Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble by H. P. Mallory Page A

words to sound so acerbic, but by the smile on his lips, he hadn’t taken them as such.
    He squeezed my hand. “Okay, just wanted to be sure. Keep going.”
    I didn’t say anything but nodded and closed my eyes again, focusing as hard as I could. I tried to envision the room around me, as it would’ve been ninety years ago, but still nothing. Course, I didn’t really know what was in vogue ninety years ago, so I couldn’t make much of a mental picture for myself—just a room with one of those old model radios—the kind that are about four feet tall. And a picture of Clark Gable. Was good ol’ Clark even around in the twenties? Sheesh… history lesson on aisle five!
    My head began to thud, as if rebelling against the idea of concentrating anymore, and my butt had grown numb hours ago. In fact, my entire body felt strangely numb. Deciding I’d had enough, I opened my eyes.
    I was alone.
    I turned my head, expecting to find Christa and Rand hiding behind a wall, ready to jump out and scare me, but it was eerily quiet. Where the hell had they gone? Panic began a slow spiral through my stomach, working its way up my throat until I thought I might retch. Needing to calm myself, I forced my attention to the hardwood floors, taking note of every fleck in the wood. The floors gleamed in the light as if someone had just cleaned them, which was odd, as I could’ve sworn this place had carpeting. My gaze shifted to the curtains, and that was when I realized I’d actually done it.
    I was in 1922 and in 1922, this house had curtains instead of blinds.
    I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth, repeating the process until the nausea faded into oblivion. After realizing Rand couldn’t be accounted for, I had to suppress the tide of anxiety welling within me. I guess I’d have to find out who killed Jack alone.
    I perched on the edge of the sofa while my eyes traced the large floral pattern of the sofa and matching loveseat, trying to find a sense of calmness in the pink blooms. My attention shifted to the coffee table where a newspaper lay in dishevelment, its insides gutted across the table. It was The Chicago Daily Times. I grabbed the section looking most intact. In large black print it read: What’s Wrong With the Criminal Court?
    The strangest feeling of euphoria washed over me as I considered I was living history first hand. Strangely enough, the feeling made my stomach heave again. Not wanting to throw up, I started my breathing exercises—inhale for a count of four, exhale for a count of four. I wouldn’t let Rand down.
    Now, the only problem…where was Jack?
    I dropped the newspaper and stood up, deciding it was time to play detective. I needed to find Jack and preferred to do so quickly—I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to last in this vision. As I walked through the living room, I noted black and white pictures of Jack with a pretty woman and a smiling baby.
    In the kitchen, I paused to take in the squat, white refrigerator and the white enamel kitchen range—something straight out of a bygone era. Well, if nothing else, this little expedition was going to end up being quite the history lesson.
    At the sound of the front door opening, my heart dropped as if it had been on the top story of the Empire State building. What would Jack do upon seeing me? Steeling my courage, I ventured into the living room where I watched Jack hang his fedora-looking hat on a coat rack. He walked as if he were en route to the hangman’s platform.
    He turned, and his cold eyes drilled into me. I tried to come up with a plausible explanation as to why I was in his house, uninvited. He came closer, and if looks could kill, I’d have been pronounced dead on the spot. Jack didn’t say a word. Before I could duck out of the way, he walked right through me! It felt like a great wind blowing through my entire being. I braced myself against the wall, having a serious case of jello legs.
    Okay, so I was the ghost in this