Paranormal Realities Box Set

by Mason, Patricia

  “Yeah, sure,” I mocked. “And pigs fly. Oh no they don’t since you’re still on the ground.”

  “The crews will just have to settle this tonight.” Turning on a heel, Billy spoke over his shoulder. “Tell Senji 8 p.m. at the hospital.”

  “You’re on,” I said before I remembered the clawing hand and more importantly my date. Damn.

  “Wait—” I called.

  Too late. Billy was gone.

  Chapter Five

  As Mr. Hutson, droned on I only halfway listened.

  “Einstein introduced the theory of special relativity to explain an anomaly in the results of motion experiments, an inconsistency if you will. First, it had been established through experimentation that the velocity of objects was cumulative.”

  “Man. That was so awesome last night,” said Senji, sitting on my left.

  “So that if one threw a ball with force enough for it to travel 10 m.p.h leaving your hand from a train moving at 30 m.p.h., the ball’s velocity would be 40 m.p.h. Therefore velocity equals distance over time or v = d/t.” Mr. Hutson sent a quelling stare at Senji.

  “The police almost caught me,” Senji continued over the teacher.

  Franky, who’d positioned himself on my right, whispered back. “Me too. We’ll have to be careful when we go back tonight.”

  “However, the speed of light, according to experiments, is a constant 186,000 miles per second independent of motion. Therefore, if someone standing still shines a flashlight, the light travels 186,000 m.p.s. And if one shines a light from a car moving at 50 m.p.h., the light still moves at 186,000 m.p.s., in the view of a person traveling in the car.” Mr. Hutson scribbled on the chalkboard and then turned back to the students.

  I held my textbook up to block Mr. Hutson’s view of my face.

  “I’m so not going back to the hospital tonight. Weird stuff going on there. I think there might be some dangerous gases in those tunnels.”

  “Let’s say the train could move a third of the speed of light. An observer standing at the side of the road would still observe the light traveling 186,000 m.p.s. How is this paradox explained in view of the v=d/t?”

  “Come on Kizzy,” Franky urged. “We have to go back there and destroy the BQs. Billy and Quinn are just too obnoxious for words.”

  “The solution is that time…and even possibly distance…is relative for each observer,” Mr. Hutson said. “It is from this theory that the concept of time travel becomes possible.”

  A hand went up from the kid in the seat in front of me. Mike something. A know-it-all.

  “But what if someone went back in time and killed his own great grandfather?” Mike asked. “Wouldn’t that mean that he never existed? So if he never existed how could he travel back in time and kill his great grandfather?”

  “Actually, that idea is called the grandfather paradox.” Mr. Hutson smiled.

  “The mc² will need you since Chase and I are going on a date and won’t be there. You gotta go.” Petra spoke over my shoulder from her seat behind me.

  I held up my textbook again. “At least you guys should go somewhere else other than the hospital to battle the BQs. I’m telling you there’s something funky in those tunnels that plays with your mind.”

  “You mean like you get high?” Chase asked from his seat next to Petra. “That’s so cool!”

  “I guess it would be okay to do the race someplace else,” Senji said. “The railroad roundhouse is awesome. We can go there instead. I’ll tell Billy.”

  Mr. Hutson continued to drone. “The grandfather paradox and the theory of relativity have both been used to prove that travel back in time is not possible. In other words, time travel is possible, but only one-way. To the future.”

  "So if we make it another place, you’ll be there. Right?” Franky asked.

  “No. I can’t make it tonight,” I reluctantly revealed.

  “Other scientists theorize time travel to the past is possible,” Mr. Hutson added. “And that if I traveled to the past before my birth and I killed my grandfather, I would not necessarily disappear. Instead I would continue to exist and two separate timelines would be created, one for each of two separate dimensions.

  “Why can’t you make it, Kizzy?” Franky demanded.

  “I’m going on a date with Rom.”

  “What?” Petra exclaimed with pleasure.

  “What?” Franky asked with an agonized tone.

  “What?” Senji asked in disbelief.

  “I’m not going spelunking,” I said. “I’m going on a date.”

