Category: Fiction Factor

Like many sports fans, Buzz Chance has his game day superstitions.

Any time the Baltimore Express hits the basketball court – and Buzz isn’t at Mobtown Arena to cheer them on live – his den served as his own personal luxury suite.

The well-worn yellow Camelback sofa is situated six feet away from the wall-mounted television, and above the TV is a faded red, black and silver Express pennant.

The square side table to the right of the couch features a big bowl full of chips and a smaller one overflowing with mixed nuts. And ice cold beer is just an arms-length away, thanks to the old, battered blue cooler parked on the floor.

But the good luck charm is his dad, who occupies the threadbare easy chair nestled in the corner of the room.

Watching the Express together is a longstanding tradition, one that began when Buzz was just a child. He still remembers snuggling next to his father in the Buick Riviera and taking their 15-mile journey to Mobtown Arena back in 1972. Although their seats were of the “nosebleed” variety, that was just a minor detail.

For the first time, Buzz was getting to see his beloved basketball team up close and in person.

He could still remember wolfing down two hot dogs and what seemed like a washtub-sized vat of popcorn as the Express made quick work of the Austin Jammers.

Buzz recalled the final score being Baltimore 113, Austin 104, but his dad never could seem to settle on the final.

“That first game was a fun one, wasn’t it?” his father would say when reminiscing about the outing. “I think Baltimore won 115 to 100, or something like that.”

“It was 113-104, dad,” Buzz would reply. “Like they say, you never forget your first time. I remember you buying me that pennant and me having a stomach ache from all that popcorn I ate. And I’ll always remember that score.

“Are you sure? Because I really thought it was 120-112, or something like that.”

The subject would come up several different times over the years, and Buzz’s dad always remembered the final tally differently. Only during the dawn of the internet age did Buzz finally convince his father – sort of.

“Look here,” Buzz said, clacking away at the clunky home computer after the noisy dual-up connection was complete. “This has all the Express information dating back to the first year of the franchise in 1968. See … Express 113, Jammers 104, November 17, 1972.”

His dad ambled over to the “computer machine,” raised his eyeglasses and leaned in.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Well, I guess you’re right. But I coulda sworn it was 118-110 … or something like that.”

More than 50 years later, the Express and Jammers were back at it, this time in Game 4 of the Continental Division playoffs.

Growing up, Buzz always perched on the couch and his dad plopped in his easy chair when the two watched games together. The tradition took a break when Buzz went to college and in the early days of his marriage, but ultimately it continued when his father moved in with Buzz and his wife back in 2020.

His dad was too feeble to actually go to games by then, but he still enjoyed following the Express on television.

And on this night, Buzz guzzled beer, shoveled in snacks, cussed a little and cheered a lot as the Express hung on for a 107-99 road win, evening the series at two games apiece.

Once the game ended, he turned off the TV, walked over to the easy chair and carefully lifted up the urn with his father’s remains. Once placed back in its usual spot on the mantle of the fireplace, Buzz smiled.

“Thanks for helping pull ‘em through against the Jammers again, Pop,” he said. “Still wasn’t as good as that time you took me to my first game, though. Remember? Baltimore 113, Austin 104 … or something like that.”

The eighth graders gathered around the flagpole at Alan Shepard Elementary School were in a festive mood. Not only was the 1975 academic year down to its last day – meaning it was all play and no work for students and teachers alike – but each of them had a chance to leave a lasting mark.

Jenny Franks, who taught history, had decided to let the Class of ’75 live on in the form of a time capsule.

Just outside the concrete base of the flagpole was a hole dug by some members of the football team, and Franks and her fellow teachers had gathered up sturdy metal containers to place items in. Each student was asked to bring something that represented themselves and their interests, and it would be put in a box and buried. A plaque would mark the spot.

Fifty years later – on May 14, 2025 – the hope was that the school would still be in operation and the time capsule uncovered.

“OK, kids, gather round,” Franks said, motioning the future high schoolers to come forward. “What we’re doing today is giving up a small part of our past so the people in the future will know a little bit about our lives here in 1975. I know 50 years seems really far off, and it is a half a century from now. But guess what? I hope all of you will be able to come back and take part in the unveiling. By then a lot of you will be close to retiring, and you can bring your kids and grandkids here to see what you contributed to our time capsule project.”

The students carefully eyed the various containers. Danny Childs, who was practically standing in the hole, raised his hand.

“Miss Franks, may I go first?”

“Sure Danny, what’ve you got for us?”

Danny produced an eight-track tape of Bob Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks.”

“Normally I would keep this, but it drags,” Danny said. “And since I’ve already got the album, I decided to put this in the time capsule. I doubt anyone will even know who he is 50 years from now.”

Phil Priester was next, offering up a white plastic cup sporting a purple and gold Minnesota Vikings logo.

