One Heartbeat Past Normal

By Dennis Timothy

Imaginative, quirky, and always surprising! Meet the ordinary players on life's stage whose realities are forever changed by chance meetings with supernatural forest dwellers, mysterious things in the sky, murder plots by evil antiques, and a talking tattoo. These unusual occurrences and more collected in fifteen short stories each ending with its own odd twist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis Timothy
• Release date: Feb 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310103742

Dennis Timothy

Dennis G. Timothy resides in the small Nebraska village of Dodge. A Nebraska native, his childhood memories are of outdoor sports, raising farm animals, and tending large gardens. Dennis has spent much of his adult life working in factories and is currently employed at a specialty meat company. He started writing over 20 years ago when he was asked to write an editorial series for a local newspaper, The Patriot Whistle. Years later, Dennis decided to produce his own monthly publication called Legendary Iron News for readers who collected and restored antique farm equipment. In 2011, he published his first popular fictional short story, "Found Them", in the e-magazine Golden Visions. Readers enjoyed the quick wit in his story and the response he received prompted him to begin writing and publishing his fictional work. In his free time, Dennis enjoys landscape photography, some of which has been published in the Omaha World Herald, and tending his vegetable and flower gardens. Dennis is currently working on a historical fiction book series entitled "The Whiskey Scrolls", the first of which is due to be released in 2014.

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One Heartbeat Past Normal

By Dennis Timothy

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Timothy

Smashwords Edition

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The following is a work of fiction. Characters, names used, places, or events are entirely the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is purely coincidental.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

This book is dedicated to Carrie Vacha, whose love and encouragement keep me writing. And to Christine Golden who set me on this path. I also thank my father, Gerard Timothy, for his contributions to this work.

If you haven't found something strange during the day, it hasn't been much of a day.

John Archibald Wheeler

Table of Contents

Perspective

The Discovery in the Woods

Walking with Fairies

The Price

Found Them

Home

The Winner

Tranquility Park

The Brothers

The Pulse

Hunting a Haunt

Grandpa's Flask

A Watched Pot Never Boils

Evil Antiques

Lydia Alexicov

Perspective

My sister died today.

It had been a perfect day. I awoke early and went outside. It was an early summer day, a cool morning with drops of dew sparkling in the grass. This was a play day; the sort of day that only youth could flit away and feel no guilt in doing so. I smelled the meadow fresh air, and heard the early morning birds.

Excited to begin the play, I had gone inside and fetched my sister. She was my playmate and my best friend. I was an early riser, but she would spend the morning asleep if left undisturbed. I had planned to play down by the pond. There was always so much to see there.

We left our home. I started an impromptu game of tag by bumping her and racing ahead. I was older, larger, and faster. I knew it wasn't fair. Occasionally, I stole a glance back to see if she was giving chase.

My sister had been considered attractive - beautiful in some circles. I thought so too. Her beautiful dark eyes were her best feature. As I looked back, I could see the catch-lights of the early morning sun playing off those eyes.

I also admired her pluck. She hadn't a chance of catching me. I'd held her pace as we raced through the meadows. Someday we would be adults, with adult responsibilities, no longer able to play games of chase. I set these thoughts aside. Today we were young, and I was still able to play tag with my sister, to explore our back woods together. Perhaps later to frighten her with some large bug I would catch and chase her with.

On a whim, I'd changed our usual route to the pond. I'd dived through some bushes, and I saw a white rock path, a path I didn't even know existed.

My sister caught up to me. We looked at each other. Where would the path lead? Could it be a short-cut to the pond? What new sights could be discovered on this mysterious walkway?

With the rashness of youth we moved ahead. At times we shared a nervous glance, filled with the giddiness that comes with knowing you're somewhere you're not meant to be. Who owned this? How did it come to be? Was it always here? With cautious movements, all the while looking about, we explored the path. To us it seemed to stretch forever in either direction.

We had traveled only a short distance when I stopped, startled by a large grasshopper that jumped in front of us. I relaxed and considered my silly fright, embarrassed that my sister saw me frightened by a bug. The birds were still singing. I relaxed and pondered this curious path.

