing a sunburned chest with a down of black hair exposed from collarbone to sternum. A double-breasted wool jacket, in a sad state of disrepair, was draped over his shoulders. A black scarf was tied around his neck, and he wore heavy cotton trousers extending to the mid-calf, long stockings, and strange leather shoes coming up only to the ankle. He carried a leather bag and had a knife hung from a leather belt. His black hair, extending to below his collar, peeked out from beneath a knitted woolen cap, and an unruly black beard adorned his face. He looked for all the world like he had just escaped a circus or a medieval fair.

He looked disoriented and confused, his eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. Emily could see the strain etched on his face, a mix of exhaustion and desperation. He stumbled forward, muttering under his breath in a language she recognized but found archaic in its phrasing. He fell to his knees, shying away from the intensity of her flashlight and raising his hands over his head.

“My name is Caleb Harding,” he said. “I serve as a boatswain on the U.S.S. Warren. I yield to your mercy, good sirs. Might you have water and sustenance?”

Emily, though startled by his strange statement, held her ground, lowering her flashlight from his eyes to the area of his knees, so that they could both see each other. She pocketed her pepper spray and raised her hand in a gesture of peace, her heart pounding in her chest. “I’m not here to hurt you,” she said calmly. “My name is Emily. Who are you?”

“A—A lady?” Caleb stammered. “Pray, do you possess food and water?”

It was said with a British accent, of sorts, but it was odd in phrasing and pronunciation somehow.

“Who are you?” Emily asked.

“Caleb Harding, at your service, madam,” he replied. “I am, or rather was, a sailor aboard the Warren. Alas, she is no more, for we were compelled to scuttle her, along with many of our fleet.”

“A fleet of ships?”

“We were charged with the capture of Fort George,” he explained. “Regrettably, it did not go as planned.”

“Fort—Fort George?” Emily asked, a memory from Maine history stirring in the back of her mind. “Are you a re-enactor?”

“I know not what the lady means,” Caleb said, dumfounded.

He wiped his hand over his parched lips.

“Come on,” she said, gesturing and backing towards the campground.

“You’re not British, are you?” he asked.

She laughed nervously. “No, I’m American. Mainer. Born and raised. Are your British? You sound like it.”

“Are the British nearby? Are you a loyalist or patriot?” he asked, his eyes moving side-to-side, wildly.

She stopped and turned to look at him. “Wait, are you serious?” she asked.

“If I am captured,” he said, fear at the edge of his voice, “It is likely that I will be hanged.”

At that, Emily decided the man was unhinged and probably escaped from Bangor Mental Health Institute, although where he found the costume was beyond her. Still, he was hungry and thirsty and filthy, and she could help him with that. The police could take over once she got him some immediate help.

“Come with me,” she said.

He tried to walk behind her, cautiously; but given his long strides and her own caution, she had trouble keeping up with him. She kept her hand touching the pepper spray in her pocket, just in case.

They crossed the fence together, him slightly ahead as she pointed the way, and then crossed the very open and well-groomed lawn towards the showers and vending area.

Caleb stopped not more than ten yards across the grass. Emily stopped with him and saw him gazing at a motorhome parked fifty yards south of her telescope setup.

“What the devil is that?” he asked.

“A motorhome,” she said.

He stared at it. “I’ve not seen its like. Lights without fire abound, strange machines all metal, acting as carriages.”

Emily took a step back, eyeing Caleb with a mix of concern and skepticism. “Look, Caleb,” she said slowly, trying to keep her voice calm and steady, “You seem convinced that you’re from the past, but there’s got to be another explanation. Maybe you’ve had some kind of trauma or... something that’s making you believe this.”

Caleb’s expression grew more desperate. “I am not mad,” he insisted. “I have traversed this wilderness for nigh on two days, and I have witnessed marvels beyond comprehension. Strange carriages without horses, lights brighter than any torch. It seems we sorely underestimated your advancements. I beg of you, do you have water?”

Emily sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Okay, let’s just take this one step at a time. You need food, water, and probably some medical attention. We can figure out the rest later.”

Caleb looked at her, confusion and fear still etched on his face. “You don’t believe me?”

Emily hesitated, then shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you out here. We’ll get you some help, and maybe then we can figure out what’s really going on.”

Caleb nodded reluctantly, his shoulders slumping. “It must sound impossible. But I promise you, I am telling the truth. I am not sure what this place is, but if I am caught and hanged, would you make me a promise to write to my family in Nashua and let them know what has become of me? Would you do me that kindness?”

Emily offered him a small, sympathetic smile. “Let’s just focus on getting you something to eat first, okay? One thing at a time. Come on.”

She offered her hand to coax him along and he accepted it, although he held it in a strange way, with his arm lifted as if they were ballroom dancing together. He kept her at a respectful distance as they walked towards the vending area.

