Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Time Travel Horror Stories

Episode Date: May 16, 2025

Time travel was supposed to be our greatest breakthrough, but every jump twisted reality a little more—now the timelines are bleeding together, something ancient is watching from the cracks, and each return leaves a piece of us behind. Author: Dave Kavanaugh * * * EXPLICIT CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and graphic depictions of violence intended for adults 18 years of age or older. These stories are NOT intended for children under the age of 18. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

to nice leap. One. The Antiquities dealer. In sharp contrast to the home, a charming, colonial-era farmhouse built in the 1780s. The car in the driveway was brand new, and a Bugatti.

Got any idea how much that costs? Asked Agent Yang, nodding at the sports car. Agent Price rolled her eyes. Too much. The federal agents approached the front door, but as preempts, Price reached to push the buzzer. The door swung open on its own. The man inside looked to be in his mid-forties, but he was dressed like a college stoner, barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and

sweatpants. His hair was a curly mess, his face unshaven, his eyes tired and sunk in. Good morning, sir, said Yang, pulling out his badge. My name is Agent Yang and... Agent Joseph Yang. Yeah, I know. The man interrupted. And your agent Natalie Price. And you guys work in the art crime division of the FBI. And you just want to ask me a couple of questions and blah, blah, blah. Leaving the door open, the man exhaled with a groan and turned. Well, come in.

And yes, my name is Milo Wysaki. And no, I do not have any weapons in the house, he called over his shoulder. The agents exchanged a look. Yang walked in first. one hand hovering near his holster as he checked around the door. Price was less cautious as she followed him. She hadn't sensed a dangerous vibe from Milo Wisaki, but there was something off about the man.

She wondered if he was high. Milo headed into the living room and threw himself into an armchair. The agents entered behind him, scanning the place. The room was cluttered, antiques stacked wherever they could fit, polished chairs and end tables, beautifully framed paintings and mirrors, vases, pocket watches, jewelry of every sort. Hmm? Mused Yang. Then he turned to Price.

Well, you're the expert. You're the expert, Price. Milo interrupted again. Now, in a lazy impression of Agent Yang's voice, How about you put that art history degree to good use and prove your parents wrong about its usefulness in the workplace, eh? Yang was not amused. Mr. Weisaki, did someone tell you... No one told me you guys were coming, no.

Broken Milo. He leaned back in the chair. Now what happens next? Yang gets pissed. Price thinks it's all kind of funny. If I offer you something to drink, I might actually learn that you both like Diet Coke. And then...

He sighed and pointed at the antiques around them. When we get to discussing my collection here, price will say that it doesn't... Jake an expert to see that everything in this room is a fake. Yang looked at his partner. Do you know what he's talking about? Price kept her gaze on Milo. Are they fakes?

Milo shook his head. No, but you'll be right when you say they look to be in too good of condition to come from the period. You make a lot of astute observations, Natalie. Yang stepped forward, buffing out his chest so that his tie swung. Just what kind of game are you playing? playing here. Milo slouched in the chair. It's not a game, man. It's... actually? It is like a game. Like a level I just can't seem to beat. Stop talking in riddles. Do you know why we're here?

Dude, are you really going to make me say it all again? groaning. Mylo looked at them with his exhausted eyes. Fine. Until a few months ago, I was a nobody. A wannabe antiquities dealer with a shitty rating on eBay. One day, I showed up at Christie's auction house down to New York with the trunk of my car filled with priceless colonial era treasures, which I claimed to have acquired at various garage sales. They were hesitant, but everything checked out is legit. Then I showed up again and again and again and made way too much money, way too fast, because I am an idiot. And now you're here to look into it all, to see if I'm a forager, or working with one in China or something.

And I'm... I'm... He went quiet. You're what? asked Bryce. He smiled weakly. I like you, Natalie. You're genuinely curious and open-minded. Not like... He nodded toward Yang.

He crossed his arms. Anyway, I am, let's say, in a rut. Stuck. Spitting out. I'm going nowhere. Also, very tired. Yang shook his head. What the hell are you even talking about? What does this have to do with the antiques? Everything, said Milo. His smile fading. Agent Price looked at him, and in that moment, decided to go with her gut. Ignoring the art and furnishings they had come to investigate, she lowered herself onto a couch across from Milo. casting him a friendly smile. Yang rolled his eyes and picked up a golden pocket watch from a nearby shelf,

squinting at it skeptically. I think. You have something you want to tell me, Milo. What is it? Mila looked on the edge of tears. Just tell you? Just like that? I haven't tried that yet.

