Category: Fiction Factor

The “Open” sign on the door at Bespoke Wishcasting, Inc., illuminated promptly at 9 a.m. Once it did, Cuthbert Tiffany sauntered in and gave the place a quick once-over. The two employees, wearing light blue golf shirts bearing the company logo, recognized him immediately.

And who wouldn’t? Thanks to a monumental family fortune he inherited when he turned 21, Tiffany was the richest man in the world – by far – and made sure everyone knew it. He owned the largest yacht ever built (for a laugh, he named it the S.S. Minnow); oversaw construction of the tallest building on the planet (the Tiffany Tower in Qatar, which had plenty of space but, to date, no occupants); and even formed the World Elite Amateur Sailing League, in which players paid $1 million per event for the privilege of participating. He, in fact, served as president of WEASL as well as player-coach of the Martha’s Vinyard Diamond Deckers.

He had almost everything, but it was the “almost” part that bedeviled him.

That’s where Bespoke Wishcasting, Inc., came in.

For a price – and that price varied depending on the job – the friendly Wishcasters at the company could give you anything you requested.

A trip to the moon? No problem … the rocket would be fueled and ready for launch in no time. A spot in the Indianapolis 500? They’d make sure you had the car and the crew to run toward the front during time trials. A bestselling novel? Write whatever you like and it’ll fly off the shelves. If you named it and claimed it – and had the money to pay for it – it was all yours.

And what Tiffany wanted was Penelope Garner, his high school flame who was now married with a family and living abroad. He had contacted her several times over the years in hopes of luring her away from what he called “her dull life,” but to no avail. She wasn’t just uninterested in him – she had gone so far as to file a restraining order to make sure he stayed away.

That was fine … Tiffany wanted a fresh start anyway, and the only way to get it was to travel back to May 25, 1979, and get a do-over prom date with Penelope.

“So, who runs the show here?” asked Tiffany, staring at the workers.

 “I’m Bernadine and this is my brother, Basil,” said the young woman as she stepped from behind the sparkling white counter and extended her hand. “I’ll be glad to assist you, Mr. Tiffany.”

“Yeah, I don’t do handshakes,” he said, waving her off. “Look, you people have a reputation for being able to do what no one else can do, and I’m gonna give you a chance to prove it. But before I waste my time, I need to know if you have reliable time travel capabilities.”

“Absolutely,” Basil said, without hesitation. “It’s quite expensive, of course, but I’m assuming that won’t be a problem for you.”

“You assume correctly. What I want is to be transported about 47 years in the past, to May 25, 1979. I even have the exact time for you … 6:12 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time. And the address in 312 Wisteria Commons Drive.”

Bernadine walked over to a computer, made a series of clicks, and smiled.

“OK,” she said. “You want to travel to the home of Gavin Garner, circa 1979. That shouldn’t be a problem in the least. I do need to know the reason for your visit … time travel is more than just a flash of light and a whoosh … we have to have data points.”

Tiffany shrugged.

“Whatever. I’m going back to take Gavin Garner’s daughter, Penelope, to the senior prom. The last time I tried it, things went sideways pretty quickly.”

“How so?” Bernadine asked.

“Is that really any of your business?”

“No, sir, none of mine,” Bernadine said. “But it’s part of the time travel business. To make this work, I have to know everything you remember. In other words, I need you to describe everything that happened on that date and that time.”

Tiffany let out a long sigh.

“OK, I rang the bell and her father answered the door – I had never met him before. Well, I had kinda met him before, but I didn’t realize he was Penelope’s dad.”

“Kinda met him?”

“He was a garbage man … you know, I guess they call them sanitation workers now. Anyway, I’d see him picking up our trash and you know – I was just a kid messing around – I’d throw quarters at him and yell things like, “How does it feel to be around rich people, Mr. Smelley? It was just a goof.”

Bernadine typed in the info.

“So, did he recognize you when you came to pick up Penelope?”

“He did … he did, indeed. Looked at Penelope and said, ‘Penny, this is the young man who likes to throw quarters at me.” Her face turned red and she slammed the door in my face.”

Bernadine nodded.

“So, I suspect you want to go back in time and apologize to Mr. Garner?”

Tiffany huffed.

“Hell, no. I wanna stick my foot in the door and tell Penelope I’m the richest man in the world and can make her the luckiest girl in the world. Once she knows she can spend her life with a billionaire genius and get away from garbage daddy, I’ll finally get everything I want. So, how soon can you portal me or zap me or whatever it is you people do?”

