Category: Fiction Factor

Keisha had already brushed her teeth, put on her pajamas and crawled into bed when her mother walked into the room.

“Are you ready for nite-nite?” asked her mom, placing her hand on the light switch.

“Could you tell me a story first?” Keisha said. “I’m not sleepy yet … at least not real sleepy.”

Her mom smiled, climbed onto the bed and snuggled close to her daughter.

“Sure, sweetheart,” she said. “Do you want me to read you one or tell you one?

Keisha answered immediately.

“Tell me one!” she said, excitedly. “Tell me Secret Holiday again. That’s my favorite.”

Her mom laughed.

“OK … here goes.”

The bell rang right at 3 p.m. on Wednesday, sending most of the kids at Pinckney Memorial Grammer School into a frenzy.

With Thanksgiving the next day and another day off scheduled for Friday, there would be a long holiday weekend for the students and teachers.

Ava heard her friends talk of the road trips they were taking – or the visitors coming into town – as well as all the baking activity leading up to the feast.

She smiled politely when they shared their excitement, although she could muster none of her own.

November was hardly a joyous time at her house, and things got even worse when the pumpkins and hay bales were replaced by lighted trees and stockings.

Her parents’ arguments often drowned out the holiday music blaring from the stereo. With all the fighting, she could never understand why they even bothered to play holiday music at all.

And if she wasn’t locked away in her room covering her ears in an effort to mute the insults being volleyed between her mom and dad, she was nervously sitting through a silence that made a cold home seem even colder.

She clearly remembered one time when her folks didn’t speak to each other at all for more than three weeks.

She called such times “The Darkness,” and as each holiday came and went, it seemed to grow bigger and darker, practically engulfing her.

Ava was sad most of the time, it seemed, but it was the holidays that made her the saddest of all. She knew they were supposed to be happy times, but they weren’t – at least they hadn’t been for her.

Then one day, Ava had an idea. What if she created a Secret Holiday – a holiday no one knew about but her?

It could be any time she wanted it to be – and last as long as she wanted it to – but only she would know about it.

The first Secret Holiday she remembered came on a summer day when she heard her parents laughing – something she didn’t here nearly enough. She imagined the living room decorated in bright colors, and that night when she ate dinner, she pretended the baked beans and sliced bread was a festive meal only served during special, joyous times.

When she was at school and saw other kids laughing, she pretended they were celebrating their own Secret Holiday, and it made her happy inside.

In fact, she figured that anytime a person was laughing, smiling – or sometimes just sitting on a bench with nothing but a book and a pleasant expression – they were celebrating something.

And she decided to celebrate with them.

They didn’t know it, of course, but they were part of her Secret Holiday, and those were the times that were the absolute best of times.

Weeks turned into months and months turned into years, and Ava grew up.

She got a job, worked her way through school, fell in love, got married and started a family.

Turns out, there were more Secret Holidays than she could keep up with.

The day she brought a kitten home from the shelter was a Secret Holiday.

The time she carried her neighbors’ groceries into his house was a Secret Holiday.

Best of all, the sad months she had experienced as a child – November and December – didn’t seem so sad anymore because they were always full of Secret Holidays.

Oh, there were bad times, to be sure … that’s part of living. But the greatest thing of all about Secret Holidays is that they’re secret – and that means “The Darkness” can never find them.

Keisha had already fallen asleep by the time her mom reached the end of the story. She eased off the bed, tiptoed toward the door, and turned out the light.

It marked the end of another wonderful Secret Holiday.

The spotlight locked in on the 14^th floor of the glass and steel skyscraper in Rickman Plaza, with the police cars below creating their own flashing, red and blue light show.

Professor Purloin – rocking a magenta fedora, lime green tactical suit and small black mask – had expected some of the men and women of law enforcement to make the first move in an effort to stop his latest crime wave. On this night he was looking down on the crowd while standing behind three bound and gagged hostages with a high-tech laser weapon.

Once the police had been foiled, he’d then be forced to deal with either Spectacular Man or Frau the Fearless – or maybe both.

It was a dance he’d done many times, and one that made the Intrepid City High Security Prison his home away from home. In any moment, he figured he’d be greeted by a hostage negotiator who’d make a futile attempt at convincing him to surrender.

But when the door to the office he had commandeered opened, there was no sign of an arbiter.

Instead, it was an older gentleman adorned in a beige newsboy cap, baby blue polyester jogging suit, shiny white support sneakers and orange sunglasses.

Professor Purloin raised his weapon and took aim.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

The man cupped his right ear with his right hand.