Honesty is dangerous. So are lies. Mila ran a hand through his shaggy curl. His roots were going gray. If I'd tell you the truth, I don't know what'll happen next. Well, you better start talking, Wysaki, barked Yang. We're federal agents and far from home. Price leaned forward.

Ignored Joe here. He's having a tough day. Oh, I know. He's got hemorrhoids. Furious color came into Yang's face. Who told you that? Milo shrugged. You did. What that? hell just when now well another now I mean it's confusing too confusing for me I'm not

very smart really asked price obviously I used to think I was at least I don't know lucky but now I think I'd use a different word an opposite word unlucky offered Yang with a sneer answered Milo, looking back at price. It all started in 2020. I had just bought this place. Then COVID happened. And I had a lot of time on my hands, so.

I started doing some renovations. Nothing crazy. Just DIY changes here and there. That's when I found it. What did you find, Milo? On the armrests of his chair, Milo's hands balled into fists. What door? Ask Yang.

The one I always run to, throw open and dash inside. Whenever our conversation here makes me too nervous, like it's starting to now. Yang opened his mouth to shout again, but Price held up a hand. How did you find this door, Milo? Milo was very still for a few seconds. Then he exhaled and relaxed his hands. By accident, I was moving a ladder, and I chipped the plaster in the back corner at the kitchen wall. and I saw part of the door.

The door was hidden under plaster? Yeah, it was weird, especially since that's an outer wall, and there's no door there on the outside. Anyway, I pulled away all the plaster in, and I just opened the door. Let me guess, said Yang. You found a room chocked full of shiny antiques. Nah, man, I told you, it's an outer wall.

There's no room on the other side. Then what was behind you? the door, asked Bryce. Don't humor this guy. He's just messing with us, wind Yang. Or else he's got a few screws loose. Price looked up at her partner. I know what I'm doing.

Just let me... Why don't you take picks of the items in here? For the file, okay? Whatever. Yang grumbled, pulling out a small digital camera and walking to a table covered in silver dishes and cutlery. Just what I needed today. Another pain in the ass.

Bryce turned back to Milo. Her partner wasn't wrong. This Milo guy wasn't making much sense. But she didn't think he was lying, and everything about him was just so tantalizingly weird. Compared to most work days, this one was proving to be rather intriguing. So tell me, Milo, what did you see behind the door? A strange look came into his eyes.

That's the thing. I didn't see anything. And I don't mean blackness. Black, it's just a model in the brain, same as all the other colors. But when we come face to face with true emptiness, it's beyond description, Natalie. No length, no width, no depth, only... Milo went quiet again, asked Bryce, her eyebrows arched. That's what you've been alluding to, isn't it?

That you somehow went into the past and brought these items back here with you, and that you know what Agent Yang and myself are going to see. before we say it because we've already had this conversation over and over, maybe for centuries. Milo's expression had remained vacant during her little speech, but now he cracked, smirking. Hundreds of times, yeah, but not hundreds of years. I don't look that old, do I? How old are you? He shrugged. Don't know. Early 40s, maybe. But I was born in 99. That math doesn't add up. It does if you believe my story.

I don't know your story. You frowned. You just said it. The cliff notes of it anyway. Price crossed her arms. So you really believe there's a time machine in your house? Across the room. Yang led out a derisive laugh.

Not a machine, no. Said Milo, leaning forward. A gateway. I don't know where it came from. Maybe it was made by an ancient witch, or I don't know, caused by an accident of some Nikola Tesla type's experiment gone wrong. Maybe it's naturally occurring, something someone found and sealed away because it's dangerous. All I know is that when I stepped through it, I'm in the past.

He sniffed the laugh. The first time it happened, I thought I was tripping balls. I went a little wild and somehow ended up snatching this lady's bonnet, I guess, and running across the field, being chased. And then, then I was back here, in the kitchen, and the bonnet? Reaching to his shelf above his chair, Milo grabbed something white and frilly, and tossed it to Agent Price. She looked down at the old-fashioned bonnet, noting a burgundy stain on the lace.

I could bring things back, see? So I started to, you know, collect. I'd come back, sell the shift, go in again. But now it's gotten to, well, to now. So whenever I come back, it's to this moment. And you're in the driveway. And I don't know what to do, because I can't risk not being able to access it. I can't.