“It usually takes a couple of hours to get everything set up,” Basil said. “But considering who you are, we’ll do it right away. The fee is $57 billion. Something like this is normally $58 billion, but you’re our first customer today, so you get a discount. Once the transaction is done, you’ll just step into the Dematerialization Zone, which is that circle on the floor next to the counter. Once we activate it, you’ll see it glow, spin and hear a whir, and you’ll feel slightly dizzy. In roughly 10 seconds, you’ll be on the porch of the Garner residence at exactly 6:12 p.m. on May 25, 1979.”

Tiffany hastily pulled out his phone, transferred the money to the Bespoke Wishcasting, Inc., account, and stepped inside the circle.

“Do it,” he snapped.

Just as Basil said, within 10 seconds of the glow, spin and whir, Tiffany dematerialized and was transported to the time and destination of his choice.

When the process was complete, Bernadine and Basil looked at each other and broke into laughter.

“Oh, how I wish I could be there,” Bernadine said. “Just to see the look on Cuthbert’s face when he realizes he’s a 65-year old man trying to take a 17-year old to the prom. He really didn’t think this one through, did he? Now he’s stuck there and his money’s here. So much for being a billionaire genius.”

“Forget his face,” Basil said, flashing a huge smile. “Imagine granddad’s … and mom’s. Let’s call her and see if she remembers … I want details.”

Gavin made his way to the espresso machine, as he did in the wee hours of every morning, and noticed the door to the cabinet above it was open. When the lights went out the night before, it was closed – he was sure of it.

Sometimes, the machine itself had shifted from the left side of the counter to the right.

Occasionally, the wooden spoon beside the stove would inexplicably find its way to the floor.

And hand towels?

They were just as likely to be hanging from a whirring ceiling fan in the den than folded neatly by the sink.

Of course, he was used to such shenanigans by now.

It can be confounding – and even unsettling – for those unfamiliar with the spirit world. But Gavin had grown accustomed to the work of the home’s poltergeist, and he had become well-acquainted with the disruptor he called “Paulie.”

“So, Paulie, why did you open the cabinet?” Gavin asked.

Paulie, whose appearance was similar to a cluster of glowing white cotton balls, rounded the hallway and entered the kitchen, hovering just a few feet from Gavin.

“Why not?” Paulie said. “That’s one of the tricks of the trade in the poltergeist game. Sometimes, you do just enough to make people wonder … make them spend some time trying to figure out how something happened and knowing that they never will. It’s a hoot.”

Poltergeists had developed a bad reputation in modern times, thanks in large part to the 1980s movies. Instead of being merely mischievous, they were portrayed as malevolent in the films.

“Look, you have to remember those Poltergeist movies were written by someone who had never encountered an actual poltergeist,” Paulie told Gavin during one of their first meetings. “We don’t attack people, and we certainly don’t kidnap them. That’s just Hollywood nonsense. That said, we have great respect for JoBeth Williams. We’ve forgiven her for taking part in the anti-poltergeist propaganda, although the one at her place likes to hide her Saturn Award from time to time.”

Once Paulie became a regular visitor, Gavin was more comfortable with their interactions – and more curious.

Gavin wondered how and why they picked certain houses, and the explanation was unexpected.

“It’s really more of a zip code and aesthetic thing than anything else,” Paulie explained. “We all get assigned territories, and once we find an area we like, we just randomly pick houses. I’m partial to garden homes, like this one … don’t really know why.  Guess I just like courtyards and patios.”

Gavin had noticed that Paulie moved things around but never made them permanently disappear. He wanted to know if – on occasion – poltergeists resorted to thievery.

“Nah, you can get in trouble with the home office for stealing stuff,” Paulie said. “Although I will admit that a few years back, I was messing around in a guy’s toolshed and he had, like, 40 hammers. I mean, who needs 40 hammers?  I took one of them and moved it to this duplex down the street, but then I realized that could get me suspended, so I put it back. I ended up shoving it between his mattress and box springs, though. Took the dude nearly two years to find it, and he still has no clue how it got there.”

Gavin examined the rest of the kitchen, peeked into the living room, and even checked the closets to see what else Paulie had been up to. On this particular morning, it appeared that the open cabinet was the only sign of poltergeist activity.

“Well, I guess we’ll do this again tomorrow.” Gavin said. “One question I’ve been meaning to ask, though … what’s the difference between a poltergeist and a regular house ghost?”