“Could you say that again? My hearing isn’t so good.”

Purloin shook his head.

“I said … who the hell are you, old man!” Purloin shouted.

“Yessir, that’s me,” he answered.

Purloin frowned.

“That’s you?”

The man smiled.

“I’m Old Man. That’s what they call me now,” he said. “You know … because I’m old. I used to call myself Pinto Man. You know why? Funny story … about 50 years ago – or it might have been 60 – no, it was closer to 50 years ago because that was the same year I got my yellow Ford Pinto and was recruited by the Integrity Alliance of America. I’ll bet you’re too young to even remember Pintos, aren’t you? I got some whitewall tires for mine and had a Keep On Truckin’ sticker on my back bumper and I thought I was something else.”

Purloin lowered his weapon and stared at Old Man.

Was this some kind of joke? Did the guy walk away from an assisted living facility and get lost?

“Listen, Old Man,” he said. “I’ve never heard of you. I have no idea what you’re talking about, and you obviously have no idea who I am – or who you’re dealing with. I’ve fought all your superheroes – and none of them have been able to keep me locked up. Now what you need to do is just walk on out of here, go watch a Matlock rerun and then you don’t have to get hurt. I’ll just sit tight until the big guns arrive.”

Old Man laughed.

“Oh, I love Matlock,” he said. “I’ll bet you don’t know this, but Don Knotts made 17 appearances on Matlock. It was always good to see him and Andy Griffith together. Of course, it wasn’t as funny as when they were on The Andy Griffith Show. And if you ask me, that show was never the same after Barney left. Barney Fife was who Don Knotts played, by the way. And Andy Griffith played Andy Taylor.

“I guess because he was the star – Andy, I mean – he got to use his first name in the show. It’s probably best that Don Knotts didn’t use his. Don Fife isn’t as funny as Barney Fife. This is something though … I went to grammar school with a guy named Barney Knotts, and …”

Purloin unleashed a long groan.

“Holy crap, will you just shut the hell up!” he screamed. “You’re boring me to death, Old Man. I mean, I’m starting to get sleepy just listening to you drone on and on and on about … about … about …”

Purloin was overcome with a wave of confusion and dizziness, and felt the feeling start to drain from his arms. Suddenly he had the urge to simply close his eyes and go to sleep.

He dropped to his knees and the weapon fell from his hands, which seemed to involuntarily open.

Moments later he lay on the floor frozen – unable to speak – yet fully aware of everything going on around him. It was as though he was in a state of suspended animation.

Old Man briskly walked over to the hostages, untied them, and told them to take the nearest elevator down to the first floor where police and paramedics would be waiting for them.

He walked toward Professor Purloin and eased down on one knee.

“I don’t imagine you remember me,” he said. “I’ve been following you around for weeks – ever since you escaped from prison. Found out where you bought supplies, where you were holed up – pretty much knew your every move. About 10 days ago, I bugged your hideaway.

“And last week I was that old fellow who bumped into you on the street. I also injected you with a slow-acting paralytic. If you think back, you might recall feeling a little stick. It’s my own recipe … I have an IQ of 297 and a knack for designing chemicals. Intelligence is my superpower.”

Old Man slowly rose, cracked his back, and walked toward the window.

“You know how I caught you so easily?” he said. “Because you overlooked me. People like you always overlook people like me – older people. It’s like we don’t exist … we’re practically invisible. And because of that, it allows me to play up all the cliches and lull you into a false sense of security.

“I was ‘boring’ you on purpose because I needed a little more time for the paralytic to kick in. But I’ll tell you the truth … I do enjoy Matlock. And I get to watch it a lot because I just do this superhero stuff part-time.”

The police captain and several officers arrived in short order, cuffing Professor Purloin, dragging him to his feet, and taking him away.

“Good job, Old Man,” the captain said, patting him on the shoulder. “I gotta tell you, though … I was getting a little worried that you might not show up on time. You cut things pretty close.”

Old Man grinned.

“I got here as quickly as I could,” he said. “I had to eat first so I could take my pills.”

With run-of-the-mill haunted houses and standard Halloween parties anywhere and everywhere, Jack Fancher and Jean Dobbler were looking for something different. So, how could they pass up something called “Sam Haynes’ Self Storage Facility of Horror?”

Their walk from the Allantide City Center, where revelers were coming and going from parties, took them to several side streets. And it was a homemade sign staked by the side of the road that pointed to an out-of-the-ordinary establishment.

The self-storage part was self-explanatory; it was, indeed, a row of several units with rollup doors.