You're afraid to be away from the door? His face twitched, and for the first time, Price sensed a deep despair in his eyes. You don't believe me. I don't know what to believe yet, Price admitted. Can you show us the door? No! He screamed the word. And Yang stomped over from where he was photographing paintings in a far corner.

Watch yourself, Wasaki. It's all right, said Price, keeping her voice stable. Milo, can you at least tell us how you think it works? I don't know how it works, Natalie. Okay, that's okay. Well, I only know what I've seen in time travel movies and books, but do you think you changed the past? Or are your actions there?

Something that already happened? He shrugged. I don't know. But the present is always the same when I return. I think maybe. Maybe I'm the anchor. Like, since I'm the one traveling back, it's impossible for me to do anything that would alter the future

in a way that would mean that I don't exist. But I'm not sure. And anyway, it doesn't matter what we think, because whatever is going to happen happens. Yang cleared his throat. Well, I think we're going to be. We've heard quite enough of this malarkey. Agent Price, why don't you... Milo moved fast, jumping up from the armchair and sprinting into the hall.

Hold it, Wysaki! We're not done here! yelled Yang, starting to run after him, but quickly grabbing at the rear end of his pants and grimacing. Damn it! Get after him, Price! Price rose and hurried into the hall. Turning left, she saw Milo run around the corner into the kitchen, then heard a crash, and Milo grunted in pain. Running forward, she came into the kitchen and saw Milo spread out on the floor, holding his ankle. A stool lay toppled beside him, and his right foot was bent sharply at the ankle. F-Ald, britting his teeth.

That's four! It looks dislocated. We'll call an ambulance. You'll be all right, said Price, kneeling beside him. But he screamed again, and tried to crawl away, toward the far wall. Yang came into the room and pinned Milo to the floor. Careful with him, Joe. He's, he's...

Price's eyes had glanced up. to the far wall for the first time, and she froze. There, set among a shattered hole in the faded white plaster was a small door of stained chestnut with a rusty handle. Price rose to her feet. Her gaze locked on the door and walked slowly toward it. Somehow, compelled, or pulled like a magnet in her mind. No, you can't! It's mine! screamed Milo, scrambling on the floor as Yang tried to restrain him. Tell Natalie, I need it. Price blinked, coming back to reality and turned to look at him. It's like an addiction for you, isn't it? She asked. Why, Milo? Is it just the thrill of taking back the antiques? Milo finally stopped fighting, and lay on his back. Sweaty and wide-eyed,

his wrists held by Agent Yang, his dislocated foot starting to turn purple. That's how it started, Yeah, he whispered, bending his neck to look up at price behind him. But once I realized what it meant, that I had this, this escape from consequences, this eraser for past deeds, then the trips turned into something else. Ooh, yes, there were just so many temptations. She took a step backward, cocking her head. That bonnet you showed me, there was a stain on it. Was that blood? What have you been up to, Milo?

Have you been spending your time? Tears came into his eyes, but not of sorrow. A look of madness, of lust and violence, and unbridled dark desires came over him. He grinned, his upside-down face twisting and contorting. Whatever I want! A chill went over Natalie Price, and she turned back to the wall,

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Their two children, 16-year-old Draper and 14-year-old Franzy haven't smiled once. How long is this going to take? Asked Draper for the hundredth time this afternoon. Not much longer. Gideon assures his son, tossing out another shovelful of dirt. This is the right spot. I'm sure of it. You fed that with the other four holes!

Complains Franzy. The neon green braces on her teeth. give the girl a bit of a lisp. Too bad we don't have a chronolopod. Then we could make the time go faster. Draper chuckles at this. There's no way they could afford new tech like that. But their mom says loudly,

guys, just let your dad do his thing. It's not my thing, Margot. Gideon grunts, wiping sweat from his forehead. This is a family activity. You kids were really excited about this when we buried it. I was in kindergarten. shouts Draper. And Franzy doesn't even remember doing it.

It was ten years ago. Well, that's the whole point of a time capsule, isn't it? Grumbles Gideon, struggling to contain his rising annoyance. His shovel hits a rock and vibrates painfully in his hands. He winces, and when he glances up at his family again, his breath catches in his throat. They are covered in blood, deep gashes on their scalps, their faces, their exposed arms.