  “Anyway. Back to relativity.” Mr. Hutson returned to the chalkboard and drew a large circle designating the earth. “Theoretically if a spaceship took you to a distant planet and back to earth at the speed of light, for you only two years may have passed. But on earth, twenty.”

  “What about wormholes?” Mike something asked.

  “Wormholes weren’t theorized by Einstein. That's a subject for another day.”

  “Break that date, Kizzy,” Senji said. “We need you.”

  Chase chimed in, “I guess I could give up my date to support the crew.”

  “What?” Petra squawked. Man, did she sound incensed.

  “We can go on our date another day, sweetie," Chase stated. "Mc² needs us. But I want to go back to the hospital, Senji.”

  “You don’t care about missing our date?” Petra asked.

  “I care about beating the BQs too,” Chase replied.

  “Yeah, like you cared a lot last night. You didn’t even race,” I observed. “You just stood around snogging with Petra.”

  “Chase is giving up his date for the crew,” Franky pointed out. “That’s major. You should give up your date too, Kizzy.”

  “Chase just wants to get high.” My voice rose. “I’m not missing my date with Rom. Is that clear enough?”

  “Very clear, Miss Taylor,” the teacher said. Glancing up I saw him standing over me. Obviously, he hadn’t been lecturing for some time. “But some members of the class are trying to listen to me since this information will be on the exam. They are not interested in your social life.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hutson.” I scrunched down in my seat.

  “See me after class.”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  As the teacher turned away, I shot a glare at each of my friends and then turned my undivided attention to my notebook.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Hutson harangued me for five minutes after class about my “rude behavior”, saying “my sad circumstances” were only going to get me so much leeway. Keeping my head down, I endured the punishment stoically. At least he wasn’t giving me detention. Finally, he let me go with an admonition about studying for the test next Monday. I dutifully answered, “Yes, sir,” even though I had no such intention.

  The thought of the tunnels and what I’d seen, or hadn’t seen, continued to bug me. Since I had two free periods, I got permission from my homeroom teacher to leave the school grounds on the pretext of research for a paper in the Georgia Historical Society’s library. I knew they would have information about the yellow fever epidemics in Savannah and if the tunnel was dug at that time, there must be information about it too.

  Unfortunately, Petra and Franky spotted me leaving the building and wanted to tag along. At first, I firmly rejected their company. After some nagging I relented.

  “This is going to be research, not a chat fest,” I insisted.

  On arrival, I told the librarian we were searching for information about the old hospital tunnel.

  “I personally don’t know much about it. Only that part of it collapsed a few years ago and killed a group of vagrants.” Bending over her desk, the librarian scribbled on a post it note and handed it to me. “This is the name and contact information for someone in town. He’s a local historian of sorts. I would bet he knows a lot about the tunnel.” She grimaced. “He’s sort of eccentric but he knows about the ‘oddities’ of Savannah.”

&nbs
p; “Thanks.” I took the paper and slipping it into my purse. “But is there anything we might find here?"

  “Possibly,” she said.

  After having us leave our backpacks at the counter and issuing us cotton gloves, the librarian walked us to a flight of stairs. “You might be able to find something about the tunnel in the old newspapers on the second floor.”

  A few minutes later, seated one of the wooden tables, I flipped through the pages of an index to the museum’s newspaper archives.

  “I can’t believe how Chase dissed me.” Petra slid into a chair across from me at the table.

  Not answering, I continued flipping.

  “You aren’t really going on a date with Rom are you?” Franky took a seat on my right.

  My admonition really worked. They were both so totally going to leave me alone.

  On the notepad in front of me I jotted down all the references to yellow fever epidemic and the tunnel. After retrieving the first volume of compiled newspaper clippings, I returned to my chair.

  “I mean, the guy is weird,” Franky said.

  “Yeah, Chase is weird.” Petra frowned and twirled a lock of her hair.

  “I meant Rom,” Franky said.

  “Shut up you two.” I shot them a quelling glare.

  The first article from 1876 reported the death toll was rising and the city council had voted to authorize the firing of a cannonball to disperse the vapors of sickness. Yeah that would help, I thought, but only if the cannonball hit the mosquitoes who actually transmitted the disease.