As for the horror, well, muffled screaming and pounding on the inside of the steel doors created a cacophony that was more irritating than frightening. And instead of a shadowy figure ready to greet unsuspecting victims, the host for the evening was none other than the rather dodgy-looking Sam Haynes himself.

Bespectacled, wheezing – a lit cigarette dangled from his lips – and topped by a horrendously-bad combover, Sam motioned Jack and Jean to come closer.

“Evening,” Sam said, taking a drag from his Lucky Strike. “Are you two ready for the most horrifying experience of your lifetimes?”

The couple chuckled.

“We were just looking for something new,” Jean said. “We love the name of the place … but we were hoping you could tell us a little bit about what to expect first. Also, how much are you charging for admission?”

Sam thought for a second.

“You know, I really don’t have a set price … it mostly depends on my mood,” he said. “How about this; I’ll take five dollars a head and if you don’t think the Sam Haynes’ Self Storage Facility of Horror experience is the most frightening of your lives, I’ll double your money back.

“Now, you can’t beat a deal like that anywhere.”

Jack nodded in approval.

“Hell, yeah, my man,” he said. “But Jean and me – we’ve basically seen it all, so I’m pretty sure we’ll be leaving here with 20 bucks between us.”

Sam turned and began walking toward the units.

“Follow me,” he said. “We’re going to No. 7 down here.”

The banging on the closed units continued, along with more screams and wails. Jack and Jean assumed there were some pop scares courtesy of Self Storage Facility of Horror cast members, although they had no idea how such theatrics could be done convincingly in something that was basically a small garage.

When they reached the front of the unit and looked inside, there was only a table, two chairs, two pencils, two sheets of paper, a loudspeaker attached to the wall and what appeared to be a drop box.

“OK,” Sam said. “You two step inside and I’ll close up. Then we’ll get this party started.”

Jean balked.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Is this some kind of condo sign-up thing? I don’t see anything in there that’s scary – unless, of course, it is some kind of condo sign-up thing. We’re not interested in anything like that.”

Sam unleashed a loud, chunky cough, then unceremoniously spat dangerously close to Jack’s shoe.

“Up to you,” he said. “I can give you your money back now or – if your boyfriend here is right – you can leave with twice what you gave me. I ain’t gonna push you into doing something you don’t wanna do, though.”

Jack looked at Jean and shrugged.

“Come on Jean,” Jack said. “Even if it is some dumb gimmick, we’ll still come out ahead.”

The two walked in the stuffy unit, and Sam then stepped back to pull down the door.

“Just go in, sit down and in about a minute you’ll get instructions from the loudspeaker,” he said. “But give me your cellphones first; they can set off some pyrotechnics prematurely and we sure don’t want that, do we?”

Sam took the phones and then slammed down the door.

Jack and Jean, meanwhile, made their way to the table and pulled out the chairs. They glanced at two pencils, fully sharpened, and two blank sheets of paper, glaring under the tube lighting on the ceiling.

Moments later, the loudspeaker crackled.

“Can you guys hear me?” Sam asked.

“Yes, we can,” Jean said. “So, are we supposed to be scared of sharp pencils and paper?”

The speaker crackled again.

“Well, yeah, kinda,” Sam said. “Have either of you ever heard of something called the Riemann hypothesis?”

There was no response, so Sam assumed they had not.

“According to Wikipedia it says here that the Riemann hypothesis is – and I’m quoting – the conjecture that the Riemann zeta function has its zeros only at the negative even integers and complex numbers with real part 12.”

If this was a joke, Jack wasn’t laughing.

“This is ridiculous, man,” Jack said. “You brought us in here to do math? Just open up and give us 20 dollars.”

There was a short pause before Sam replied.

“No, see, I can’t do that,” he said. “Not unless you can solve the Riemann hypothesis. If you can, you need to put your answer in the drop box. If you can’t, then I guess this is your tomb.”

Jack banged the table.

“Enough!” he shouted. “Let us out, or I’m gonna kick your old ass.”

Sam cackled.

“Son, nobody’s every solved that math problem,” he said. “And that means nobody has ever gotten out of Sam Haynes’ Self Storage Facility of Horror … at least not alive. You can yell and bang and scream all you want – all my other victims have – but everybody screams and makes noise on Halloween an nobody thinks anything of it. Help ain’t coming, and you’ll be out of air in a couple of hours.”

Jack and Jean continued yelling and banging against the wall, draining their energy while increasing their feelings of hopelessness.

“Happy Halloween,” Sam whispered through the speaker. “Did I promise the most horrifying experience of your lifetimes, or what?”