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This podcast may not be for all 
listeners. 

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Listener discretion is advised. 
On a sweltering August afternoon

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in 1901, two English academics 
stepped into what can only be 

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described as a terror in time. 
What happened to Charlotte 

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Moberly and Eleanor Jordan at 
the Palace of Versailles would 

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haunt them for the rest of their
lives and challenge everything 

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we think we know about the 
fabric of reality. 

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The past isn't as far away as 
you think. 

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Come with me into the shadows of
history where these two women 

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stumbled into what might be the 
most credible time slip ever 

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recorded. 
What they witnessed in the 

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gardens of Versailles would 
haunt them until their dying 

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days. 
Join me while I venture into 

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their unexplained realms of time
travel. 

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Charlotte Anne Moberly was born 
in Winchester, England on 

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September 16th, 1846. 
Born into the shadows of 

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Victorian propriety, Charlotte 
emerged from a world where 

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daughters of clergy were meant 
to be seen and not heard. 

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The 10th of 15 children born to 
George and Marianne Moberly, she

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grew up in the looming presence 
of the Winchester Cathedral, 

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where her father served as 
headmaster of Winchester College

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before ascending to become a 
Bishop of Salisbury. 

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The weight of religious 
expectations pressed down on the

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young Charlotte's shoulders like
a winter coat. 

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While her brothers received 
formal education, she and her 

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sisters were taught primarily at
home, a common fate for girls of

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their era. 
But Charlotte harbored A fierce 

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intellect that refused to be 
caged by convention. 

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She devoured books in her 
father's extensive library, 

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often reading by candlelight 
long after the rest of the 

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household surrendered to sleep. 
These early years shaped her 

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with an iron hand. 
The endless succession of 

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siblings meant she often felt 
lost in the crowd, a ghost child

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drifting through the corridors 
of their home. 

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Yet this very invisibility 
became her strength, allowing 

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her to observe, to think, to 
form the sharp mind that would 

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later lead her to become the 
first principal of Saint Hugh's 

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College in Oxford. 
But even as she rose to academic

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heights, those childhood years 
in the cathedral shadow never 

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released their grip. 
Perhaps they explained her later

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fascination with the 
supernatural. 

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After all, she had spent her 
formative years in a place where

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the line between past and 
present, sacred and profane, was

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always treacherously thin. 
Born into Victorian shadows in 

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1863, Eleanor Jordan emerged as 
the eldest of 10 children 

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destined to bear the weight of 
expectations that came with 

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being first. 
The suffocating propriety of the

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era shaped her early years, as 
she navigated a world that 

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barely tolerated educated women.
In 1883 she dared to matriculate

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at Lady Margaret Hall in Oxford,
a time when women were still 

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viewed as intellectual 
curiosities rather than 

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scholars. 
The crushing pressure to prove 

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herself culminated in 1886, when
she became one of the first 

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women in modern history at 
Oxford to be examined like a 

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specimen under glass. 
She endured the unprecedented 

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scrutiny of being the first 
woman to undergo a Viva voce 

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examination. 
Her subsequent years were spent 

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in the stifling confines of 
various teaching positions. 

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She was a woman trying to carve 
out space in the suffocating 

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male dominion of academia. 
Fate has a peculiar way of 

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weaving dark threads together. 
In 19 ON Charlotte, Moberly was 

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the first principal of Saint 
Hugh's College and sought a vice

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principal. 
This would bring Eleanor 

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Georgene directly to Charlotte. 
Eleanor was a figure who would 

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become both her closest 
confidant and fellow witness to 

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something that defied 
explanation. 

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Their first meeting carried all 
the polite formality of 

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Victorian academia, but beneath 
the surface lurked in instant 

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recognition, a sense that each 
had found in the other. 

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A kindred spirit who understood 
what it meant to exist slightly 

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out of step with the ordinary 
world. 

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With her penetrating dark eyes 
and reputation for scholarly 

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brilliance, Eleanor Jordain 
matched Charlotte's intensity. 

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Both women had fought through a 
male dominated academic 

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landscape, carrying battle scars
that most couldn't comprehend. 

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Little did either suspect their 
professional partnership would 

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lead them to the impossible. 
That fateful August afternoon at

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Versailles still lie ahead, 
waiting like a spider in its 

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web. 
Their shared experience there 

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would bind them together in a 
way that transcended mere 

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collegiate collaboration, 
forcing them to defend their 

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sanity against the world. 
Eager to dismiss them as 

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hysterical women, It seems that 
the universe had brought them 

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together for a purpose far 
stranger than running a woman's 

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college. 
Their meeting wasn't just the 

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beginning of a professional 
relationship, it was the first 

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step into a mystery that would 
consume them both until their 

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dying days. 
These two educated women decided

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to visit the Palace of 
Versailles on a perfectly 

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ordinary summer day. 
They had no reason to expect 

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anything unusual that day. 
They were simply tourists 

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looking to admire the grandeur 
of French history. 

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But history had other plans. 
As they wandered the grounds, 

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admiring its beauty, something 
shifted. 

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The two women realized they were
lost in the woods. 

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The air grew heavy and 
oppressive. 

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Both women would later describe 
an inexplicable sensation that 

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washed over them, as if the 
world had suddenly become 

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muffled and Gray. 
They found themselves in what 

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appeared to be a different 
version of Versailles, not the 

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tourist attraction of 1901, but 
something older, much older. 

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They encountered people in the 
18th century, clothing but not 

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costumes or reenactments. 
These figures moved with an 

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unsettling authenticity. 
Paying no attention to the two 

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women, a man directed them down 
a path. 

