Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel by Charlotte Banchi, Agb Photographics Page A

that I think about how those old tupelo trees along the road shrank and out of date cars appeared and disappeared. It was like a magic show.”
    “You want to hear the rest of my story or not, Kathleen Ruth Templeton?” he interrupted.
    “Sorry, Pop. Please go on.”
    Rayson grunted, and then nodded solemnly. “Boyd Turley was sittin’ in the front parlor when he saw his daddy—who’d been dead for quite some time—cross the room carrying several rolls of wallpaper. Naturally curious, Boyd followed. He watched from the doorway of the bedroom as his daddy unrolled the wallpaper and began applying the paste. To his amazement, his father placed dozens of twenty and fifty dollar bills over the paste and proceeded to paper the walls. When Boyd ripped into the paper later on that same day, he found the missing treasure hidden beneath the delicate rosebud patterns.”
    “That story didn’t help me much, Pop. Especially since I’m not searching for missing treasure.”
    “Are you seeing people that ain’t there? You told me about the man and the firemen doing things they already done. And that’s the same thing.”
    Properly chastised, Kat mumbled an apology, “Sorry, sir.”
    “The last story I will share is the most closely related to your situation.”
    “Then why didn’t you start with that one?”
    “Don’t be pulling attitude on me, girl,” Rayson snapped. “Now, this whole incident appeared to be triggered by a school outing. The day before the trip, a little school girl received a phone call. The caller used her proper name and warned her to not go. Claiming it would end tragically, and if she went along, she would die.”
    “What happened?”
    “That gal was so spooked she stayed home, is what happened. And sure as molasses, the school bus ran off the road and a good number of children did perish.”
    Kat sat up and twisted around to stare wide eyed at her father, her heart flipping somersaults in her chest. “That’s like my phone call. The voice very clearly warned me not to cross over. To stay here.”
    “ Not to cross over?” Rayson’s brow wrinkled. “I thought you and Mitch already—”
    “No,” she interrupted. “No, on Sunday morning we barely stepped over the Park Street center line before turning back. We never went all the way across.”
    “So what is your thinking on the meaning of your phone call?”
    “Even though the voice said not to cross, I have a deep down feeling I’m meant to go all the way.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “I wouldn’t have seen and heard those things otherwise. Pop, I just know something is waiting for me on the other side. Something important.”
    “What about the warning?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Are you positive the things you saw, the people and those fire trucks, were from another piece in time?”
    Kat hesitated; her earlier omission had finally sneaked up and bit her on the behind. She should’ve told Pop the whole story. And so she did, explaining how everything pointed to 1963—the prank calls, the computer printout with the matching names, dates and times. Concluding with Dreama Simms’ recollections of the house burnings all those years ago.
    “I’ve known Dreama since I was a boy. She and Lettie Ruth ran around together in New Orleans, got into trouble together too.”
    “Then you must know what happened with her singing career?”
    “I do. But we ain’t gonna talk about it.”
    “Pop!” Kat’s frustration peaked. Not only would her aunt remain a mystery forever, now Pop had added Dreama Simms to his ‘Ain’t gonna talk about it’ list.
    “If she wanted folks knowing her business, I imagine she’d do the tellin’,” Rayson said.
    “How about a hint? Just a baby-sized clue about why she gave it up.”
    Rayson rubbed his hand across his throat, his eyes far away. “She can’t sing anymore,” he said. “And that’s all you’ll be hearing from me.”
    Kat got up and stomped into the kitchen. She took her