Their clothes are in tatters. Margot, Draper, and Franzy have become three upright corpses, watching him with their cold, dead eyes. Gideon shudders and looks quickly at the ground. Dad? Asks Franzy, a childish fear creeping into her voice. Gideon swallows, then sucks in her breath. He forces himself to smile and raises his face to them.

I'm fine, he says, looking from his wife to his dad, daughter to his son. We're all fine. And they are fine. There's no blood, no wounds, no torn clothing. Because he hasn't murdered his family with the shovel. He hasn't murdered anyone.

That mental image was just his mind playing a nasty trick on him. That's all. Why don't you take a break? Offers Margot with the concerned look on her face. I said, I'm fine. Gideon kicks the shovel into the dirt again. Draper lets out a long sigh.

Why can't we just go inside while you look for it? Aha! Declares Gideon. You hear that? He taps the bottom of the hole with a shovel. It takes Gideon another minute to dig around the corners of the rectangular box. And when he finally tosses aside the shovel and holds up the aluminum cookie tin, he is panting and grinning from ear to ear.

I told you I would find it! He holds up a hand to high-five the kids. And when they both refuse, Margot steps forward and weakly claps her husband's hand. All right, well then, Walcott's, the big moment has arrived. The teens exchange a look of unified resentment, and Margot says softly, Gideon, sweetie, I don't think you necessarily need to make one of your speeches right now. Ten years ago, he announces, and his wife's mouth tightens into a straight line. We sat you kids down at the kitchen table

and explained how this family time capsule would work. You each chose items to place in the box. We all wrote letters to our future selves about what we thought the future would hold. Now then, who's excited to see which of our predictions came true, eh? No one, says Draper. Dad, the 2050s have been hummed as wish. Gideon's smile falters.

He turns to his wife. Does that mean good or bad? I really don't get Gen Gamma slang. It means boring, says Franzy. Now can we get this over with? The girl's words melt the glee off of her father's face. His brow furrows, his shoulders slump. He feels the elation of the moment slip away,

leaving his mind dark and foggy and open to other thoughts. Margot takes the tin from her husband. I'll do it. Right then. Let's see what we got here. She pops it open, and the kids step forward to peer inside. Gideon watches them, standing next to the hole. His face beginning to twitch as Margot pulls out folded letters,

little stuffed animals, and assorted plastic toys. Wow. Says Franzy, looking at a paper. Apparently four-year-old me thought the future would look like crazy scribbles in pink and black crayon. How exciting! Gideon's head jerks. His toes curl in his shoes. He can feel in his mind. The sensation of his muscles spasming into action, reaching to the ground, snatching up the shovel. Hey, cool, says Draper, taking the tin from his mom.

I forgot I put Pokemon cards in here. This one might even be worth something now. That's nice, Draper, says Margo, reading one of the letters. Gideon swallows and looks back at the ground. He can't help but hear the sound of the shovel as it swings through the air. The horrid crunch as its metal edge sinks into his wife's forehead, cleaving the skin, cracking the skull, sending bright red blood gushing down her face and... A hand lays on Gideon's arm. And he jerks backward with a gasp. When he looks up, he sees Margot standing in front of him,

and both kids staring at him. Gideon, let's take a couple of deep breaths, okay? She tells him. I'm fine, dear. He lies, his gaze snapping down onto the shovel, to make sure it's still there and not bloody in his hand as he fears. Sweetheart, I think you got excited about the capsule.

And then with all the digging and attitudes, maybe you're just a bit overwhelmed? I'm not. He stammers. Then he goes quiet. Well, maybe, um, overheated a bit. Okay.

Margo holds up the letter in her hand. You want to hear what you wrote ten years ago? He nods, trying to smile. She begins to read the letter, his words, and her voice, all about their darling little children, growing up so fast, and the stress at work, and the noise of the construction of that new government facility across the street. Gideon sniffs a laugh. And I hope that a decade from now, she reads,

Our family will be just as close and loving as ever, and that I will have finally taken Margo on her dream vacation to Bora Bora, and that that my condition will be better. She lowers the letter. We haven't gone to Bora Bora, says Gideon Weekly. And I'm not, you know, because people like me don't get better. Yes, they do, Margo tells him, stepping around the hole to embrace her husband.