I remember the sky then darkened for an instant, as if the sun had decided to blink. I looked to see if my sister had noticed; if my eyes were playing tricks on me. I saw her back up. She had that look of fright as when I teased her with some large insect.

In an instant I was pinned to the earth, some great weight pushed against my head and back. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move, I couldn't see my sister.

Now I was angry - ready to fight. But there was nothing to fight against that I could see. It was silly, terrifying, and unbelievable. At odds with an unseen enemy, an invisible force pinned me down. I pushed and shoved. With all of my struggles I managed to move my head a little. I could just see my sister; she lay on the ground, with all but her head obscured by some bushes. Then she was gone.

My impression, from my imprisoned vantage point, was that she had ascended into the air faster than a bird takes flight. Faster than anything I had ever seen. Then she came back - back to the earth, landing hard.

When she hit no noise escaped her lips. There was the thud of her body. I heard the sounds of the rocks of the path scattering from her terrible impact. The grass and weeds bent and broke at her fall. She was bleeding from dozens of places. Where she sprawled, I could see one of her eyes. The orbital socket was broken, the eye distended, and there was no light in that eye. I knew then that my sister was dead.

I had to go. I had to tell my parents what had happened, where it had happened. And then I was flying.

I wasn't flying as I had seen birds fly, or butterflies caper. This same unseen force had me in a horrible grip. The ground pulled away from me as I flew to the heavens. I could see more of the earth than I had ever seen. Up higher and faster.

Then I was jerked down. My body bowed, my head snapped up, my stomach churned with this sudden new change in direction. I saw the clouds, still silver and white in the new day's sun. Some type of bird circled lazily on warm air currents, and he grew smaller and smaller as I fell to earth.

I saw the ground - then felt the ground. The blow from the earth cracked my ribs. I could hear them break, feel them break. White bone punctured my chest. Bile, blood, and breakfast shot past my teeth. Foul taste and acid burned my lips. My jaw was knocked shapeless from the impact.

Blood seeped into my eyes blinding me, but not before I saw the dust rise in a cloud around me. Dirt and gravel had been trenched from beneath me. I couldn't breathe and I didn't care. I felt no pain, just a wet, raw feeling the length of my body. I wasn't going to tell my parents. I wouldn't tell anyone. I was mortally broken and I knew it.

A roar filled my ears, like the sound of a fast moving river. It would dispel a bit, and be replaced with another sound from the distance. It was a sound I did not know.

Wha… came the noise. Then the roaring sounded again in my head. And then, I heard another, Wha…

My sight dimmed. I felt sleepy. The roaring sound in my head stopped for a moment. I heard the other noise clearly this time from somewhere above.

I said, what do you have there? came the noise.

I have a snake, Daddy.

And I have one too, Daddy.

You kids - you know I hate those things. Knock 'em on the head one more time, then toss them in the ditch, and go inside and wash your hands.

Okay, Daddy.

Something gripped me, and I was flying again.

The Discovery in the Woods

Mr. Clifton Cooper, you will account for your activities over the past two weeks, said Dr. Weatherspan. The flat of his hand banged down on his desktop as he delivered the last three words.

I sat there in a chair, in front of the man's desk, thinking about my answer. I had never really liked Dr. Weatherspan. He was pompous in his attitude, demeaning in his conversation, and overweight with a moist appearance to him.

I watched as he settled back in his chair, his blue eyes staring at me over the tops of his glasses, which sat perched at the very end of his round nose. His face was florid, and his lips were almost purple in color as they peeked out from a large gray mustache.

You have to understand, Dr. Weatherspan, this type of work takes time, I said.

Nonsense, said Dr. Weatherspan, your work, and I use the term loosely, blights the face of scientific endeavor, and the reputation of this school in particular. I can't believe I helped you with your grant request. That was a moment of personal weakness, if ever there were one.

The bulky man leaned forward in his chair, his elbows touching the top of his desk as he leaned his chin on the laced fingers of his hands. But, I intend to correct that as well. You will produce something meaningful, inside of the next two weeks, or I intend to disassociate myself with both your work and your doctoral thesis.

You can't mean that, Dr. Weatherspan, I said. That's not fair, and it's certainly not enough time.

