Bouncing Blue Cups and Beach Visits

By Richard Prescott and Glen Kirkpatrick

The title Bouncing Blue Cups and Beach Visits relate to two of the 26 stories in the book. The stories, except the last one is a combination of fiction and reality. The last one, by Glen Kirkpatrick, is his story of his encounter with treasure hunters from the sunken Spanish vessel called the Atocha. The stories I created are based on different

• Language: English
• Publisher: B4K Marietta, Inc
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735886718

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BOUNCING BLUE CUPS

AND BEACH VISITS

R. PRESCOTT

Bouncing Blue Cups and Beach Visits

Copyright © 2020 by R. Prescott

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

ISBN 978-1-7358867-0-1

DEDICATION

I’d like to dedicate this book to my wife, Laura, for putting up with me and my procrastinating getting these stories published.

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

IT BURNED

BY THE BEACH

INVITE TO THE BEACH

CHURCH VISIT

CLEAN SAUCER, PLEASE

GET THAT BUG, AKA CLEAN SAUCER, PLEASE II

THE HEART WANTS WHAT THE HEART WANTS

DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

ENVY

EXTRA TOPPING

FAULTY PROCEDURE

FINDINGS—NICK BRICE INVESTIGATIONS

A SON’S FORGIVENESS

IRONY

NEW ADOPTION PROCESS

NEW AND IMPROVED

NEW DOLLHEAD

NO LONGER EXTINCT

NO RECONCILIATION

OPPORTUNITY VANISHES

RETURNING FROM VACATION

SURPRSING FIND

SURPRISING SEND

LAST THING

MEL FISHER STORY AND GLENN KIRKPATRICK

CONTACT THE AUTHOR

IT BURNED

Ever since Mike and Carol moved into their new house, they were witness to strange, unexplained occurrences. Such as the time Mike got home early from work to hear the smoke detector blaring. Or the time he discovered his bottle of Jack Daniels on the top shelf of the cupboard had shattered where the neck met the base. The whiskey stained the wall. Or the numerous times an outlet shorted out. Or when the batteries of three cars parked in or near the garage died within two weeks of each other. Or the mosquito-eating bat stuck in the wall, dying.

He tried to ignore these occurrences, thinking things happen, but he knew things don’t just happen. There must be a rational explanation.

Take the blaring smoke alarm. Nobody was in the house, nor was there any smoke to trigger the alert. The alarm had a direct connection to the electrical wiring in the house, something he’d never seen in any of the other houses he owned. After he replaced the alarm with a battery-operated version, the problem stopped. It was just a wiring problem.

He never came up with a reasonable explanation for the broken bottle of Jack Daniels, either. He rarely drank, so he hadn’t moved the bottle in quite a while. And his daughter never liked the taste, nor could she reach the bottle, so she was not the cause.

The shorts in the electrical outlets perplexed him. In the houses Mike had owned or lived in as a child, he’d never seen an outlet short out, even if the connected appliance was faulty. When the electrician came to repair the socket, he mentioned he had replaced several outlets that day, and that’s how it goes sometimes. Mike didn’t buy the excuse for a second.

The car batteries dying would have made sense if they were the same age and had reached the three-year limit on their warranties, but each one was different.

There was no explanation for the dying bat caught in the wall, either. Mike checked the side vents in the roof that allow hot air to flow out of the attic to see if they were covered by some sort of screen. But screens covered all three vents, and none of them had any holes that might allow errant entry.

He hated the conclusion, but he decided the house might be possessed, if not haunted. He hadn’t heard any strange noises or seen any apparitions, so if something paranormal was causing the occurrences, it must be harmless.

Then one night, Mike and Carol were returning from dinner, and, as they drove up to the garage, they saw something lying in the middle of the driveway. Mike parked the car, and the two of them got out to inspect the object. It was a rat. Its head had been ripped off.

That does it, Carol exclaimed. We need to get a priest, a rabbi, a shaman, or a voodoo priest or priestess to fix whatever the problem is because I’m not putting up with this crap anymore.

But, Carol, I’m sure a hawk dropped the body here. We’ve both seen them flying around, and this must be their territory. I’m sure that’s all it is. Gruesome, but harmless, Mike replied.

If you don’t call someone, I will, she said and stormed into the house.

Mike called the pastor of his church and described the events. The pastor offered to come over and bless the house. The offer surprised Mike: he didn’t know there was a procedure for blessing houses. They made an appointment for the following Monday.

On Monday, Mike noticed more strange things as he walked back and forth in the hallway, trying to burn off his nervous energy. He heard a low-level humming sound combined with voices in the background. He couldn’t make out what the voices were saying at first, but as the time for the visit got closer, the words became clearer.

I will not lose. This is my house. The God-man will die, the voices seemed to say.

Thank God Carol’s at work. This would scare her to death, Mike thought as he walked from room to room, more frightened than he was willing to admit.

The pictures on the walls throughout the house were vibrating and tapping the walls. The only picture that stood still was God Created Adam, which they had purchased at the Vatican.

