Category: Fiction Factor

“Dang it!”

Paulie Priest walked the same path through the woods every morning, sat on the same green wooden bench, and he was always able to get a Wi-Fi signal on his laptop.

Not today, though.

Instead of several options popping up under the “Select a Wireless Network” window, there was nothing – not even “JumpinJackFlash68,” which had become his go-to connection.

Paulie was painfully shy, incredibly smart, and much more comfortable alone than with others. His morning walks were something of a refuge; he loved the sights and smells of the forest, but he also relished the sounds of “nerd time.”

That’s what he called his daily ritual, which featured the flora, fauna and funga appetizer followed by the main course –

plopping down and listening to podcasts such as “Robotics Rebellion” and “Humanoid Aliens: A Theory.”

If he could somehow survive middle school and high school, he wanted to go to Georgia Tech’s School of Electrical and Computer Engineering. He would never dare tell anyone, of course, but he was confident he could make history there.

Last year during the annual science fair at Fillmore Middle School, the seventh grader took the grand prize with a homemade robotic vacuum cleaner. Designed to look like the spacecraft of his favorite show, “Wandering Star Command,” the gadget scurried across the floor of the auditorium, picking up debris and wowing the judges with its efficiency.

It was one of many inventions he had stored away at the small house he shared with his mom. Because when he wasn’t walking and listening to podcasts, Paulie loved tinkering in the garage and building whatever he could think of with whatever he could find.

Many of the components he used were left behind by his dad, a computer technician who drove off to his job in Atlanta several years earlier but never bothered to come back.

Instead of holding on to a bitter memory though, all Paulie wanted to do right now was listen to the live broadcast of “Robotics Rebellion.” Without a signal, that wasn’t going to happen.

So, he did what people always do when the Wi-Fi isn’t working: he rebooted.

Moments later his laptop came back to life and he found one network option called “Distress Call 2374.”

“Well,” he said, “there’s no lock and the signal looks strong, so hello, ‘Distress Call 2374.’”

With a simple keystroke, he was in.

However, all the icons on his screen disappeared and were replaced by what looked like hundreds of neon yellow dots moving randomly – and rapidly – over a bright orange background.

The dots ultimately settled into a pattern, one that formed the fuzzy outline of what appeared to be a woman sitting at some sort of control panel.

“This is Captain Luna Bertrand of Exploration Vessel Marquee … do you read me?”

Paulie blinked several times to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing – and hearing what he was hearing.

“I read you … fine,” he said. “You’re really blurry, though.”

The screen pulsated with white light briefly before clearly displaying Bertrand, a green-eyed redhead clad in a blue military-style uniform.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “Am I clear now? I can see you fine.”

Paulie gazed at Bertrand and all the high-tech equipment in the background. The production values of the broadcast were excellent.

“So, what gives?” he asked. “Is this some kind of viral marketing thing? If this has to do with a ‘Wandering Star Command’ spin-off, I’m all in. Your bridge doesn’t look like their bridge, though.”

Bertrand tapped her side of the screen and a schematic popped up in the lower left corner.

“Look at this and tell me if it’s yours,” she said.

Paulie immediately recognized it as the blueprint for his robotic vacuum cleaner.

“Well … yeah,” he said, slightly puzzled. “That was my science project. But how did you get it? How do you even know about it?”

Bertrand answered by punching a button transforming Paulie’s computer screen into a hologram that displayed both the vacuum cleaner and the spacecraft.

“We’re facing a bit of a time issue here, so I’m giving you the condensed version,” Bertrand said. “To you, it’s May 8, 2024. But I’m from the year 2374 and communicating with you through a rift – a very, very tenuous rift. In the 350 years between your time and mine, the earth has endured two world wars and three plagues. But five years ago, in 2369, there was a cyber attack that resulted in an information wipe.

“Explaining the particulars would take far too long, but let me just say we’re dangerously close to using an abacus to figure out math problems. Now, I don’t really expect you to believe any of this, but I’d appreciate it if you’d humor me.”

Paulie was certainly skeptical, but the fact that his standard laptop was now a device capable of 3D imaging got his attention.

If it was a hoax, it was a brilliant one.

“OK,” he said. “Just for fun, I’ll play along. What do you need from me?”

Betrand placed the image of Exploration Vessel Marquee over that of Paulie’s vacuum.

“According to the bits and pieces of historical records we salvaged after the wipe, the class of starships used 200 years ago are based on your science project,” she explained. “Comparatively speaking to what we fly now, they’re easy to build, cost-effective, durable, and ideal for transporting passengers. Problem is, we haven’t been very successful reverse-engineering them. I need you to compare the schematics and give me some idea of what we need to do to replicate the Priest-Class vessels. I’m confident we can figure out a way – with your help.”

Paulie smiled.

“This is funny,” he said. “Normally somebody’s idea of a joke ends up with me stuffed in a locker so … thanks for naming spaceships after me.”

Bertrand shook her head.