“My uncle brought me a bunch of these because he went to the Super Bowl earlier this year in New Orleans,” he said. “The Vikings lost to Pittsburgh, but they’ll have a lot of Super Bowl wins by 2025.”

The types of artifacts varied greatly from child to child, from the novel “Tuck Everlasting” to comic books, as well as oddities like pool balls. There was even a pewter belt buckle in the shape of the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile gifted to posterity.

However, it was the donations of best friends (and science whizzes) Charlotte Spazio and Astrid Weltraum that intrigued Franks the most. The two had been inseparable ever since Astrid transferred to the school back in September, 1974.

Charlotte was parting with the February, 1975, edition of “Popular Science” magazine, while Astrid handed over a manilla folder – taped closed – with the words “For Charlotte. Do not open until May 14, 2025” written on the front.

“Why this particular edition of the magazine, Charlotte?” Franks asked.

“There’s an article about the HTGR … the High-Temperature Gas-Cooled Reactor,” she replied. “They say it’s a safer alternative to nuclear power as it currently exists. As you know, I want to be a scientist, and I hope to be able to look back 50 years from now and see how far we’ve come … what advancements we’ve made.”

Franks nodded and smiled, and then turned her attention to Astrid.

“OK, Astrid, I’ve got to ask, what’s in the envelope? I mean, this is a pretty specific item to be putting into a time capsule.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Miss Franks,” Astrid said, waving to Charlotte as her friend wandered away to talk to some other students.

“Try me.”

“Are you sure? Because after I tell you, you’re never going to think of me the same way again. Well, not for another half century, anyway.”

Franks couldn’t imagine what the 13-year-old was about to reveal, but now she had to know.

“I promise,” Franks said. “No matter what you tell me, I’ll believe you.”

Astrid pursed her lips and thought for a couple of seconds.

“Well, we’re about to make the jump anyway, so here goes. My family and I are interdimensional beings, which allows us to travel through space and time in ways humans can’t grasp. But part of our work is to find ways to help you help yourselves whenever possible. Charlotte is a genius. And 50 years from now, she’s going to be one of the most well-known scientists on the planet. When she opens my envelope, she’ll see instructions on how to construct a time machine – an actual, working time machine. No one else could understand those instructions, but she will, and she’ll immediately get busy making it operational. Of course, she’ll change the course of your history in the process.”

Franks stood in stunned silence. She had no idea how to respond to Astrid, who seemed completely sincere.

“Don’t worry,” Astrid said. “You’ll live to see it. And like millions of other people across the world, you’ll be glad you did. Believe me when I tell you you’ll want to get out of 2025 as fast as you possibly can.”

Packy Northrup was used to being ridiculed.

Once he opened the McNairy County Cryptozoology Center in the storefront of an abandoned video rental store in Selmer, Tennessee, he became a prime target of derision.

Long a student of legendary creatures and their origins, this awkward, self-described “doofus” saw his passion for “monsters” became a career – thanks in no small part to his Nashville family’s old money. Soon, he was able to set up a research facility near the state park, and even hire a couple of assistants.

But the MCCC rarely made it through a week without being vandalized. In fact, when he drove up to the building on the following day of its not-so-grand opening, a prankster had painted “Bigfoot Was Here” across the door.

However, things had taken a more serious turn – and tone – in recent months.

While people once laughed at him and his team for chasing everything from chupacabras to giant vampire bats (a late night search for the latter ended in disappointment when the “bat” was merely a black kite caught in a tree), the “Tennessee Wildman” had become the talk of the nation.

The creature, often compared to a Sasquatch, had supposedly been around since Native Americans nurtured the land. Descriptions almost always had it standing more than seven feet tall and covered in wiry, gray hair. Its red eyes glowed in the dark, and the beast would unleash a bloodcurdling scream when closing in on its prey.

Superhuman speed and strength made it the alpha of all alphas, and from time to time residents would claim to spot “TW,” as they called him, streaking through the woods.

But teams of cryptozoologists from across the country had come to Tennessee to search for the Wildman over the last year, and none of them had returned.

The first crew, which ventured down from Indiana, featured five members equipped with the latest in “cryptid hunting technology.”

When they fell off the radar, police and rescue teams went searching. They found their equipment and campsite largely undisturbed and authorities concluded they must have drowned.

Later it was a six-person team from Texas. They went into the state park on a Monday and disappeared with no signs of bodies or bones.

There were researchers from California, Missouri, Kentucky … teams continued to enter but never exit.

In all, there were 32 cryptozoologists who had ventured into the woods to find evidence of the Wildman, and all had vanished.

It had reached the point where police and park personnel had to at least consider the possibility that TW might actually exist, adding a tragic and frightening twist to the area’s folklore.

Bobby Senta and Cindy Kim, Packy’s assistants, clocked in at the MCCC early on a Friday morning and saw Packy arranging camping equipment.

“What’s up, boss?” Bobby asked, plopping down in a rolling chair behind his gray metal desk.

