Time Travel (possible or not?)

In this world everything is possible means each and every .         then in our mind comes a question is time travel possible?         is there anyway to travel in past or future? Does any body         did it? a lots of question raise in our mind related time          travel. 

so guys let me tell you that there are lots of story over time travel , they might 
be true. 

scientist believes that this is possible & they are working over it. 

But here is story about a man who claims that he did time travel. 
  
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                             The Third level ( time travel )

Other say there are two only two but,
I say there are three, because I’ve been
on the third level of the Grand Central
Station. Yes, I’ve taken the obvious step:
I talked to a psychiatrist friend of mine,
among others. I told him about the third
level at Grand Central Station, and he said it was a waking-
dream wish fulfillment. He said I was unhappy. That made
my wife kind of mad, but he explained that he meant the
modern world is full of insecurity, fear, war, worry and all
the rest of it, and that I just want to escape. Well, who
doesn’t? Everybody I know wants to escape, but they don’t
wander down into any third level at Grand Central Station.
But that’s the reason, he said, and my friends all
agreed. Everything points to it, they claimed. My stamp
collecting, for example; that’s a ‘temporary refuge from
reality.’ Well, maybe, but my grandfather didn’t need any
refuge from reality; things were pretty nice and peaceful
in his day, from all I hear, and he started my collection.
It’s a nice collection too, blocks of four of practically every
U.S. issue, first-day covers, and so on. President Roosevelt
collected stamps too, you know.
Anyway, here’s what happened
at Grand Central. One night last
summer I worked late at the
office. I was in a hurry to get
uptown to my apartment
so I decided to take the
subway from Grand
Central because
it’s faster than
the bus.
Now, I don’t
know why this
should have
happened to
me. I’m just an
ordinary guy
named Charley,
thirty-one years
old, and I was wearing a tan gabardine suit and a straw
hat with a fancy band; I passed a dozen men who looked
just like me. And I wasn’t trying to escape from anything; I
just wanted to get home to Louisa, my wife.
I turned into Grand Central from Vanderbilt Avenue,
and went down the steps to the first level, where you take
trains like the Twentieth Century. Then I walked down
another flight to the second level, where the suburban trains
leave from, ducked into an arched doorway heading for the
subway — and got lost. That’s easy to do. I’ve been in and
out of Grand Central hundreds of times, but I’m always
bumping into new doorways and stairs and corridors. Once
I got into a tunnel about a mile long and came out in the
lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel. Another time I came up in an
office building on Forty-sixth Street, three blocks away.
Sometimes I think Grand Central is growing like a
tree, pushing out new corridors and staircases like roots.

There’s probably a
long tunnel that
nobody knows about
feeling its way under
the city right now, on its
way to Times Square, and
maybe another to Central Park.
And maybe — because for so many
people through the years Grand
Central has been an exit, a way of
escape — maybe that’s how the
tunnel I got into... But I never told
my psychiatrist friend about that
idea.
The corridor I was in began
angling left and slanting downward and
I thought that was wrong, but I kept on
walking. All I could hear was the empty
sound of my own footsteps and I didn’t pass
a soul. Then I heard that sort of hollow roar
ahead that means open space and people
talking. The tunnel turned sharp left; I went
down a short flight of stairs and came out
on the third level at Grand Central Station.
For just a moment I thought I was back on
the second level, but I saw the room was
smaller, there were fewer ticket windows
and train gates, and the information
booth in the centre was wood and old-
looking. And the man in the booth
wore a green eyeshade and
long black sleeve
protectors. The
lights were dim
and sort of
flickering. Then
I saw why; they
were open-flame
gaslights.

There were brass spittoons on the floor, and across

the station a glint of light caught my eye; a man was pulling

a gold watch from his vest pocket. He snapped open the

cover, glanced at his watch and frowned. He wore a derby

hat, a black four-button suit with tiny lapels, and he had

a big, black, handlebar mustache. Then I looked around

and saw that everyone in the station was dressed like

eighteen-ninety-something; I never saw so many beards,

sideburns and fancy mustaches in my life. A woman walked

in through the train gate; she wore a dress with leg-of-

mutton sleeves and skirts to the top of her high-buttoned

shoes. Back of her, out on the tracks, I caught a glimpse of

a locomotive, a very small Currier & Ives locomotive with a

funnel-shaped stack. And then I knew.

