Not on my front door.
Uncle Shom smiled, and for the first time, I saw fear behind his bourbon-colored eyes. Uncle Shom Part 1
But the pocket watch remained. I picked it up. The hands were still moving—forward this time. And on the inside of the lid, where there had once been an engraving of a compass rose, there was now a new inscription: “Gone to fix the past. Be back before you grow up. — Shom” That was thirty-seven years ago. I’m forty-seven now. Uncle Shom never returned. My father claimed the whole thing was a stress-induced hallucination. My mother refused to discuss the “spare room.” But the pocket watch is in my desk drawer as I write this. And every now and then, usually at 2:47 AM, I hear a faint knocking. Not on my front door
Because time might just look back. End of Part 1 I picked it up
Three days later, a dusty, taxicab-yellow Checker Marathon pulled into our gravel driveway. The driver, wide-eyed and trembling, practically threw a suitcase onto the lawn and sped away. Out stepped Uncle Shom.
“Well, boy,” he said, kneeling to my eye level. “Do you believe in things that cannot be explained?”