Paulie casually glided back and forth through Gavin’s translucent form.

“You’ve been haunting this place for a few months now, buddy … you tell me.”

The faded metal sign at Jefferson Lake Park clearly warned visitors not to feed the ducks, but Topher figured it didn’t really apply to him. While the hoi polloi might thoughtlessly throw breadcrumbs at the quackers – hence the warning – he knew better.

So, when he sprinkled a few oats or defrosted peas on the ground, he knew he was merely providing a nutritious snack for his feathered friends. Surely park officials wouldn’t object to that and even if they did, they were never around. What they didn’t know couldn’t hurt anyone.

So, on a cool Saturday morning – just after daybreak – he began making his rounds. Many of the ducks were still in sleep mode, while a few were already on the water, gently gliding from one side of the lake to the other.

Usually Topher had the park to himself this early, but not today. An older man, adorned in a puffy green coat and gray ballcap, was sitting on a bench near the pier that extended into the middle of the water. A small plastic bag was beside him, and Topher assumed it was “snacks” for the ducks.

“Well,” Topher muttered to himself, “I hate to be ‘that guy,’ but he needs to know.”

Topher made his way to the man and waved.

“Morning.”

“Morning yourself,” said the man.

“Not trying to be a busybody, but I noticed you have a bag with you and I figured you were probably gonna feed these ducks. You might already know this, but bread isn’t good for ‘em and that’s what a lot of people try to give ‘em. The park has one of those controlled feeding programs. Again, not trying to run your business, but just wanted to tell you. My name’s Topher, by the way.”

The man smiled, reached into the bag and pulled out stew meat. It was piled high on a Styrofoam plate and tightly wrapped in plastic.

“I’m Victor. Appreciate the tip, but I’m not here to feed the ducks,” he said. “These are for Darkwater Dan. He usually feeds at night, but me and the missus are heading out of town for a couple of days, so I wanted to go ahead and bring him breakfast.”

Topher started to laugh, but quickly realized no joke was intended.

Darkwater Dan was the star of many a local campfire story. Legend had it that a green, four-legged creature with a catfish-like head and long, razor-sharp tale would occasionally climb from the bowels of Jefferson Lake and come on land. It would attack – and eat – anything in its path, leaving scattered feathers and bones in its wake.

The tale gained new life just a few years earlier when dozens of Muscovy ducks disappeared from the lake overnight. Area kids were convinced they were the victims of Darkwater Dan, although the city park and recreation department insisted they had merely been relocated to prevent overpopulation.

That an older gentleman was at the park to feed the mythical monster led Topher to believe perhaps the man had, well, “gone around the bend.”

“Darkwater Dan, huh?” Topher said. “Don’t you think maybe you should take that meat home with you and eat it yourself? I mean, I’m sure he’s got plenty to nibble on here. Lots of ducks … even some snapping turtles.”

Victor sighed.

“Well, that’s why I bring him the meat so he won’t eat the ducks – or anything else. I come out here a couple of times a week, usually after dark, and visit with him. Used to I’d have to throw it way out on the water and he’d come up and snap it, but now he’ll take it right from my hand. He’s pretty friendly … you just have to get past that big ol’ catfish head of his. It’s kinda freaky if you’re not prepared for it.”

Topher wasn’t sure how to respond. The easy move was to simply play along and humor the oldster, but he didn’t want to risk the man slinging stew meat into the water and having ducks gobble it up.

“Tell you what,” Topher said in a condescending tone. “Since the park officials don’t approve of this, why don’t you give me the meat? I live just around the corner and I’ll come back late tonight – after the ducks are asleep – and feed Dan. How’s that sound?”

Victor frowned and stood up.

“If you think you know what’s best, here you go,” he said, handing the meat to Topher. “Good luck. And goodbye.”

As Victor turned and slowly walked down the path leading out of the park, he glanced back at Topher, who was heading toward a garbage can. He wasn’t the first person to think Victor was crazy – and he wasn’t the first person to throw away perfectly good stew meet.

As Victor neared the exit, he saw Dan lurking just under the surface beneath a drainpipe. Once the creature recognized him, it raised its head out of the water.

“Sorry, Dan,” Victor said. “That guy at the other end of the lake doesn’t want me feeding you, so he put your food in that big orange can. Why don’t you do me a favor, though? Go down there and eat that nosy son of a bitch. Just make sure nothing’s left … human flesh is bad for the ducks.”