“Please, Dr. Priest,” Bertrand said. “If we’re going to successfully evacuate Earth before the planet dies, we could use your expertise. Now, look at how our engine room is constructed in relation to the motor on your device …”

There was no quiet way to reach the cabin near Moonbeam Creek.

Dead leaves covered the makeshift path leading to it, so each step added a loud, crunching noise to the typical sounds of the woodlands. Of course, with windchimes hanging from the ceiling of the old, rickety porch, the resident of the cabin was surely used to plenty of noise.

Moonbean Creek – or at least the forest that it split – was thought to be the home of the “Moonbean Monster,” a tall, ape-like creature that had allegedly roamed these woods for decades.

Like the Yeti or Bigfoot, it was often seen only in shadows or quick glimpses; there was never any positive proof it existed, and no bones or bodies had ever been found. But tall tales? It had spawned its share.

What made the Moonbeam Monster different from the other creatures, though, is that amateur “monster hunters” Lexie Thornton and Dex Schneider had proof. They had long been fascinated by the folklore surrounding mythical beings, and a year or so earlier had taken a special interest in the Moonbean Monster.

The creek was a popular spot for anglers, and Lexie and Dex had spent hours upon hours talking with several of them – most all claiming they had had some kind of encounter with it.

Calling it a “monster,” however, didn’t square with what they heard from those who had experienced such close contact. Other than being startling in its hirsute form, the Moonbeam Monster seemed peaceful enough. It would often be spied grabbing elderberries or pawpaws, then quickly disappearing into the wild.

The pair of sleuths decided to place cameras on trees throughout the area, and even employed drones on occasion to cover more ground.

Over 12 months they had collected plenty of photos and videos, but the most compelling was a grainy, night vision clip that saw the Moonbean Monster walk up to the cabin, step on the porch, open the door, and then lean down and walk inside.

As they approached the domicile, they didn’t know who – or what – to expect after they knocked on the door.

“Hi, I’m Lexie Thornton and this is my partner, Dex Schneider,” Lexie said. “We were hoping you’d give us a few minutes of your time.”

The heavyset man who opened the door appeared to be in his late 60s or early 70s, his thinning white hair combed straight back and his flannel shirt bulging just above the beltline of baggy, faded blue jeans.

“I ain’t religious, I don’t need no magazines and I ain’t registered to vote,” he said. “Whatever y’all are sellin’, I ain’t interested.”

As he started to close the door, Dex piped up.

“Please, sir,” he said. “We’re not trying to sell you anything. We just want to talk to you about the Moonbean Monster.”

The man smiled, swung the door open and made a sweeping motion with his hand, gesturing the two to come in.

The inside of the cabin was spartan; a single bed, table with four chairs, and small kitchen area with a wood-burning stove.

There were no paintings and no “homey touches” of any kind.

“Pull up a chair,” said the man.

“May I ask your name?” Lexie said.

“Sure,” said the man. “But I ain’t telling ‘cause it don’t matter. You said you wanted to know about Moonie; nothin’ about me is interesting.”

He pulled a chair away from the table and situated it near the fireplace.

“I’m guessing y’all are the ones that put them cameras up everywhere and fly them little contraptions through here,” he said. “Why did you go and do something like that? Moonie ain’t botherin’ you – or nobody else. Never has.”

Dex produced a tablet, made a couple of quick swipes, and showed the man a photo of the monster entering his house.

“Sir, the Moonbean Monster – or Moonie as you call him –  has been in your house,” he said. “Were you here when it happened?”

The man chuckled.

“Moonie has been comin’ and goin’ from here for as long as I’ve been here,” he said. “And I’ve been here since before you two was even born. Look here.”

The man walked over to a box near his sink and produced a handful of pawpaws.

“Moonie likes these a lot,” he said. “I always keep some on hand for when he visits.”

Lexie pulled a small recording device from her pocket.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

“I don’t care,” the man said. “But you ain’t gonna be here long and I ain’t got much to say other than Moonie lives in these parts just like I live in these parts … just like deer and turkeys and whatever else you can find in these woods live here.

“If you think I’m gonna do anything to put him in danger, well, that ain’t gonna happen. When people come sniffin’ around looking for somethin’ everybody thinks is different, it usually don’t end real well for the thing that’s different.”

Before Dex or Lexie could say anything, the man walked to the door and opened it.

“Moonie ain’t no monster,” he said. “He just wants to be left alone. Now y’all need to leave. Anybody else comes sniffin’ around, I’ll just tell ‘em y’all are pullin’ a hoax.”

Lexie and Dex got up, smiled politely, and walked out onto the porch. The man could hear them talking, and then listened as they crunched their way toward the creek.

It would be nightfall in a couple of hours … once again giving him the opportunity to venture out into the woods.

He could already tell a cool evening was in store, perfect for a fox – or maybe a hound dog or racoon.

Moonie was his natural form, but with all the unwanted attention it was time to give that shape a rest for a while – at least long enough for the monster hunters to lose interest, take down their cameras and move on to some other venture.

Once the sun sank and he saw the creekside clear of humans, he took off his clothes, opened the door, and darted out into the night.