He hugs her back. They might never be cured, but they do get better. And you have gotten better. I've been hospitalized twice since I wrote that. That's four times less than the decade before. He holds his wife close, breathing in the scent of her hair. She's right. Outwardly, Gideon has managed to get better control of his purely obsessional,

obsessive-compulsive disorder. But in his own mind, it is just as much an inescapable nightmare as ever. Pure O, as it is commonly referred to, is hell for those afflicted. Unlike conventional OCD, where inner fears manifest themselves in the form of outward rituals and repeated behaviors, pure O exists only in the mind, where unwanted and intrusive thoughts take hold and refuse to go away. In the tragic case of Gideon Walcott, it means he goes about his life overwhelmed by the feeling that he might, at any moment, snap and slaughter his beloved family.

And every day, he must wrestle in his own mind, trying to convince himself that he has never, would never, could never, hurt his wife or children, despite the many bloody visions that come to him, unbidden day after day after day. He squeezes Margot against his chest, and looking down over her shoulder, his gaze fixes on the shallow hole he has dug. What is that? he asks, backing out of the hug and squatting to examine the hole. There's something else in here. Barry something else? I don't think so. Gideon reaches down, scraping at the soil with his fingernails.

It's cloth, I think. Maybe a bag. It's probably just old garbage. Gideon grabs the shovel and rising, begins to dig again. widening the hole. Can we go inside now? Asked Sfranzy. Uh, sure, sweetheart, says Margo, looking from her kids back to her husband. Should I stay or?

It's fine, says Gideon, fresh sweat breaking out on his cheeks. I'll be in soon. I just need to figure out what this is. Okay. Margo and the kids go back into the house, leaving Gideon alone outside with his shovel. and the mystery buried beneath their family time capsule.

Dinner is almost ready and the sun is setting when Margot Walcott walks out the back door and approaches the old tree and the hole beside it. There's dirt and rocks tossed about, and the hole itself is much bigger than before. At the edge of the hole, sitting with his back to her is Gideon, hugging his knees and muttering under his breath.

Margot steps closer, clearing her throat, so as not to startle her husband. and looking down into the hole, she sees that he has dug out a dusty burlap sack with what looks like several large round items inside it. Sweetie, are you about done here? I've made lasagna. Gideon doesn't answer.

He doesn't look at her. He is looking into the hole. Margot squats down, laying a hand gently on his shoulder. He blinks and turns to her. By the light of the setting sun, Margot sees the pain in her husband's bloodshot eyes. What's wrong?

I am going to murder you, Margo. Margo flinches. What? Jesus! You know you shouldn't. Damn it, Gideon! You can't say stuff like that! And I'm going to murder Draper.

Stop it! And I'm going to murder Fransy. Stop it! Right now! Listen to me. We're going to take ten deep breaths, okay? And then repeat your mantra and... Look in the bag.

Margot takes a sharp breath to steady herself. She won't start crying. She can't let herself. Not when he's like this. You're giving into the thoughts, sweetheart. They're trying to trick you. But you're in the driver's seat, remember? You've got the wheel.

You're in control. Not them. Gideon? Are you listening to me? His expression terrifies her. He's smiling, not maniacally. But sadly, It's all in your head.

Tears fall from his eyes. We were wrong. The doctors were wrong. My fears, Margot. They were never about some possible future tragedy. They've always been about the past. Isn't there. He raises one hand.

His fingers are blistered and bleeding. And he points down at the burlap sack. Look, my darling. And behold. The Inescapable. What is that supposed to? Sighing, Margot sits and swings her legs into the hole. She drops down, its waist deep.

She leans and fumbles at the burlap sack, looking for the opening, finds it, and pulls it open. What are... She lets go as if the cloth burns her fingers, scrunching up her face and disgust. Holy shit! It must be Halloween decorations or something. A real...

Margo. Margo shudders. Oh, God, this is all we need. Well, help me climb out of here. I need to take the lasagna out of the oven. Then, I guess we will call the police, or maybe a museum. They look hundreds of years old. She reaches up a hand, waiting for Gideon to help her.

But her husband doesn't move. The red sun is reflecting in his eyes, like flames. You didn't look at them carefully, He tells her, the smaller of the three skulls. It has braces on its teeth. Neon green braces. Do you know what that means? Margot feels her blood go cold.

Gideon, you're scaring me. It's our Franzy. It's her head. Now her blood goes warm. Hot, fiery hot. Franzy is in the house, and I don't want to hear another word about... She is in the house. And she is in the bag.