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They passed a woman in the 
gardens dressed in a light 

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colored skirt, white fichu and 
straw hat, the fashion of Marie 

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Antoinette's era. 
Later, they would become 

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convinced it was Marie 
Antoinette sitting near the 

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Petit Traynon. 
Their innocent afternoon stroll 

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through Versailles turned into 
something far more unsettling. 

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They crossed what seemed like an
ordinary bridge, a modest wooden

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structure spanning A burbling 
stream. 

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They passed a quaint circle 
building with its pillars and a 

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low wall, and then wandered 
through gardens hemmed in by 

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towering trees. 
When Charlotte and Eleanor 

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compared notes later, they 
realized something chilling. 

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They had experienced the same 
inexplicable events, but with 

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subtle, terrifying differences. 
What one saw clearly, the other 

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only saw partially. 
It was as if they had each 

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caught different glimpses 
through the same crack in time, 

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a crack that shouldn't exist. 
While their observations 

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differed, both remembered one 
item, a plow. 

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The women learned that Louis the
16th kept a plow at the Petit 

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Trianon, which was sold during 
the French Revolution. 

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The two women would go on to 
write a book about their 

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experience, published under 
pseudonyms entitled An 

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Adventure, but the publication 
would bring them nothing but 

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ridicule and professional 
skepticism. 

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The academic world wasn't ready 
to accept that the two of its 

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own had wandered into August 
10th, 1792. 

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When Charlotte returned in 19 O2
to the exact location, desperate

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to retrace their steps, she 
found nothing. 

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The bridge had vanished, the 
pavilion gone without a trace. 

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Even the wooded area where she 
had walked had seemingly been 

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swallowed by time itself. 
But here's where it gets truly 

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spine tingling. 
When they unearthed A yellowed 

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map from 1783, there they were. 
Every single landmark exactly 

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where the women had encountered 
them. 

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Somehow, they had walked through
a Versailles that hadn't existed

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for over a century. 
That cold day in 19 O2, the 

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woods of Versailles held another
secret for Charlotte. 

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Lost among the bare winter 
trees. 

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Once again, she caught something
in the wind, the ghostly echoes 

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of distant music. 
Light and repetitive, the melody

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drifted through the frozen air 
like a musical phantom that 

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refused to fade. 
Haunted by the mysterious tune, 

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she carefully transcribed 12 
bars from memory. 

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But when she shared these notes 
with a music expert in 1907, his

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revelation sent shills down her 
spine. 

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The composition was no modern 
piece. 

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It belonged to the 1780s and its
style unmistakably anchored to 

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that distant era. 
Even more disturbing were the 

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conversations with the 
Versailles caretakers. 

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Their firm declarations deepen 
the mystery. 

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No bands were permitted in the 
park during winter's cold grip. 

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And even if they were the 
designated performance area live

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far beyond the earshot of the 
Petitreanon, the music Moberly 

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heard that day should have been 
impossible. 

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It somehow crossed the barrier 
of Time itself. 

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Those ancient melodies had found
her. 

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The proof came seven years 
later, buried in the yellowed 

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pages of Time. 
In 1908, Moberly and Jordan's 

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hands trembled as they turned 
the brittle pages of Madame 

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Ilove's journal. 
This wasn't any dressmaker's 

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journal. 
These were the private records 

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of Marie Antoinette's personal 
seamstress. 

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And therein, faded ink lie 
validation of their impossible 

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encounter details matched with 
chilling precision. 

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The summer of 1789, as 
revolutions simmered in the 

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streets of Paris, Madame Elauf 
had created just a handful of 

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garments for the doomed queen. 2
green silk bodices, large white 

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fee shoes draped carefully over 
her shoulders, and a skirt with 

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the faintest tinge of yellow. 
Charlotte's blood ran cold. 

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The outfit matched thread for 
thread for the spectral figure 

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they glimpsed in 1901. 
MO, really. 

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And Jordan never wavered from 
their story. 

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They went to their graves, 
insisting on the truth of what 

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they'd witnessed that August 
afternoon. 

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Some say they stumbled upon a 
residual haunting, a moment in 

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time replaying itself like a 
cosmic record stuck in a groove.

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Others suggest they experienced 
a time slip, a momentary overlap

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between then and now. 
The more scientifically minded 

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proposed mass hysteria or false 
memory. 

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But I I think we may have to 
leave this one in the 

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unexplained realms. 
So I must ask you, dear 

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listeners, what if time isn't 
the rigid forward March we 

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assume it to be? 
What if it's more like a piece 

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of fabric, and sometimes that 
fabric develops wrinkles or 

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folds? 
Places like where yesterday and 

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today brush against each other 
like silk on silk. 

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I wonder if the Versailles sits 
on a temporal thin spot, 

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essentially a place or a moment 
where the physical and spiritual

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realms are thin. 
Though in my discussions with my

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exploratory friends, my show 
ambassadors, quick shout out to 

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them. 
You 2 are my muses, gifted to me

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by the universe. 
Namaste, my friends. 

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Anyway, we chatted not long ago 
about time travel simply being 

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remote viewing. 
It's always been kind of my 

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belief you have to let us know 
what you think. 

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But as you drift off to sleep 
tonight, consider this one of 

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time isn't a river flowing in 
One Direction, but an ocean with

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the depths we've barely begun to
fathom. 

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Until next time, I'll leave you 
with a quote from Charlotte 

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Moberly's writing. 
Some doors, once opened, can 

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never truly be closed.