Somewhere in Time by Richard Matheson

Godamighty.
    Again, good luck. The first coin and stamp shop I went to had a twenty-dollar gold certificate in good condition. It cost me sixty dollars but I felt extremely fortunate to find it. The man in the shop knew of an available twenty-dollar gold certificate that had never been circulated and I was tempted to buy it until he told me it would cost about six hundred dollars.
    It's a pretty-looking note with a portrait of President Garfield on its front, a colorful red seal, and the words Twenty Dollars / in / Gold Coin / repayable to the bearer on demand. On its back is a bright orange picture of an eagle holding arrows in its talons.
    For insurance, I also bought a ten-dollar silver certificate in reasonable condition (cost forty-five dollars) with a portrait of Thomas A. Hendricks on its front, whoever he may have been. Both it and the twenty-dollar note are considerably larger in size than bills of today and will, of course, be considerably larger in value to me. So I should be in good condition, moneywise.
    Moneywise. Yuck. How un-Victorian.
    I suppose I should have spent more time looking for money-especially since whatever I leave behind will be worthless to me-but I was anxious to get back to the hotel and begin. Time is running out.
    I had a good idea as I was driving back. There's no need to wear the headphones. I'll listen to the phonograph as I sit on the bed in my 1890s outfit, writing my instructions, and waiting for the journey to begin.
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    Ten oh two a.m. Ready to go.
    So anxious to get started that I parked the car behind the hotel to save time. Now I've showered and shaved, combed my hair. I presume the length of it will be appropriate; nothing I can do about it if it isn't.
    I've cut the labels from the frock coat, waistcoat, shirt, and tie. Two reasons. One; I wouldn't want anyone to see them in 1896; impossible to explain. More importantly, I don't want to see them myself. Once there, I intend to thrust all memories of 1971 from my mind. I've even scraped away the printing inside the boots; as little a thing as that might undo everything. No socks, no underwear; too contemporary in appearance.
    All set then. Nothing of the present left to go with me; nothing noticeable, I mean. I'll write my instructions beside me on the bed instead of on my lap as before. I'm sure I'll drop the pencil when it happens. No headphones to impede me. I'm prepared for instant change.
    Except in my brain, of course. That I'll have to deal with when I get there.
    Of course! I'll continue writing instructions when I'm there! Reinforcing my position in 1896. Removing myself mentally from 1971 until-I can foresee it clearly-I will forget where I came from and be exclusively, body and soul, a resident of 1896. I'll get rid of the clothes and-
    Good God! I almost overlooked my wristwatch!
    That shook me. I'd better wait until the impression of the band wears off. I'm putting it in the drawer of the bedside table so I won't see it. I've put the telephone under the bed, put the lamp from the bedside table in the closet, removed the bedspread so all I'll see on the edges of vision will be white sheet.
    For consistency's sake I'm going to stay with November 19th in my instructions. The logic of it has an extra satisfaction now because today really is the 19th of November.
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    Let's see now. Is there anything I've overlooked? Anything at all?
    I don't think so.
    I'll turn on the music.
    Last look around. I'm leaving this.
    Today.
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    Eleven fourteen a.m. Again!
    The same thing-longer this time. Not just a flicker; more than just an instant between eye blinks. This lasted. Probably only seconds-maybe five or six-yet, under the circumstances, it was as meaningful to me as if it had been centuries.
    The process is under way.
    It happened on the third playing of the adagio. I was writing the instruction: I am in this room on November 19, 1896. I was in the middle of the thirty-seventh transcription of it