The old woman slowly raised the spoon to her lips, took a long, noisy sip of soup, then lowered the spoon to the bowl, clinking the tip twice on the rim. She repeated the process several more times, occasionally pausing to take a bite of the cornbread muffin resting on a small plate beside the bowl.

“Excuse me, mam,” said the young man. “My friend and I noticed you were eating alone, and wondered if you might like some company.”

She looked up at the smiling fellow, who was quickly joined by a slightly older gentleman. Although she had seen the pair sitting at a nearby table, she hadn’t paid them much mind.

“Why, that would be lovely,” she said. “It might be nice to have someone to talk to.”

The men, both wearing dark windbreakers and blue jeans, pulled up chairs and introduced themselves as Jerry and Mike.

“Jerry and I have been coming to this diner for quite a while now,” Mike said. “I don’t think we’ve seen you in here before.”

She smiled.

“Oh, I don’t get out too much,” she said. “And I feel a bit guilty coming here to eat when I have plenty of food at home. I live alone and sometimes I guess I just want to see people – besides the people I see on the TV. They’re like my companions now.

“My name’s Hazel, by the way.”

Hazel – with toffee skin and  shock of white hair – was a small, thin woman, adorned in a modest amber housedress and nursing shoes. What caught the attention of Jerry and Mike, however, were her gold earbobs and a huge diamond ring on her left hand.

The men asked what kind of soup Hazel was eating, flagged down a waiter, and ordered the same. Following some lighthearted chitchat, Mike’s tone turned serious.

“I’ve got to tell you Miss Hazel,” Mike said. “Those earrings and that big rock on your hand really make you stand out – and not in such a good way. I’ll let you in on a little secret … Jerry and I are private detectives, and there have been a lot of senior citizen robberies in this neighborhood the last few weeks. Some got kinda violent and ladies like yourself got hurt.”

Hazel’s eyes widened.

“My goodness,” she said. “You had me fooled … I figured private detectives would be wearing suits like you see on those police shows. My jewelry is about the only things I own that have any real value. I don’t spend much money these days, I’ve just tried to save most of it since my husband died a while back.

“In fact, I keep it in an old cardboard box in my bedroom closet at home. Last I checked I had nearly $13,000 in there, mostly 100 and 50-dollar bills. Don’t really trust banks, not with the way the world is.”

Mike and Jerry darted their eyes at each other.

“I’m afraid you’re the perfect target for people like that … bad people who prey on senior citizens. I tell you what, when we’re done here, why don’t we give you a ride home? We can offer you some safety tips to make sure you don’t become a victim.”

Hazel leaned over, grabbed her purse and placed it on the table. She reached inside and retrieved a bulging, red-checkered napkin.

“You boys are being so kind,” she said. “When I go out, I always make sure to carry some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies with me. I want you to have them.”

The men each took a cookie and gobbled it down.

“These are delicious, Miss Hazel!” Mike said. “Jerry, why don’t you pull the car around while I pay the check. We’ll meet you out front.”

Hazel shook her head.

“No, no …. It’s my treat,” she said. “I’ll pay.”

Once outside, Mike escorted Hazel to a grimy white van with an engine that sounded as though it was in dire need of a tune-up.

“It’s not much to look at, Miss Hazel,” Mike said. “But when you work undercover like Jerry and me, you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”

Hazel chuckled.

“At least you have a vehicle,” she said. “If I go anywhere, I have to take the bus … or walk. I just live around the corner, though, so it’ll be a short drive.”

The trio arrived at her garden home in less than a minute, pulling up in the gravel driveway and shutting off the engine.

After Mike helped Hazel out of the van, he put his left arm around her and stuck a gun in her ribs with his right hand.

“Don’t say a word, lady, and you won’t get hurt,” said Jerry, who had bolted from the drivers’ seat and was shielding Hazel and his partner from the view of anyone standing on the street. “Just be really quiet and take us inside. Give us what we want and we’ll be gone in a flash. And you can start with that ring.”

Hazel, to her credit, didn’t seem frightened. In fact, she had a gleam in her eye when she took off her ring and bobs and placed them in Jerry’s hand. After reaching the front door she took out a key, opened it, and walked into the den with Mike and Jerry so close behind they seemed like dual shadows.

Standing in the middle of the room were 11 other women, all around Hazel’s age, and all wearing bright orange robes.

The men froze – and that isn’t a figure of speech.

Once they stepped foot in the house, they were immobile, able to hear but not move and see but not speak.

Hazel closed the door behind them.

“Ladies,” she said. “This is Mike and Jerry, and they were going to rob me. They’ve been on quite a crime spree lately. Of course, now that they’ve eaten our delicious cursed cookies, they aren’t going to do much of anything ever again.”

Hazel plopped down in a chair, cracked her knuckles and sighed.

“I know it’s not demon-hunting like we used to do back in the day,” she said. “But it’s still a good service – and one the whole coven should be proud of.

“Now, who wants to help me carry these boys to the backyard and heat up the cauldron?”