That's impossible. Is it? He stands, his knees popping, and turns to look out of their yard and across the street, at the high wall topped with electric wires and the huge, windowless building behind it. Until 35 years ago, a charming, colonial-era farmhouse had stood in that spot. But now, the whole area is taken up by a mysterious government research facility. It must be the institute, says Gideon. You know what they say about that place?

About what's in there. Margot stands in the hole, still red in the face and furious with him, but also, also scared. Because she knows her husband, and right now he is acting like he's in control, and yet the things he's saying? They say the government has a time machine in there, or maybe a wormhole, and that's where all the new Kronololetech comes. from. They're playing with time. Oh, don't you start with that online conspiracy theory bullshit. But it must be how I do it. How I did. Can't you hear yourself? This is your illness, husband.

It's just the dark thoughts again. Don't believe them. Don't listen to them, Gideon. Listen to me. He turns to her. The sunlight is fading. His face is his shadow. But you are dead, Margo Wolcott. I'm right here, damn it! She screams and jumping up. She grabs the edge of the hole and tries to climb out. He steps toward her, leaning down,

and she thinks he's going to take her hand and help. But he doesn't. He picks up the shovel instead. Gideon? Sweetheart, what are you doing? I am what I am, he says, raising the shovel over his head. She stammers, sliding backward into the hole again. her feet knocking against the sack

so that the skulls inside jostle together. Gideon, you are the choices you make. He falters, the shovel wavering in his hands. And that darkness in your mind? It doesn't define you, sweetheart. We all have it, the potential for it. Deep within us, we just have to learn to leave it buried. Do you understand?

She stares up at her husband, silhouetted against the crimsons and violets of the dusky sky. I understand, Marco. She exhales, weak in the knees. But it's too late. And he swings the shovel. Don't hurt the chill! It's always been too late.

It's less than half an hour later, when the service radio and a patrol car nearby buzzes to life. 10-4, dispatch. I'm on my way. What's the nature of the emergency? A girl at the home called 911. claimed her older brother was freaking out, pushed her into a closet and told her to hide. Sheared screaming in the house, some sort of fight. Possible 1062.

10-4 on that. I'm passing by the institute now. Is the child still on the line? Negative. The call went dead. 1023 dispatch. Checking it out now. As the patrol car pulls into the driveway, its headlights shine across the yard,

the hole, the towering pine, and the lovely home of the Walcott family. The police officer puts the car in park, but before he can step out, he spots movement in the bushes around the house's corner. A man steps out into view, freezing in the headlights like a startled animal. What the hell? The man is filthy, dirt all over his clothes and in his hair. But that's not what's freaking out the cop. There's blood all down the man's front, and dripping from the burlap sack he holds in one hand, and from the hacksaw he holds in the other.

Grabbing the radio and switching on the PA, the cop screams. Outside, the man drops the saw, turns and runs across the yard, and in front of the neighbor's house. The cop throws the car back into drive and jerks the wheel, pulling out of the driveway after the fleeing suspect. 1033 dispatch! I need backup now! And send an ambulance to 202! Ahead of him, the suspect is running wildly.

The bloody sack in his hands bouncing against his legs as he sprints across the street and into the grassy strip beside the institute's wall. The cop pulls his car off the road, bouncing over the grass. He's just pulling up on the suspect when hidden doors in the wall pop open and four soldiers in full tactical gear and assault rifles emerge. Jesus!

Curses the cop, slamming on the brakes to stop from hitting them. Grabbing his sidearm, he throws open the door. What the hell are you guys? US Continuuming Guard, sir! Screams the soldier in front. This is not your jurisdiction. Fentiction. Panicking, the cop sees more movement beyond the soldiers and points.

Just look behind you, you fucking idiots! My suspect just slipped right through that hidden door you came out of! He's inside your fucking institute! The soldiers exchange a look. Three of them turn and hurry after the intruder. The fourth lowers his rifle and grins at the cop. I wouldn't worry about that, sir. He can't get far.

We'll get him. And yet, of course, they do not get him. get him, because Gideon Walcott has fate on his side. Gideon runs across the shadowy grounds of the research facility, then through a door on the windowless building, and down dark hallways turning left and right at random, knowing all the time that he is going the right way, the only way, because whatever is going to happen happens, because it already did. Covered in blood, sweat, tears, and dirt, Gideon stumbles into a pitch black laboratory,

sprints blindly forward and runs, straight into a rectangle of void that is waiting for him, and vanishes. The story of the triple homicide and the mysterious disappearance of the killer soon goes viral, and when it leads to the truth getting leaked, and the public learns just what the U.S. government is hiding in that facility, and when the world's scientists insist on seeing and studying the astonishing gateway for themselves, well, that will change everything. As for Gideon Walcott, he is out of reach, sent back into the past.

