The Secret Manuscript

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The car pulled up in front of Charles Gringer’s house and the two Bens exited the vehicle. They approached the front door and knocked three times.

  Being at the house was a very surreal moment for both of them. For young Ben, he had only known this house when it was his. To stand on the front porch and knock was bizarre. It was perhaps even more bizarre for the older Ben since he had not seen the house in over forty years. The last time was when he was standing in young Ben’s shoes, literally.

  After a few moments, young Ben set eyes on Charles Gringer for the first time. The resemblance to his future self was uncanny.

  “Can I help you?” Mr. Gringer asked.

  “Hi Charles, my name is Ben Owen and I’m from the future. May we come in?”

  “I don’t know what you two are selling, but I’m not interested.”

  Young Ben chimed in, “Please, if you allow us just a few minutes of your time, we will make you a very rich man.”

  “Go away, I’m not interested,” Gringer said as he attempted to slam the door. Future Ben stuck his foot out and prevented the door from closing. Mr. Gringer looked worried.

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Mr. Gringer said.

  “That’s great, now get in the damn house,” future Ben said as he held a small caliber pistol about waist high. Mr. Gringer took notice of the gun and had no choice but to comply. Young Ben had no idea why future Ben had a gun, but he went along with it on blind faith.

  “Mr. Gringer, we’re not here to hurt you. May we please come inside and talk?”

  With great reluctance, Mr. Gringer stepped aside and allowed the two Bens to enter. When they walked in, they both looked around. It was a lot different from when they lived there. Mr. Gringer had a lifetime of personal effects collecting dust all over the house. He led them into the living room where they could sit. On their way inside, young Ben demanded the gun from his future self. The older Ben handed over his weapon and smiled.

  “Mr. Gringer, to prove we’re not here to hurt you, I’m going to give you my gun,” young Ben said as he handed Mr. Gringer the gun. Mr. Gringer took it and aimed it at both of them.

  “What’s to say I don’t shoot y’all right where you stand? I’d be perfectly within my right to do so.”

  “Mr. Gringer, please don’t insult my intelligence,” young Ben said. “Do really think I’m dumb enough to give you a loaded weapon? You have a gun with no bullets, and I have bullets with no gun. The point is we’re not here to hurt you. So would you please have a seat and listen to what we have to say?”

  Mr. Gringer begrudgingly took a seat, but held onto the gun for comfort.

  “I know this may sound hard for you to believe,” Ben continued, “but we are both from the future. I am from a year into the future, and this version of me is from forty years into the future.”

  “Prove it,” Mr. Gringer said.

  Young Ben took a small knife from his pocket and held out his arm. Older Ben held out the same arm. Ben then sliced his skin, drawing a small line of blood on his arm and causing a small scar to form on his older body.

  Charles Gringer looked like he had seen a ghost. He wanted to freak out, but remained calm. He was from a much simple time, when things made sense. Science and technological advancement were far beyond his level of comprehension. He knew what his eyes saw, but a part of him still thought it was a trick, refusing to completely give into the possibility that two time-travellers were in his presence.

  “Okay?” Ben said, asking Mr. Gringer if he was ready to proceed.

  Charles Gringer just nodded his head without saying a word.

  “What we are about to tell you is very important. We need you to do something for us.” Ben took out his wallet and handed Gringer a small piece of paper.”

  “What’s this?” Mr. Gringer asked as he unfolded the paper.

  “That, sir, is yesterday’s winning lottery ticket; it’s worth twenty-two million dollars.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?” he asked.

  “We need you to cash the ticket for us. If you do that, we’ll give you ten million dollars.”

  “What’s the catch?” Mr. Gringer asked.

  “You’re a smart man, Mr. Gringer. Of course, people don’t just show up at a person’s front door offering ten million dollars without wanting something in return.”

  “Go on,” Charles mumbled.

  “You’re right, there is a small catch,” the older Ben said. Since he had been through this once before, he decided to take over. “First, we need you to cash the ticket. Take your ten million and do whatever you like with it. Then, you’re then going to wire transfer some money to a lady named Velena Scott — I’ll give you the details later. Finally, you are going to transfer the rest into an account of man named Benjamin Owen Gringer.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “That’s us, we’re your grandsons.”