Category: Fiction Factor

The ballroom of the Capital Roadside Inn filled up quickly as the line of people moved steadily across the marbled burgundy carpet, each securing one of the black, stackable banquet chairs lined up from wall to wall and filling the rows from front to back.

Seating capacity was listed at 140 but there were at least 20 more than that – enough to make a fire marshal nervous had he been present.

And who knows? He might well have been; it’s not often you’re given a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill to listen to a presentation that – according to the advertisements sent out via social media – would last no more than 20 minutes, guaranteed.

“Find your seats, everyone … please, find your seats,” said the host of the event, Booker DelRay.

Tall and sinewy, DelRay was a scientist by trade, although his silver onesie, bright red eyeglasses and high-top fade made him look more like a Met Gala fashionista than a researcher in the Physics Department at Howard University.

“OK, we’ve got some men and women in the aisles who are gonna hand you what looks like a watch, and I’m gonna explain to you that it’s much more than that.”

The item in question did, indeed, look very much like a watch; it was dark blue and circular with red digital numbers in the center and smaller yellow numbers below them. Once in their hands, those in the audience gave them the once over before turning their attention back to the speaker.

“What you guys are holding is called the Time Traveler 3023,” DelRay said, walking toward the gathering. “It’s a timepiece in the truest sense because it allows you travel through time.”

As expected, that last line drew laughter, and DelRay managed a big smile himself. “Don’t believe me?” he asked before pointing at a woman in the front row. “Hi … hi, there … would you stand up please? I promise I’m not going to embarrass you.”

A twentysomething brunette wearing blue jeans, flip-flops and a Donald Duck T-shirt slowly rose to her feet.

“Look at your Time Traveler 3023 and read off the numbers for me, if you don’t mind,” he said.

She centered the device in her left palm and observed it briefly.

“The red ones say 7:07 and the yellow ones say 0,” she said with a grin.

“Great. Now, I want you to walk out of the ballroom and go to the front entrance of the hotel, then turn around and walk back to your seat. There’s no rush, but if you guys want to get out of here in 15 minutes, you probably need to go at a pretty good clip.”

She quickly headed for the aisle and started toward the exit, drawing all of the eyes in the room. Most of the attendees sat quietly as she made her journey, one that was swift and, apparently, uneventful.

“Thank you,” DelRay said as the young woman returned to her seat. “Now, read aloud the numbers on your TT3023.”

“The red says 7:09, the yellow says 197.”

DelRay then looked across the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, what you’ve just witnessed is time travel,” he said. “When this woman left, it was 7:07 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time. When she returned, it was 7:09. She traveled two minutes and 197 steps into the future.”

A collective groan went up from the crowd.  DelRay chuckled. “OK, that was lame, but that’s how we like to market this product,” he said. “It has no batteries, yet it’s guaranteed to keep perfect time, all the time. Plus – for all of you exercise enthusiasts – it’s an easy way for you to keep up with your steps every day.

“But we want everyone to know about the TT3023, which is why my associates are heading toward the aisles now and going to give each one of you 25 more at absolutely no cost. You made $100 here tonight, but now I want each of you to bring 25 friends – and they have to bring their 25 time pieces – to the D.C. Civic Arena one week from tonight at 7 p.m., and not a minute later.

“Once we’re assembled, each of them will get $100 and each of you will receive $2,500. We believe in this product so much we’re willing to lose money to eventually make money. Thank you all, and safe travels going home.”

DelRay briskly trotted out the side door entrance to the ballroom while members of the crowd excitedly made their way to the parking lot and, no doubt, began calling and texting their friend and acquaintances. He had previously reserved a room on the first floor, and once he reached the door, he swiped his key and went inside. 

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a TT3023, and placed it face down on the small desk situated in the corner of the room. “Status report,” he said.

Seconds later, a small hologram appeared above the timepiece, projecting the image of an Asian man who – like DelRay – was also wearing a silver onesie. “Sir, we distributed over 2,000 TT3023s here in Beijing, and we did similar numbers in Hangzhou and Chengdu,” he said. “No word yet from Russia and Great Britain, but confidence is high all the quotas have been met.”

DelRay exhaled.

“Good job, Ling,” he said. “I’ll check in with Canada and Mexico and see where we stand, there. I wish we could’ve harvested more time particles from the black hole to power these things, but we got what we got. We have only one shot to get all these people transported to 3023, and getting them all in position at the same time next week is imperative.”

DelRay rubbed his eyes, then looked at Ling.

“After the nukes start dropping, any survivors from 2023 will have to start over with sticks and stones.”