“I’m going in,” Packy said, carefully laying a tranquilizer gun on the floor. “The Tennessee Wildman is real, and I’m gonna find him. And I’m gonna find the people who went after him, too. There are no tattered clothes, no blood trail, nothing. I think they’re still out there.”

Sally crossed her arms and snorted.

“Dude, they’re gone,” she said. “And you’ll be gone, too. And then all of a sudden me and Bobby are out of a job because our boss has been eaten by Temu Yeti. You really need to leave this alone, Packy. I mean, we didn’t sign up for this. We thought it’d be a fun gig, chasing shadows and all that shit, but I sure as hell don’t want to tangle with a real monster.

“I’m not asking either of you to go with me,” Packy said curtly, placing tranquilizer darts in the green duffle bag on his desk. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove this wasn’t a joke, and if I have to lose my life to prove it, so be it.”

Both Bobby and Sally were taken aback by Packy’s solemn determination, and neither said a word as he stormed out the door to load up his Jeep Wrangler.

Packy drove in silence for the next 45 minutes, a journey that took him to one of the primitive campground spots inside the park. With all the missing cryptozoologists and the panic among the members of the community, he doubted he’d encounter any other humans.

And truth be told, he was scared; since not one member of any of the research teams had made it out this could, indeed, be a suicide mission.

But what if he could somehow engage the creature, just long enough to get documentation? It would be like pulling Nessie out of Loch Ness or, holding a press conference near the Klamath River in Northern California – one that featured a real Bigfoot, and not a man wearing a gorilla suit.

As he wandered deeper into the woods and daylight began to fade, he decided to set up camp. He anchored his pop-up tent, proceeded to build a fire, and simultaneously hoped and dreaded that the light might draw out TW.

An hour passed – then two – but Packy remained on high alert as the sun disappeared. Suddenly, he heard a rustling sound in the woods. He jumped to his feet and clumsily reached for his tranquilizer gun, aiming at nothing and everything.

His heart was pounding as he spied a figure moving toward him through the brush. Instead of a tall, hairy Tennessee Wildman, though, it was a short young man wearing what appeared to be tan coveralls.

“You can put that down, buddy,” the man said. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Nobody is.”

As the unexpected visitor moved closer Packy thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t quite place him.

“My name’s Aiden Jones,” the man said. “I’m from the Lubbock Cryptid Society. Why don’t you follow me – and you don’t need that weapon.”

Packy realized Jones was one of the missing crew from Texas, and he was both shocked and relieved to see him alive. He reluctantly put down the gun and followed Jones, who walked to a cypress tree, placed his right hand on its trunk and pressed as though he was pushing a button.

Approximately 10 feet from the tree, a portal that resembled a glowing sinkhole opened in the ground.

Jones walked to its edge, looked back at Packy and smiled.

“Wanna take a leap of faith?” he asked, extending his left hand.

Packy crept closer to the portal, gripped Jones’ hand, and before he could form another thought, found himself standing in a lush forest covered by clear blue skies.

As he looked around, he saw researchers going about their business – as well as several creatures who fit the description of the Tennessee Wildman. They were all mingling. One of the TWs was pointing to a tree and gesturing with its long, hairy arms as three people looked on with great interest.

“Not what you expected, huh?” Jones said. “This place is called Asthenos, and those guys we used to call the Tennessee Wildman when we were up top are natives to this interior part of earth. They don’t speak, but after a few days you’ll find you can communicate with them through a form of telepathy. It’s pretty wild.”

Instead of being traumatized by his fantastical situation, Packy felt … happy.

“It kinda seems like I’m supposed to be here,” he said.

“You are,” Jones said. “We all are. I’m guessing the police are out looking for all the researchers who came here, but they won’t find us because they won’t be invited in by the Asthosians. When they sent me out looking for you, I knew you were one of us. So many people think we’re kooks, but we’re kooks who stumbled into paradise. Everything you see on a tree is edible  and delicious. There are other creatures here – cryptids – beyond your imagination running through the woods, and soon they’ll be running up to you to get a bite of your buska berry. A buska berry, by the way, is kinda like a cross between a sweet apple and tangerine. And the Asthosians? They’re guardians. They’ll occasionally go up top to get leaves and berries for some of the special foods they prepare, but they aren’t attacking people or animals. They don’t want to harm anything or anybody.”

Jones handed Packy a buska berry and he took a big bite, chuckling as the juice rolled down his chin. He didn’t fully understand what was going on. Hell – he didn’t understand at all. Regardless, he was completely at peace. He wanted to interact with the Asthosians and learn more about them. He couldn’t wait to see the other cryptids. Mostly, he longed to explore this new world.

And while he was also curious as to how he got here – and how he could get back to the park – those were questions that could be answered another day.

Then again, maybe he already had his answer.

Why would any cryptozoologist ever want to leave?

He took another bite from his buska berry, and smiled.