by Mark Wesley
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Gatekeeper Press
2167 Stringtown Rd, Suite 109
Columbus, OH 43123-2989
www.GatekeeperPress.com
Copyright © 2018 by Mark Wesley
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
ISBN (paperback): 9781642370805
eISBN: 9781642370799
Printed in the United States of America
Special Thanks
First and foremost, I want to thank my wife, Kathryn, for all the support she has given through the writing process—editing and content. While most of my work occurred on weekends, nights, on vacation, and at other times inconvenient to my family, Kathryn has been there, patiently supportive of the writing process. I must also thank my daughter, Finley, who at the time of this writing is almost a year old, and who has shown some patience when her dad worked on this book. I want to send a big scoop of gratitude to both my parents for actively participating in the feedback and contributions for this book. Their freely offered help was of great value in its completion.
Throughout the process of writing this book, many individuals have taken time out to help provide feedback and insight. One such colleague, who continues to provide these and to whom I would like to extend a personal “thank you,” is Matthew Brock. I am not sure how this book would have turned out if not for his support, feedback, ideas, and continuing dialog.
Contents
It Starts
Birthday Party
A New Place
The Gift
Getting Home
The Chase Continues
The Beginning
1
It Starts
Timothy had kept his promise for some time. He’d done as his grandfather asked, wearing the old bronze key on a leather cord around his neck and close to his person. While the item had proven annoying from time to time, especially during swim practice, he was set on keeping his word.
Lanky and somewhat handsome in appearance, the boy possessed a sporting spirit. Wrestling and swimming were his favorite activities and, having a somewhat athletic build, he picked up both hobbies quite well.
He had ridden his bike from school across the small neighborly town to a local recreation center where a bustling indoor pool awaited. People of all shapes and sizes moved about, following their own routine. Paddle boards, goggles, nose and ear plugs, swim caps and more littered the deck and patron’s bodies. Echoes from each slap of the water reverberated off the walls as one man with a whistle shouted commands towards a small group of swimmers; directing them on appropriate technique.
The boy loved the water and found the little extra time practicing gave him a better chance at besting his opponents. Having already placed his belongings in a blue metal locker in the white tiled locker room, he stood proudly in his red swimsuit at the deep end, ready to immerse himself in the cool water. Pulling his goggles over his head and placing them about his eyes, Timothy bent over at the waist and touched the wet tile just at his toes. With a deep breath, he leaped out like a rocket and dove into the pool.
The practice went without any unusual moments, quite ordinary and routine. Completing his laps in good time, the boy was ready to clean up, get dressed, and ride the short distance back home where a warm shower, food, and homework awaited.
Grabbing his towel and drying off his head, Timothy waved at a few locals as they passed.
“You finishing up, Timothy?” a gentleman asked.
“Yeah. I just got done.”
“How was the water?”
“Same as usual . . . wet.”
As the gentleman scooted by with a chuckle, Timothy made his way back to the locker room. The floor was wet and slick, requiring a sure and steady placement of each foot to guarantee balance was maintained. In the locker room, a group of men from the advanced swimming class shuffled about, getting ready for their intense, heart-pumping session. The loud hustling and bustling of lockers opening and closing and polite chit-chat filled the room.
“Did you just finish a workout?” a man called to Timothy as the boy pulled a t-shirt over his head.
“Yes,” the boy replied as he looked over, having recognized his coach’s voice. “You doing a little swimming also, Coach?”
A former college star who’d performed quite well in his division, Timothy’s coach now trained a wide variety of ages and skill sets. “Nah. Just training these guys today. I like to see you doing the extra practice.”
“Hope it pays off,” Timothy responded, tugging up and buttoning his pants.
As the men gathered their things and began to head out to their training, a small and swift creature darted in and around each man, circling the lockers and pillars that held up the ceiling.
“What’s that?” one man interrupted, pointing out into the air.
“Looks like another bird got in,” someone answered.
“There it goes,” a third offered.
The animal moved too fast for anyone to gain a clear picture for identification.
“I can’t tell what it is,” someone commented.
Another inquisitively asked, “Is it a bat?”
Regardless of the creature’s true classification, the men had class starting, and no time to worry over a bird, bat, or whatever it was darting about.
“Timothy,” his coach called, “go let the janitor know we’ve got another . . . something loose and flying about.”
“I can catch it, Coach.”
“Sure, have at it. We’re heading out,” his coach said, leading the group out to the pool.
The boy grabbed a towel and spread it out like a net, one hand on each top corner, and held it in front of him. As he quietly tiptoed down the aisle in search of the creature, the animal whooshed by, dive bombing the boy’s head. Timothy naïvely tossed the towel into the air at the creature, completely missing and allowing the thing to fly off into the showers.
“Come on, bird, don’t you want to be outside?” Timothy exclaimed, picking up his towel and following the flying nuisance into the shower.