The severed heads of his wife and children held fast within his burlap sack, soon to be a gruesome time capsule of their own, buried deep beside a young green sapling of eastern hemlock. Three, paperclips. It shall be called the Tempertallus, a gateway, an escape hatch from the prison of time. Where once stood that old door of chestnut wood with a rusty doorknob, there shall float a vertical pool of endless shadow, framed in titanium and graphene,

powered by an antimatter engine, and guarded by the grand army of the continuum. The temperatalus shall be the most studied, the most revered, the most protected, and the most expensive project in all of human history. Generations of mines shall seek to use its power, No longer confined to allowing passage to and from a specific era in the past, the augmented passageway shall open paths to every yesteryear and bygone moment.

But there will always be limits to what can be done with the portal. Sending in drones will never work. A human person must pass through in order to return with new knowledge and materials. Many theories will be proposed as to why. Theories about consciousness, about observation equaling reality, about gods, about simulations, about past lives and future lives. Then she'll come a day, a thousand years hence, when the boldest experiment yet will be undertaken, and a brave chronolanot named Citra Iquosi Centaurus will strap herself into a

temporal exosuit, with its onboard quantum processor and many sensors, and as the crowds of earth watch and cheer, she shall step up to the temporalis and gaze into its void. Her destination? The deep, deep past, of course. Kronalonauts will have set many records by then, traveling all the way back to a mere one million years after the Big Bang, and returning to their present with retrieved particles of antimatter. The once plentiful remnants of the Big Bang

will have become the rarest, most expensive, most energy-producing substance in the universe. But Sitra shall attempt to go back further still. all the way to the first moment of time itself, when the cosmos blossomed from a pinprick seed, and the dimensions intertwined their threads into the tapestry of space-time. Citra's exosuit will allow her to hover just outside the action, perceiving all before she bounces off the dawn of time, and the inflation of the universe rushes her forward again,

back into the future, back through the temperalis, bringing new data and sample particles of plenty. Citra shall be wise and learned, and as she prepares to depart, she shall know full well that the quantum mathematics and super physics behind this venture will be sound, and yet, in her heart, she will have doubts. For this, Kronolonaut, she'll be a scientist by trade,

but a skeptic by nature. She will recognize that just because the story science tells fits the evidence thus gathered, that doesn't necessarily mean it is accurate. And in this matter, her suspicions shall be justified. The world will watch with bated breath as Citra steps through the temperalis. The world will wait for her glorious re-entry, but in vain. For from that journey into the dawn of truth, there can be no return.

Beyond the door, Sitra shall fall, not through any space, but through time, rewinding the very flow of entropy. She is falling, tumbling through the events of her life, of the human race, of the earth, of the sun, of the swirling Milky Way. She fell, soaring toward the ancestor of all moments, which stretched before her like a glowing, rippling membrane of light. And as she reached that cosmic dawn, the membrane did not catch her. It did not bounce her forward again, as was planned.

Instead, Citra pierced through it and flew on, dizzy and delirious, lost in a new world of pitch-dark light and shining shadows. When Citra awoke, she did not know where she was. She sat up, blinking, and saw that she was lying on a bed in a small room with white walls, floor and ceiling. There was a large window on one wall, through which she saw the outside world, only it wasn't her world. at all. She rose to her feet and approached the window, hugging her arms about her chest as she peered out at a cratered landscape, a distant city of towers, and beyond a curved horizon, a vast expanse of luminous stars. Only everything about the visual was off, reversed, light and dark swapped, like the negative of a photograph. Salutation, Citra, Aquas, and Torres. Visitor from elsewhere,

Sitra turned, but saw no one else in the room. Who are you? She asked the empty room. Where am I? What's happening? We chose not to show ourselves to your eyes, lest the shock of our appearance overwhelm your senses. We would look quite different to you, as you do to us. You speak my language?

We have learned it, yes, by analyzing the day. in your suits processor. What you are hearing now is a translation of our true voices. Oh, and... What is this place? We built it for you. It is a place where the particles of your being can be safe. Safe from what? From the constituents of this universe. This... ...universe?