To make sure, I walked

over to a newsboy and

glanced at the stack of papers

at his feet. It was The World;

and The World hasn’t been

published for years. The lead story

said something about President

Cleveland. I’ve found that front page

since, in the Public Library files, and

it was printed June 11, 1894.

I turned toward the ticket

windows knowing that here — on the third level at Grand

Central — I could buy tickets that would take Louisa and

me anywhere in the United States we wanted to go. In the

year 1894. And I wanted two tickets to Galesburg, Illinois.

Have you ever been there? It’s a wonderful town still,

with big old frame houses, huge lawns, and tremendous

trees whose branches meet overhead and roof the streets.

And in 1894, summer evenings were twice as long, and

people sat out on their lawns, the men smoking cigars and

talking quietly, the women waving palm-leaf fans, with

the fire-flies all around, in a peaceful world. To be back

there with the First World War still twenty years off, and

World War II over forty years in the future... I wanted two

tickets for that.

The clerk figured the fare — he glanced at my fancy

hatband, but he figured the fare — and I had enough for

two coach tickets, one way. But when I counted out the

money and looked up, the clerk was staring at me. He

nodded at the bills. ‘‘That ain’t money, mister,’’ he said,

‘‘and if you’re trying to skin me, you won’t get very far,’’

and he glanced at the cash drawer beside him. Of course

the money was old-style bills, half again as big as the

money we use nowadays, and different-looking. I turned

away and got out fast. There’s nothing nice about jail, even

in 1894.

And that was that. I left the same

way I came, I suppose. Next day, during

lunch hour, I drew three hundred dollars

out of the bank, nearly all we had, and

bought old-style currency (that really

worried my psychiatrist friend). You can

buy old money at almost any coin

dealer’s, but you have to pay a premium.

My three hundred dollars bought less

than two hundred in old-style bills, but I

didn’t care; eggs were thirteen cents a

dozen in 1894.

But I’ve never again found the

corridor that leads to the third level at

Grand Central Station, although I’ve tried often enough.

Louisa was pretty worried when I told her all this, and

didn’t want me to look for the third level any more, and

after a while I stopped; I went back to my stamps. But now

we’re both looking, every weekend, because now we have

proof that the third level is still there. My friend Sam Weiner

disappeared! Nobody knew where, but I sort of suspected

because Sam’s a city boy, and I used to tell him about

Galesburg — I went to school there — and he always said

he liked the sound of the place. And that’s where he is, all

right. In 1894.

Because one night, fussing with my stamp collection,

I found — Well, do you know what a first-day cover is?

When a new stamp is issued, stamp collectors buy some

and use them to mail envelopes to themselves on the very

first day of sale; and the postmark proves the date. The

envelope is called a first-day cover. They’re never opened;

you just put blank paper in the envelope.

That night, among my oldest first-day covers, I found

one that shouldn’t have been there. But there it was. It

was there because someone had mailed it to my grandfather

at his home in Galesburg; that’s what the address on the

envelope said. And it had been there since July 18, 1894

— the postmark showed that — yet I didn’t remember it at

all. The stamp was a six-cent, dull brown, with a picture

of President Garfield. Naturally, when the envelope came

to Granddad in the mail, it went right into his collection

and stayed there — till I took it out and opened it.

The paper inside wasn’t blank. It read:

The note is signed Sam.

At the stamp and coin store I go to, I found out that

Sam bought eight hundred dollars’ worth of old-style

currency. That ought to set him up in a nice little hay,

feed and grain business; he always said that’s what he

really wished he could do, and he certainly can’t go back

to his old business. Not in Galesburg, Illinois, in 1894. His

old business? Why, Sam was my psychiatrist.

⌨ This is real incident happen .... even there are lots of  such places exist which take you another side of this world in past or futur (which you call time travel) !! 

In upcoming articles we'll reveal such more stories.