The corners of the man's lips crept into his jowls, as he smiled at me and said, Oh, I certainly do mean that. This farce of a research project of yours has wasted enough of my time, and can only result in personal ridicule in the scientific community.

I admit that my research has taken a slightly different path, based on my interests, but that doesn't mean it's not important work, I said.

Your work, the man snorted. What you are pursuing is high silliness of the first order. You hoodwinked me into helping you with that grant application, the purpose of which was to be zoology. You are now exploring some form of pseudoscience, crypto zoology if you prefer, and you are now operating well outside the bounds of your grant proposal.

Dr. Weatherspan, simply because you do not agree with me does not make my pursuits a pseudoscience. I tell you, there is something to be discovered in those woods. Folkloric sources have reported the same mysterious stories for generations. I intend to discover the source of those stories, and present my findings to this University and the scientific community at large.

It's not going to happen, said Dr. Weatherspan, because there is nothing there. You are pursuing the ghosts of your own imagination. When I first met you, I thought you to be both mature and thoughtful. I now see that I was wrong on both counts.

The man leaned back in his chair again, which screeched in protest as he adjusted his bulk. But I am a reasonable man, that's why I have given you two additional weeks. And I expect notes of your work, your itinerary, and your expenditures. This means a daily update from you concerning your progress. This disappearing act of yours, with no word from you for a month, comes to an end, now.

The man rattled me for a second, and I slapped my hands to the tops of my knees. You know that in this line of work, nothing meaningful is discovered in two weeks. I have provided you with some of the notes of my findings. And what about the evidence from the trail cameras?

Please, you have two pictures of shadows. I hardly call that conclusive evidence, said Dr. Weatherspan.

Dammit, man. Can't you see? Something cast those shadows, I said.

Something, anything, or nothing could've been responsible for your so-called evidence, he said. I'm not wasting my time arguing this absurdity with you. You've heard my terms, and now you may leave.

I glared at the man for a second, before I stood and left the room, slamming the door behind me. I marched down the hall, anger lending speed to my steps, until I realized I was going the wrong way.

Fury and panic had seized me. I stopped, and leaned my hand against the cool marble of the wall. I took a couple of deep breaths. Shake it off, I thought.

I turned in the proper direction, and in strides which looked more confident than they felt, I left Brighton Hall.

I walked down the two short flights of concrete steps to the parking lot below. I went to my motorcycle, a dark blue Kawasaki, which was fun to ride but a real pain in inclement weather.

I threw my leg over the seat, balanced on the machine, and reached back for my helmet. I buckled the chin strap, pulled the key from my pocket, and started the big machine. The engine rumbled to life. I squeezed the clutch, dropped it in gear, and tore out of the lot.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of the small house I rented. With its curling shingles, peeling brown paint, and flaking white trim, it looked as forlorn as I felt. I kicked the stand down with my left foot, hopped off the bike, and hooked my helmet to the back of the seat.

I walked into the house, and stood for a second in the living room. I thought about what Dr. Weatherspan had said to me. It was my belief that something strange was occurring in a place known as Robert's Woods. For sixty years, the locals in that area told stories of mysterious goings-on. People had lost pets, been pelted with stones, heard strange noises, and been attacked by something they couldn't see. Nobody had been seriously injured, just scratches and bruises, but nobody who fell victim to such an occurrence ever returned to those woods.

So now I had two weeks left to find this damned thing, whatever it is, and satisfy Dr. Weatherspan. The man was an unrelenting idiot. It mystified me how such an arrogant wretch could have worked his way up to the position he held.

But I didn't have time to worry about that now. I went to my bedroom and grabbed my backpack, which was already packed with the things I would need. It held my camera, notebook, pencils, pens, tape measure, GPS device, digital recorder, and all the other things I was using to bring an end to this mystery at Robert's Woods.

I slung the bag over one shoulder, walked to the kitchen, and set it on the small, cheap dining table. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the lunch I put up the night before, and a bottle of water. I stuffed these things into the bag.

I'm not a vegan but one of my specialties is a grilled portabella mushroom, glazed with a balsamic vinegar and brown sugar reduction. This, nestled between two slabs of sourdough bread, was the main feature of my lunch. One of the few things I had to look forward to today.

I carried the