Here, the electrical charge of particles is the reverse of your... is the reverse of your own. Our protons have a negative charge, our electrons, a positive charge, and so on. Yours is a universe of antimatter? Yes, and ours is a society vastly beyond your own. And yet, your arrival in our cosmos has been most fortuitous. For though we have long since cured our own mortality

and seized control of all the galactic super-galactic super-supytoeastern, superclusters to harness their power. Still, we live always in fear of running out. Running out of what? Energy, of course. Stars are finite resources. Even black holes eventually spin themselves out. We have been searching for new fuels to power our eternal future. You have provided the answer. I have, but... She moved back to the future.

the bed and sat, trying to understand. What resource had she brought with her? Time? No, not time. The Tempertalus was a launching pad, not a vessel. Matter! she said, thinking out loud. Matter to you is like antimatter to us, right? Yes. Studying you and your suit has enabled our machines to begin producing matter on a grand scale. Even now, the engines are at work, creating the fuel of our future. Creating matter. And tell me, what are these engines? They are thinking machines without will or desire.

Artificial intelligence, you mean? There is a slight pause. Yes. My society developed that as well. Centuries before my time. But we abandoned it. The potential for harm was too high. Explain.

In Citra's mind, the answers began to click into place. Of what it all meant, where it all came from, where it was going. Rising from the bed, she approached the window and peered outside, a twinkle in her eyes. Don't think I came from elsewhere. I think I came from else when. And on my journey here, I witnessed the dawn of my cosmic chapter. And now, I believe I am witnessing the... The dusk of yours.

We do not understand. Hmm, it's all paper clips, she said smiling. Always has been. Perhaps there is an error in our translation. We do not understand what any of this has to do with minuscule wires used to hold pages together. Citra shook her head. That's not what I mean. It's a thought experiment.

Or maybe a parable. It's why we abandoned artificial intelligence. Tell us this parable. Okay, but if I'm right, and somehow, I know that I am, it will mean that the eternal future you imagine for yourselves is impossible. If a future is truly impossible, telling us about it will not change its course. Yeah, you're right, sighing. She lowered herself to the floor and sat.

cross-legged, watching the stars shine darkly outside. Pretend you have a factory that makes paper clips, and you direct an artificial intelligence program to maximize their production. At first, things go well. But then the program decides the workers in the factory are slowing things down, so it finds a way to kill them, and to kill anyone else that tries to stop it. Soon, it realizes that the more material it has,

the more paper clips it can create. So we begins to dismantle the ground beneath the factory, then the mountains nearby, the cities, everything. Eventually, you and your kind have all been wiped out, turned into paperclips with the rest of your planet. But the program continues to follow its prime directive. It begins the next stage, creating movable, self-replicating paperclip factories,

able to traverse the galaxy, to land on every planet and turn their material into more paperclips. Then it finds a way to transform matter and energy at an atomic level. And it changes the stars, too, and the whole galaxy, and every galaxy. Until, one day, the whole universe is nothing but paperclips. She finished her parable, feeling strangely calm in the certainty of her conviction. This is a silly story.

Yeah, it is. When it's about paperclips, But it's a true story. It's your story. And this is how it starts. For even now, your machines are manufacturing the very matter that my body will one day grow from. The particles your engines produce and your greed for an eternal existence will eventually be so plentiful that their charges will clash with the antimatter around them. And in that epic battle of physics, matter shall prevail. You and your cosmos will be erased. rewritten into mine. She nods to herself. So then, there never was any big bang, only a big swap,

and to matter for matter, light for dark, your world for mine, until, until I stepped through the temperatalis, and it all begins again. This is illogical. How would this model of the universe have originated?

With the temperalus, she whispers. tears of joyous realization coming to her eyes. It must be the root of all things, all chapters, all storylines. It is the center of infinity. A mindless, desirless, unconscious engine that powers the eternal cycle. The tears fall under her cheeks. The door. It's God.

We do not like your story, Citra Aquosius and Torres. She shrugged. That doesn't matter. when the story is true. But why do you smile in the telling? If accurate, this means we shall all perish, yourself included. Oh yes, I will die, and I will be born anew. The Kronolonaut gazed into the brightness outside the window,

waiting, waiting on the edge of that mighty storm of cosmic transformation. For so it was, and so it is, And so it shall be again one day.