Benny Banner’s right leg was bouncing uncontrollably and his left hand rubbed his forehead so hard the doctor thought it might start to bleed.

“Benny … Benny,” said Dr. Kagan, firmly. “You’ve got to calm down and talk to me. I know it’s hard to relax, but just take a couple of deep breathes. I want to help you work through this. I can help you if you’ll just let me.”

“This” was an incident that occurred more than six months earlier, one that had turned Benny – normally a free-spirited bookstore employee – paranoid, frightened and worried that he was permanently detaching himself from reality.

He had gone to the bank shortly after it opened on a Monday morning, hoping to make a deposit and move some cash from checking to savings. As he stood in line – three people removed from his favorite cashier, Jenny – he noticed what appeared to be a shoebox in plan wrapping; it had no markings of any kind. It was resting on the leg of the long, mahogany table in the middle of the bank lobby, clearly out of place among the chained pens, deposit slips and brochures.

Something about it made him increasingly nervous, and as casual conversation went on around him, he continued to stare at the package. Finally, curiosity got the best of him and he walked over to inspect the box.

Much to his horror, he heard it ticking, with each tick seemingly growing louder than the one before.

He had no experience in policing, and his only knowledge of detective work came from watching “Law & Order” reruns. But it didn’t take a German Shephard to sniff out that what was wrapped so plainly was – quite plainly – a bomb.

The bank was crowded, as banks often are during the first of every month, and he eyed what he assumed was a mother and her young daughter, as well as an older couple, moving closer toward the table.

Situations such as these often trigger the flight or fight instinct, and Benny didn’t see an enemy to battle. Instead, in a cracking, dry-mouthed voice, he yelled, “Bomb!” grabbed the package, and raced to the front door of the building.

Once outside and clear of the door he clumsily threw it upward and in the direction of the sidewalk, and as he backpedaled the package exploded, creating a deafening noise while sending debris flying in every direction.

Benny fell down but was quickly grabbed by a security guard, who dragged him through shattered glass but ultimately pulled him inside to safety. His ears were ringing as he watched those inside the bank gingerly move toward the entrance, which was now one huge, gaping hole due to the detonation.

Although almost certainly in shock, Benny also felt, well, heroic. He spotted what he thought was a bomb, determined it was, in fact, a bomb, picked up the bomb, and disposed of the bomb in such a way that dozens of lives were saved.

Dozens saved, but one lost. And the one lost was why Benny Banner had gone through four different therapists in the six months since the incident. Now he decided to give a ghostologist – whose office was conveniently located at a strip mall between a tattoo parlor and bail bond shop – a shot.

“Dr. Kagan,” Benny began.

“Call me Sarah,” she said.

“Sarah … all the sessions I’ve been through have been pointless so far,” he said. “I’ve tried to explain to the therapists what’s going on, and all I get is the same song and dance. I’m not saying I don’t have PTSD – I’m sure I do – but I’m being haunted by the guy I killed … literally haunted. My mind’s not playing tricks on me and my eyes aren’t, either. This is very, very real, and none of them believe me. I hope you will.”

The death of the man – identified as Frank Flare – was considered a tragic accident by the police, a case of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No charges were brought against Benny; he did, after all, prevent those in the bank from dying by selflessly getting rid of the bomb. Besides, police were more concerned with finding the culprit than wasting resources looking into collateral damage, however unfortunate.

Yet, what truly shook Benny to his core was learning that the woman and child he saw near the table in the bank were Flare’s wife and daughter.

“It was four days later when I found out,” Benny said. “And the weird thing – the awful thing – is that Mrs. Flare was the one who called me to let me know.”

Dr. Kagan leaned over and looked straight at Benny.

“Could it be possible that the trauma of finding that out from her is what’s actually causing you to be haunted? Interacting with a loved one, even by phone, could’ve triggered the manifestation of a spirit,” she said.

Benny shook his head.

“No,” he said. “She told me that I shouldn’t feel bad about what happened … even went so far as to tell me he was a ‘bad husband,’ although she didn’t explain what she meant by that, and I didn’t ask. She thanked me for saving her and her kid’s life, though, and said I should concentrate on the fact that I did a good thing, not a bad thing.”

Dr. Kagan raised her brows. “Hmmm … Mrs. Flare said he was a bad husband?” she mused. “It ought to make you feel better that she gave you absolution, and on one level that should be comforting. But now I wonder if perhaps you’re dealing with a malevolent spirit.”

Benny huffed.

“Well, that’s freakin’ great,” he said. “Every night when I go to sleep – or at least the rare times I can sleep – I have the same dream. It’s like I’m standing in some sort of black pit. It’s cold and damp. And then I wake up and he’s floating above me, sort of hazy like, saying “purgation” over and over again.