“Here, bird,” the boy called, looking about for the animal. “Where are you?”
A spooky feeling began to creep up his back. At a lightning pace, the animal once more darted towards the boy. As the creature circled around him, Timothy twisted, pivoting about one foot, waving his towel like a matador dodging a bull.
“Where’d you go?” the boy asked as he noted a fluttering coming from the dark supply closet. “Oh, I see where you went.”
Timothy rushed to the opening, blocking the entrance with his body and towel. Staring inside, he tried to cut through the dark to find where the animal was perched. With stealth, the boy stepped inside and reached out for the pull chain hanging from the light bulb. Before he had a chance to reach the cord, the door swung shut behind him with a sudden “thud.”
Quickly turning, Timothy grabbed the handle and tried pushing the door open.
Locked, he questioned in disbelief. How is this possible?
“Hello? Hello?” he called out, banging on the exit. “Can anyone hear me?”
The locker room was empty and the boy’s cries, which ba
rely made it past the solid door, had no hope of reaching the nearest person.
Seriously? He searched in exasperation for the chain to the light with one hand waving in the dark. I can’t believe this . . . what luck.
Finding the cord, Timothy pulled down, attempting to bring electricity to the glass bulb. But, nothing. All that happened was a faint “click” each time the cord was snatched by the boy. The room remained quite dark and locked.
“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” Timothy tried yelling again. “I’m stuck in here. Hello. . . .”
As the boy stood there in the damp and gloomy closet wondering what to do, he noticed a slight beam of light emanating out through the door’s keyhole directly below the handle.
What is this?
The recreation center was a very old building. Originally the town hall, it had gone through many repairs and modifications to get it to its current state. Not that the center looked poorly or decrepit; in fact it was rather beautiful—marble floors, tile bathrooms, and deep red maple doors remained. Only the finest materials had been used during its original production. Even though several alterations had been made to convert the building into a recreation center, much of the building was still original, including the very door Timothy stood looking at, the very keyhole he now found himself peering through.
An old door with an old handle and an old lock. Timothy had a sudden epiphany of what he thought might be a fantastic coincidence. The keyhole was shaped such that Timothy couldn’t help but hope the same key that hung about his neck, the one given to him as a present by his grandfather, might very well unlock this door. They’re about the same size . . . the same shape, Timothy reasoned as he hoped to finagle the lock open.
“It can’t hurt to try,” the boy whispered as he placed the key into the keyhole.
Leaning heavily into the door, he gave the key a slight twist. The door abruptly swung open without notice and sent Timothy falling through.
As he tumbled to the other side, the sensation of being sucked through a straw pulled at the boy’s body and appendages. For a split second, no longer than the blink of an eye, everything was dark, black as a moonless night, more so than the room he had been standing in. As he came out on the other side, the door closed shut behind him with another quick and clear “thud.” It was light once again.
Slowly standing as he shook off the awkward feeling about him, Timothy looked around. A train station, he thought. Costumes?
It appeared that he was no longer in the recreation center. No longer downstairs in the locker room. All about him, people of every shape and size shuffled in order, moving in motion like clockwork. Each person appeared to be in costume, wearing old-fashioned clothing. Men in black or brown suits, carrying briefcases, wearing large top hats, and periodically pulling out their pocket watches to see the time. The ladies were dressed in long black or white dresses with full skirts and equally large hats pinned to their heads.
Where am I? the boy wondered.
Disbelief and wonderment now replaced the awkward feeling that had possessed him. Looking out over his new landscape, Timothy became filled with a sense of awe and confusion.
He gazed at his surroundings, inspecting all the details: a large, bronze four-sided clock towered over the center of the station; a locomotive wailed as steam blew from its chimney and wheels; hundreds of people were bustling about, moving in a fury of swift directions across the paved ground and under the tall, arching glass ceiling.
What is this place? Where am I?
2
Birthday Party
It was two weeks earlier, a Friday, and Timothy’s twelfth birthday. No grand party—just his three close friends and Timothy’s grandfather. As far back as the boy could remember, his grandfather had been present for all his birthdays, and it had become customary for the old man to take the gang out for some fun.
That morning, Timothy’s alarm went off, waking the boy from his slumber. His sleepy eyes opened to the sound of radio personalities talking. With a yawn and a stretch, like a cat waking, Timothy rolled over and got out of bed. Stumbling across his room, he grabbed the grey, worn t-shirt that hung over a chair and pulled it over his head.
“Morning, Frank. Hungry, are we?” Timothy asked as he placed a few green pellets in a small dish in the turtle’s cage. “Doesn’t this look tasty? Maybe tomorrow I’ll give you some fresh veggies.”
Frank’s head slowly poked out of his shell as he seemed to sniff at the food. The turtle then very slowly tucked his head back in without taking a bite.