Looking through the front glass door, Mike saw the pastor pull into the driveway, get out of his car, and walk up the steps. Mike unlocked and opened the door for the pastor.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

The pictures leaped off the walls, flying from room to room. The humming noise and accompanying voices grew loud enough to drown out normal conversation; the voices changed to a language Mike had never heard; the electrical outlets spewed sparks like roman candles; the ceiling fans in the living room and master bedroom spun even though the switches were off.

I’ve seen houses that contained angry spirits, but this is the worst I’ve ever seen, the priest yelled, ducking a picture flying past his head.

So, how does this work? Do you have to do each room? Or can you do the whole house at once? Mike screamed above the noise.

I’ll bless the whole house and then each room, the pastor responded. He stepped to the center of the living room with a flask of holy water in one hand, an open prayer book in the other, and prayed. As he lifted the flask and spread the holy water, there was a sound of tearing metal. Mike looked up and saw the support pipe for the ceiling fan begin to split in half. The fan separated from the support pipe and slammed into the pastor, who collapsed to the floor with a deep gash on the right side of his head. Mike knelt to check for a pulse but couldn’t find one.

Damn. I’m getting the hell out of here, Mike said. He sprinted towards the sliding glass door in the back. Two or three pictures smacked into him before he entered the kitchen. The pantry door flew open as he ran past, and cans, bags, mops, and brooms exploded out of the closet slamming into him. He tried to dodge them, but a jar of spaghetti sauce smashed into his left side, knocking the wind out of him, and slowing his retreat. He turned so his right shoulder faced the glass door and stumbled over a broom that had intertwined between his legs. As best he could, he pushed off from his right foot and launched his body towards the door, whacking it with his shoulder.

One of two things will happen, he thought. Either the glass will shatter, and I get out, or the glass doesn’t shatter, and I land on the floor with a dislocated shoulder.

He hit the glass, saw it bend a little as though it wouldn’t break—which irritated him—but then saw it crack and shatter into tiny pieces. His body slammed to the ground, and as he fell, he scraped his shoulder on the concrete patio.

Ok. That’s gonna leave a bruise.

Mike jumped to his feet, backed away from the house, looked through the hole where the glass door used to be, and saw fire pouring out of the fireplace. It engulfed the mantle, spread up the walls into the ceiling, and, as he would later find out, consumed the pastor’s body.

The voices booming, Burning to the ground!

With the rear and front doors of his house missing, Mike saw the fire trucks arrive. He ran around the house and approached the firefighters as they unloaded their hoses. They hooked one up to a nearby hydrant and sprayed the house.

The Fire Captain walked over to Mike.

Are you ok? he asked. Is there anybody else in the house?

I’m fine, but there’s a minister in the house. A falling ceiling fan killed him, and I think the fire burned his body. Can you save the house or at least get the body out?

The house is gutted, but as soon as we get the fire under control, we’ll have the EMS guys retrieve the body when they get here. Sorry, bud.

Mike stepped away from the firefighters to give them room. He watched as the water from the firehoses streamed onto the house, but it had no effect. The fire was unquenchable.

The remains of the blazing roof crashed to the floor, leaving fire-scarred wooden frames standing. The only undamaged wall was the one where the picture God Created Adam hung.

Then Mike watched as a form that was mixed into the plumes of smoke rose and took the shape of a being the likes of which he’d never seen. The body was ten feet long and had a three-foot tail, wings like a bat, and a large head resembling a gargoyle. It flapped its wings once, turned, and flew out over the street. The smoke from the remnants of the fire swirled from its wings and then continued floating upward.

Did you see that? the Captain asked Mike.

Nope. I didn’t see a thing.

BY THE BEACH

Frank sat on the beach in Gulf Shores, Alabama. He had parked his butt in one of the camping chairs his wife, Jennie, bought when it was on sale.

What a great place to wait for death.

His feet were close enough to the edge of the Gulf of Mexico that he could touch the warm saltwater if he stretched his legs. It was high tide, so the opportunity would soon slip away. The Gulf has a temperament that is reflected in its many colors—from clear green to dark brown, which it is today. It matched his mood perfectly.

Normally, he would drink a beer or listen to the local rock station, but something had changed in the past few weeks. A recent visit to the doctor confirmed the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. Untreatable and malignant. He had about six months to live. Frank decided he would spend his remaining days at the beach getting a tan. If he developed melanoma, so what. He was dying anyway.

His wife had gone to the local outlet mall in search of some Christmas ornament, tree skirt, or some other thing they didn’t need, so he sat alone.

This damn waiting to die is a bitch. Can’t I get it over with, for Christ’s sake?

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank noticed someone walking up from the right. He hoped they would pass by and not stop to talk. The guy was about six feet tall, white shorts, shirtless, with a great tan.

Good morning! How are you this fine day? the person asked.

Why don’t you take a flying leap?

For a guy with pancreatic cancer and only a few months to live—not bad, Frank responded.

The gentleman kneeled beside Frank, his expression changing to one of concern. Oh, so it is you. I thought you would be harder to find.

Frank turned his head to stare at the gentlemen. You’ve been looking for me? I don’t even know you.

Well, you do, and you don’t. You might have heard of me in your long life. You’re, what, 66 now? That’s a good long time.

Let me guess. You work at a carnival sideshow guessing people’s ages. Am I right? Frank turned his head back to look out over the water.

"No, sir. I’m here to help you move along. In my position, I