Dr. Kagan scribbled the word down on her notepad and then set the pad aside. “Interesting,” she said. “I assume you  either already know what purgation means or looked it up.”

Benny nodded.

“There are a couple of theories I can offer. In the Catholic Church, it suggests having your soul cleansed in purgatory,” she explained.

“I’m not religious,” Benny snapped. “I don’t believe in gods and demons. Of course, now that I’m seeing ghosts, maybe I should. This thing, whatever it is, it scares the hell out of me.”

Dr. Kagan chuckled.

“I can imagine … but there’s also another meaning,” she said. “Purgation, in a broader sense, is about clearing your name by undergoing some sort of – I don’t know – trial, or struggle. Perhaps this spirit wants something from you. Maybe not an eye for an eye, but something. It’s my experience that actual physical encounters between the living and dead are extremely rare.”

Benny’s eyes widened. “So, you do believe me, then.” he said. “You don’t think I’m crazy.”

Dr. Kagan stood up and reached out to shake his hand.

“No, you aren’t remotely crazy and I certainly do believe you … I’m a ghostologist, after all.” she said. “And I certainly believe you believe it, which is really the most important thing. Come back tomorrow and, with your permission, I’d like to put you under hypnosis. If there is a specter haunting you, I can’t imagine it being able to resist some good, old-fashioned spell-casting.”

Benny stayed up all night, partly because he was nervous about receiving hypnosis from a doctor who would be considered a quack by most traditional mental health professionals, but also because he didn’t want to dream.

If he didn’t dream, he figured, then there was a chance he could go a day without having to listen to a dead man.

His appointment with Dr. Kagan was at 8 a.m. and he arrived at her office at 7:30, catching her just as she was getting out of her car and readying a key to open the door.

“How did you sleep?” she asked.

“I didn’t,” he said.

“Well, come on in. What I do in these sessions is, for lack of a better description, ‘set up meetings.’ It’s a way to bridge the world of the dead with the world of the living. I’ve done it dozens of times.”

Benny assumed there was some sort of lead-up to the hypnosis – maybe he had to think happy thoughts and count backwards, or stare at a pocket watch swinging back and forth as his eyes followed the motion. Surely, she would at least light candles and burn sage. But she did none of those things.

Instead, she simply directed him to the middle of the room, looked him in the eye and snapped her fingers in front of his face.

That was the last thing he recalled before finding himself sitting in a dimly lit enclosure – a different place than the one he and Dr. Kagan had just been in.

Unlike the cold, damp, black pit in his dream, this room – or space – seemed vast. And instead of a chill, he felt something akin to warmth, which was s sensation he hardly expected.

He didn’t know if he was asleep, dreaming or simply under a hypnotic spell, but he felt a sense of calm. That calm remained even after Frank Flare stepped out of the shadows.

“Finally,” Benny thought. “I can make this right.”

He had been too frightened to speak when Flare’s apparition appeared before. What was he supposed to say, anyway?

But this time, the fear was gone. It was as though he had been set free. And Frank didn’t look the least bit ghostly or ghastly, instead resembling the photographs of him shown during television coverage of the bank bomb.

“Hello, Frank,” he said, looking at a spirit who seemed very much alive. “I just want to say … I’m sorry for leaving your daughter without a father and your wife without a husband. When I threw the bomb, I didn’t have time to think and I didn’t see you. I didn’t see anybody. I never meant to hurt you or anyone else.”

“Just tell me what to do to earn your forgiveness and put you at peace. I’d really rather not be haunted by you anymore.”

Frank looked away and cackled … an eerie, unsettling chortle.

“You think you need my forgiveness,” he said. “As it was made quite clear to me since my death, I need yours … among others.”

Benny’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Frank stood up and started walking away. He then turned and gave Benny one last look as his eyes closed and his human form slowly faded to black.

“This was never about your purgation, but mine,” Frank said. “I wanted my wife and child dead. I wanted everyone in the bank dead.

“It was I who planted the bomb.”

The bell atop the door jingled and the smell of patchouli incense greeted Tim Wayford as he stepped inside Dr. Oracular’s House of Wonders.

         It was a cramped, cluttered curio shop fashioned from an old, one-story house. The outside was painted (poorly) black, while the inside featured all manner of oddities, mostly crafted or curated by the supernatural avant garde community and placed haphazardly throughout the store.

         A group of small Mason jars filled with a gold-colored substance were situated front and center on the main counter, each with a piece of masking tape slapped on their lids with the words “GHOST GOO” written on them in permanent marker.