Timothy walked downstairs, stopping to feed the two tiny goldfish whose aquarium sat on a table next to the stairs and greeted all visitors who entered the McGee home. The family rarely had any visitors; few at best, except for the occasional solicitor.
Jake greeted Timothy there. Smelling at the fish food and at the fish, the cat tapped the side of the bowl with a soft paw, just like he did every morning.
Timothy had adopted the cat as a kitten when the tiny critter showed up on the back steps. Scrawny and mangy, Timothy’s parents did not want the animal in the house. At first, only a small saucer filled with milk and bits of food were left out for the cat. In time, the animal became part of the family and won the privilege of sleeping in the house.
“That’s not your food,” Timothy said with a smile as he picked up the cat and took him to the kitchen. “Come on . . . time to eat.”
Entering the kitchen, Timothy saw his father sitting at the kitchen table, hidden entirely behind a newspaper and a cup of coffee. He was thin and handsome like his son but, with age and poor exercise, he had grown a bit of a round belly.
“Good morning, Dad,” Timothy said to his father as he placed Jake on the floor next to the back door.
“Morning,” a deep and unremarkable voice said from behind the newspaper.
Timothy reached up and grabbed a round plastic container with cat food that sat on top of the refrigerator. As Jake meowed and rubbed up against the boy’s legs, Timothy took one appropriately sized scoop and poured it into the cat’s bowl.
“Here you go, Jake. Enjoy.”
From a cabinet, Timothy grabbed a neatly decorated ceramic bowl for himself and sat down next to his father at the kitchen table. A box of cereal and a carton of milk sat on the tabletop with them. The boy lifted the container into the air and poured himself a hefty serving.
As he slurped spoonful after spoonful into his mouth like a thirsty lion at the water’s edge, Timothy’s father peered out from behind his newspaper. “You’re slurping,” he stated.
Timothy slowed his eating and tried to chew more quietly. It was clear that his father was not in a good mood. He’s probably been up all night again with his back hurting.
The doctors had never found anything particularly wrong—no injuries, pinched nerves, or disorders. But the pain had been present as long as his father could remember, going all the way back to his youth. The discomfort on occasion kept him from a sound and restful night’s sleep.
“Sorry,” Timothy said, swallowing his food more quietly. He took a brief pause before asking, “Not much sleep last night?”
“No . . . not really,” his father answered as one hand crept from behind the paper searching for his cup of coffee.
“Sorry to hear that, Dad.”
“Good morning, darling,” Timothy’s mom stated as she entered the kitchen.
A well-practiced lawyer, she wore a black suit and carried a tan, leather-bound briefcase. A hard worker who spent most of her time immersed in the job, she found little time to be with her family. Morning breakfast was one such occasion.
Walking to the tiled kitchen countertop, she poured a large cup of coffee from the coffee pot and added one tiny scoop of sugar and a splash of cream. She then sat next to her two family members at the table and began to read a legal file as she sipped her coffee.
&n
bsp; Timothy often thought the two had choreographed their coffee drinking the night before. As one emerged from behind their reading material, the other would retreat, each taking turns sipping at his or her coffee. In fact, a steady beat could be playing to the back-and-forth dance. The family taboo seemed to be sipping at the same time.
“Remember your father and I will both be home late tonight, so you’ll have to make dinner for yourself.”
“Sure, Mom.” He nodded as an eyebrow rose and a tiny smile curled up his lip. I always make dinner for myself.
“I bet you thought we’d forgot?”
“Forgot what?”
“Your birthday, silly, or have you forgotten?”
“No. I remember. . . .”
“Well your dad and I got you a little something.”
She handed Timothy a white envelope with his name inscribed on the front. The boy opened the letter to find a simple, yet generically clever birthday card. Laid crisp and clean in the fold of the card was a pleasant fifty-dollar bill.
“Fifty dollars?” Timothy questioned.
“Yes. Fifty dollars,” his mom replied.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Well, you’re getting older now and your father and I thought you might have something you’d like to buy. And . . . well . . . you’re welcome.”
Timothy’s father poked out from behind his newspaper, “And what, no thank you for me?”
“Thanks, Dad,” Timothy added as he took his last scoop of cereal, then placed his bowl in the sink. Leaving his parents, he went back upstairs to finish getting ready for school. As he left, he offered one final, “Thanks again.”
Ever since he was able, Timothy had ridden his bike to school. The trip was short, only a couple of blocks. The worst part was the start, getting to the top of the hill in front of his house.
Timothy meandered slowly, walking his bike to the top. A light huff possessed his breathing as he climbed. Once he reached the top, Timothy exhaled with relief as he mounted his well-kept bike and leisurely coasted down the other side. With his feet poised in the proper position on the pedals and his hands on the handlebars, he raced faster and faster, feeling the wind rush over his face.