Upon approach, as they were bathed in light, she realized just how filthy the man was, and upon seeing that, she realized for the first time that he did not smell very good either. He also looked slightly malnourished.

“You know what?” she said. “I might actually have some stuff in my car that you could use. You really need a shower.”

“I can’t pretend to understand some words you use,” he said, taking in his surroundings.

They stopped near a set of vending machines, which Caleb looked at in wonder. “The advancements of the British are extraordinary,” he said. “Franklin’s electricity seems to be put to use here. I wonder if he knows they have stolen his ideas.”

“Franklin?” Emily asked.

“An inventor and publisher,” Caleb said. “I am surprised you have not heard of him.”

“I think I have,” Emily said, feeling silly to play this game with the insane man. “You’re talking about Benjamin Franklin, right?”

“Indeed, madam,” he affirmed, his courteous demeanor starkly contrasting his bedraggled appearance.

“Wait here,” she said.

“I will do as you command,” Caleb said.

Emily ran to her SUV, unlocked it, and grabbed her purse from the console. Then she opened the back and was happy to find her brother’s duffle bag still in the back. She turned the overhead light on, opened the bag, and dug through it. Sure enough, it had what she needed: towel, shampoo, soap in a plastic container, clean t-shirts, clean socks, two pairs of gray sweatpants, and even some toothpaste and a toothbrush. He would just have to forgive her for giving his things away.

She returned to the vending area to find Caleb had wandered down the hill a little way to look up at the stars. When he heard her coming, he pointed and said, “Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, the North Star.”

“Come,” she said.

He returned to the vending machines with her, and watched her with astonishment as she produced a bottled water and a honey bun from two different machines. He drank the water thirstily, downing the whole bottle in seconds, and she bought a second, which he also consumed quickly, slowing toward the end. He tested the honey bun, unsure of what he was putting in his mouth, but then he grinned at her and smiled.

“Sweets!” he said. “I don’t know how I can repay your kindness.”

“Here,” she said, handing him the clothes and toiletries. “Go get clean.” She pointed him towards the bathroom and showers.

It took him over an hour, at the end of which, Emily had grown impatient.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice echoing inside the shower area.

“I’m not sure I have ever been better, madam,” he called from within. “I will be with you forthwith.”

When he finally came out of the bathroom with damp hair and beard, clean clothes, and bearing the fresh scent of soap, it was like he was a completely different man, attractive even.

“I have never seen such luxury before,” he said as he stared around him. “Did you know that there are over a dozen bowls of clean drinking water just sitting there?”

“Uh—” Emily started.

“Yes, well, I wondered why they were all at knee height until I saw a man empty his bladder into one, which I found disgusting. Why on earth you’d waste perfectly good drinking water that way is beyond me. But then he pushed the handle, draining the urine, apparently outdoors somewhere, and refilled the bowl with clean water. I used one myself and I must say it was a much cleaner process than that to which I am accustomed.”

Emily was laughing by the time he finished his story, and covered her mouth to hide it.

“I see your mirth behind your hand, madam,” Caleb said. “The small room with the spigot filled with unending hot water was heavenly. I have experienced nothing like that.”

“You’ve never had a shower before?” Emily asked.

“A shower?” He contemplated the term. “Yes, that fits. A hot shower, as if a heated bath were poured continually over your head. I must say, it was glorious.”

Emily held out a plastic bag to him, an empty trash bag she had stolen from inside the ladies’ locker room. “Put your dirty clothes in here,” she said.

She watched Caleb as he complied. The man was certainly very strong, and tall, reaching beyond six feet, and now that he was clean, seeming younger than she had first thought.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked.

“Of course,” Caleb answered.

“Are you homeless?” She asked it quietly, almost shyly.

“In a manner of speaking, I find myself without a home,” he conceded. “I departed my parents’ abode on the third of June in the year of our Lord seventeen seventy-seven to enlist with the Continental Navy, and have since dwelled aboard the U.S.S. Warren. Now, with the Warren’s demise, I am indeed absent a home.”

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Nearly twenty,” he said. “I’ll be counted as an adult in about four hundred days. I’ve been keeping track in my journal.” He said, looking longingly at the vending machine.

“You still hungry?” Emily asked.

“Famished, I’m afraid,” Caleb replied.

Emily looked at him, the insane, handsome young man who believed he was from the Revolutionary War; but then was reminded of her own insanity, for she had seen him appear from a strangely lit area of the forest where no light should have been. Really, she should just call the cops. She had attempted to do it several times while he showered, and it would have been the best thing to do, surely. But she had hesitated. A mental hospital wasn’t a very nice place to be, she was certain.

What are you doing? she asked herself. This is dumb.

“Can I take you to eat?” she asked, finally.

“I’d be delighted to dine with you,” Caleb said. “Is your home nearby?”

[ Index | Next ]

Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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