         Behind the counter – taking up the entire back wall – were troll dolls of various sizes and hairstyles. What made these novelty items different is the glass eyes common in most had been replaced by eyeballs that seemed particularly large – and particularly human.

         It was creepy, but creepy was what Tim was looking for.

         His best friend, Burton, had long been fascinated by the occult, and had acquired quite a few oddities of his own. Surely, he had already been to Dr. Oracular’s House of Wonders; Tim figured it might be the only place he could’ve gotten a vintage Ouija Board from the early 1900s.

         But Burton had a wedding coming up in two weeks, and Tim wanted to find a fun gag gift to give him during the bachelor party set for Saturday night.

         As Tim picked up one of the Mason jars, a young woman emerged from the back of the store, dressed in black from head to toe – complemented by black lipstick and heavy black eyeliner. The only other color aside from her alabaster skin was a long orange streak that seemed to be painted down the left side of her raven hair.

         “Dr. Oracular, I presume?” Tim said with a smile.

         “Afraid not,” she said, forcing a slight grin. “Name’s Tara, but I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have for the good doctor.”

         “I’m sure you can,” Tim said. “Really, I’m just looking for a gag gift for a buddy of mine. He’s into this kind of stuff and I thought maybe you could steer me towards something that’s small and inexpensive and neat.”

         Tara gave Tim a puzzled look.

         “Yeah,” she said. “We don’t really do gag gifts here. It is, after all, a house of wonders.”

         Tim slowly looked around at the array of products, and then picked up a jar of Ghost Goo.

         “Seriously?” he said. “I mean, I’m not trying to be insulting, but how could something called Ghost Goo not be a gag gift? I’m pretty sure if I opened it up and poured it on a biscuit, it’d taste a lot like honey.”

         Tara snatched the jar away from Tim and placed it back on the counter.

         “Once you buy it, you can do whatever you like with it,” she said. “But if you open the jar, you break the seal. You break the seal, then you cast the spell. And once you cast the spell, you’ve made the purchase, and whatever happens after that is none of my concern or the concern of Dr. Oracular.”

         Tim shook his head.

         “OK,” he said. “I’ll play along. This stuff has magical powers, which is why it costs $25. But it looks like honey … and I can get a jar of honey for about six bucks. So, I could take the label off, write “Ghost Goo” across the top, and my friend would never know the difference.”

         Tara looked at the floor and fidgeted.

         “Oh, he’d know the difference,” she said. “And if he didn’t when you gave it to him, he’d find out quickly. I know Burton … he’s been a patron of ours for years. He’s a serious person, and he takes what we do here quite seriously.”

         Tim sighed and pointed at the trolls.

         “How much is one of those?” he asked.

         “Two hundred dollars,” Tara said.

         Tim’s eyes widened. “Shit … you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, almost shouting.  “What’s the cheapest … sorry … what’s the least expensive item you have for sale?”

         Tara placed her hand on a jar of Ghost Goo and pushed it toward Tim.

         “This is it,” she said. “It’s $25. But I tell you what, since you’re new to our shop I’ll sell it to you for $17.50. I’ll even put it in one of our cool little Dr. Oracular’s House of Wonders gift bags and FedEx a certificate of authenticity, signed by Oracular himself with a personalized message. When he comes back in, I’ll have him do it right away and get it to you no later than tomorrow.”

         Tara produced a piece of paper and pen.

         “Just write your address down and I’ll have it sent to you.”

         Tim threw up his hands before leaning over and hurriedly writing down his information. “All right,” he said, reaching for his billfold. “Here’s a 20 – just keep the change. I guess if knows I got it from here it’ll mean something to him.”

         Tara quickly bagged the Ghost Goo and placed it in the bag. “Thank you,” she said. “All of us at Dr. Oracular’s House of Wonders appreciate your business.”

         Tim took the bag, turned toward the door, and pushed it open, exiting the shop with a half-hearted wave. Tara watched him get into his car and drive away.

         “He’s gone, Doc,” she said, glancing back at the storage room.

         Dr. Oracular – a small, round man with a cheap hairpiece and red horn-rimmed glasses – trundled toward the counter.

“Glad you got rid of another jar of honey,” he said, looking at Tara. “I’d have gone as low as 10, so you did well by convincing him to fork over a 20. Say … did you get a look at his eyes, by any chance?”

         Tara gave the thumbs up.

         “Yep … they were blue,” she said.  

    Dr. Oracular glanced at the troll dolls and started taking inventory.

“Wait about an hour and then go to his house,” Dr. Oracular said. “The toxins on the gift bag should’ve taken effect by then, and you’ll be able to do some harvesting. We have a new shipment of dolls coming in, and we’re low on blue eyeballs.”