I walk in and the old bell above the door chimes like it has thousands of times before, never tiring of a friendly face. Rows upon rows of treasures line the walls and the familiar scent of the shopkeeper’s coffee winds itself through the shelves. I find my home here, within the leather-bound books that swell with stories, within each and every memento that lines miles and miles of chestnut shelves. The comfort of a simple object and the tales it can tell is worth more to me than any jewel in the world. This well trodden path, littered with uncountable footprints just like mine is all too familiar to me. My mind lays back and begins to dance as it spins through years, centuries, of tales that speak love and melancholy, loss and greatness. Then, eyes. Tourmaline-coloured, stark in the midst of the familiar. I reach out with a start towards eyes that hold centuries of longing just like mine, that plead to be SEEN.

Chestnut shelves line the walls for miles and the well trodden path beneath my feet is as familiar as it’s ever been, but the shelves do not hold the porcelain trinkets and leather-bound books they once did. Rows of glass bottles filled with teeth and locks of hair in various shades of gold are scattered on every surface. Curtains in rich shades of violet hang from the high ceilings, obscuring any chance of sunlight. A desk, plain and unassuming at first glance, sits idle in the middle of the room. The scent of coffee is gone, and in its place comes pungent formaldehyde. The familiar has opened the door to the uncanny.

Footsteps, one by one, softly, softly. Dressed in black he makes his way over to the desk with a freshly fallen fawn in his arms, its legs draped over him. The only feature I can discern is its eyes. Black. Childlike and wounded, the creature is down on the desk as he carefully, methodically, reaches for something - a glint of silver from where I’m watching, petrified. As the object comes into focus it reveals itself as a carefully crafted scalpel, designed for this purpose and this purpose alone. This terrible purpose. The fawn cries out as a spray of crimson washes over the walls, and a startled cry escapes my mouth. He stops, if only for a moment. Then he turns. Eyes, black, that hold centuries of longing just like mine. As the scalpel pierces my flesh, I’m pleading with him. But he assures me; memories should be preserved, enjoyed, collected and SEEN.

Each antique brings back memories. The store is so old, it’s part of my childhood. “Pick one, any one” the man behind the desk said. I ran my hands against the brown, worn tables and eyed the vases and china. But one antique was special. It was a clock, older than the store itself. I heard a faint “tick, tock”. I felt the sides and suddenly, the store started to change. The items looked newer, and the walls were clean. I looked at the clock. People were lugging boxes into the store. A young man grinned and said “Welcome.”

It was a rainy day at Watch Hill, Rhode Island. So, with nothing else to do I wandered around the antique store. Filled with old curiosities, I did have to laugh to myself the amount of money people were willing to spend on, well, junk.

I happened to glance at a old lobster cracker. It was quite lovely, and looked welled used. It wasn’t destroyed, but you could tell that it had seen many a claw. I had just switched from being vegetarian to pescatarian, so I pickled it up for a closer look.

I felt a sudden dizziness, and saw bright lights all around me. I came to on the beach, quite a bit a ways from the store, the cracker still in my hand. What the hell had happened? And why were all these mansions here? Yes, that eye-sore of the Ocean House was a blight on the land, but there were more now!

Ugh, I needed a drink. The town was dry, but I had some booze in my Nalgene,back in my pack in the car. Wait, where is my car? Where is the parking lot? Why is everyone dressed like that, and starting at me?

Okay, deep breathes. Something odd is going on here. Everyone looked like they were dressed for the 30s, and here I was in shorts and a tank top, clutching a lobster cracker. I looked down at the cracker, and it was shiny and new. Just lovely. Out of all the lobster crackers in all of New England, I had to grab the time-traveling one. Wasn’t that just my luck?

Okay, so I am in the past. But when? I decided not to talk to the people, time-line purity partially, but also I had a feeling if I called more attention to myself I could be locked up for indecency. I needed a newspaper.

And look at that! A newspaper boy, selling his wares. Just have to sneak up to him, and glance at the date. September 20th, 1938. Oh shit.

The Hurricane of ‘38 would hit tomorrow. This town would be devastated. I started to walk fast, inland, knowing there was little safe ground.

Curse you, Lobster Gods. I should have stayed with tofu.

I reach for Meinkampf and begin to finger the pages cautiously. I’ve heard and read so much about Adolf Hitler. An unbelievable unifying leader but also an absolute butcher of the worst kind. A man with the ultimate plan. A man who would allow nothing to stand in the way of his world domination. He had ideas and ambitions rarely matched in the world since his rein.

Now what do our leaders aim for? Donald Trump wants to isolate the USA and make them ‘great’ again? I’m pretty sure they are better now than they were in the 50s and 60s. Boris Johnson doesn’t even seem to have a coherent plan.

Before I know it I’m in Hitlers house and I’m listening to his mother talk at him. There is no father around, just a mother struggling with young Adolf and his 3 brothers and sisters. He looks withdrawn and contemplative. He doesn’t socialise with his family but just sits there writing and planning furiously on his ripped sheets of paper. Is this where all that anger and hatred stems from? Does everything in our childhood determine who we become? Are we just following a pre-determined path that was laid by our parents in our formative years? Is anyone really evil or are they just reacting to their circumstances?

Suddenly we are in 1938 and the Kaiser is convincing British prime minister Neville Chamberlain that he has no ambitions to conquer other countries. Chamberlain stupidly defaults to truth and believes Hitler. A handshake sealed the deal for the gullible PM. We all know what happened next and many things can be learned from mistakes of our past and that’s where I am right now as I return the book and stroll slowly out of the antiques shop and forwards towards my own children and hopefully their untainted futures.