  “You don’t care about me.” Petra pouted and jumped up. She made a big production of flouncing over to a chair on the opposite side of the room and plopping down on it, legs crossed. With a huff she pulled out her cell phone and started texting, as she swung her top leg back and forth.

  I couldn’t deal with her tantrum. Turning back to the digest, I noted another article that talked about the symptoms of the disease: from high fever, chills and muscle aches to vomiting, bleeding and jaundice.

  “If you want to go on a date, I’ll take you.” Franky's pale face went bright red with a blush that seemed to start at his forehead and seep down to disappear into the collar of his shirt.

  “Franky, you’re like a—” I swallowed down the word brother. “I like you. But we’re just friends.”

  Now I knew what the word crestfallen meant. His face actually sagged.

  My phone pinged and I glanced at the face. A text from Petra: I might as well be living in Siberia with no boyfriend and no best friend.

  After a supremely disgusted glare in her direction, I turned back to the digest.

  Through the next series of articles, I learned there had been three yellow fever epidemics in the city. The tunnel had been constructed at the time of the 1876 outbreak. But it was just a rumor that the tunnel was used to transport any of the more than one thousand victims for mass burial.

  Another ping and I’d received a second message from Petra: I’m going to go to the spelunk tonight, but only to throw myself off the top of the building and go splat.

  Her words stunned me for a moment and I continued to examine the text. When her words fully registered, my eyes flew to her. Petra’s face blanched.

  “Oh, Kizzy.” She tripped slightly as she rushed over to me, pulled me from the chair and wrapped me in a hug. “What a turd I am. I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I mumbled into her shoulder. “I know you didn’t mean anything about…”

  “I love you, Kizzy.”

  I didn’t want to love her back. The ones you loved were the ones who could hurt you.

  “If you love me so much,” I said with a choked chuckle as I pulled out of her arms. “Get over there and help me with this research.”

  “I found something for you here,” Franky announced with glee. Petra and I moved to the table and read over his shoulder.

  The article was from 1892, a number of years after the last big epidemic, and bore the headline: New Yellow Fever Strikes?

  Apparently, people had disappeared. Authorities feared the victims became delusional with fever and wandered off. Not only that, a number of other people had died mysteriously.

  “Sorry. This article isn’t about the tunnel after all.” Franky's face fell as if he’d let me down.

  “This is hopeless,” Petra said. “We need to get back to school. There’s nothing here about that stinky tunnel.”

  “Ok, let’s go.” My eyes quickly scanned the rest of the article. Local doctor Robert Hopewood was quoted. “This isn’t yellow fever. Those people died of blood loss from some kind of animal attack.”

  Weird. But I couldn’t see how that would have anything to do with the tunnel.

  * * * * *

  “Wear something girlie.” Petra’s voice was faintly tinny through the cell phone as I held it to my ear. “How about that knee length poppy print dress.”

  “I’m so not taking that advice.” I rummaged through the closet and pushed past the poppy dress. Its hanger clicked as it jammed the neighbor. “Rom might think that I think that this is serious boy girl stuff.” I plucked a pair of jeans hanging on the rack. “What about my Diesels? He might as well know I’m not very girlie.”

  “No,” Petra insisted.

  Putting it on speaker, I set down the phone on my bedside table and tugged on the jeans.

  “Not those horrible ones with the holes in the knees.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” I asked defensively.

  “They make your butt look fat,” she answered.

  “What?” Twisting and turning I examined my posterior in the full-length mirror on my closet door. “No way.”

  “Well, if you really want to wear something that looks heinous on you, go right ahead,” Petra said.

  I could almost picture her secret smile. I knew she was psyching me out...but it worked anyway.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll wear the dress.” After tearing off the jeans, I wadded them into a ball and tossed them into the corner. “What about you and Chase? Spelunking or date?”

  “I’m still working on him. Later. Smooches.” She hung up.

  I put on the dress and after a few minutes standing in front of the mirror, I had to admit the dress seemed a better choice for the balmy evening. The weather, not Petra or Rom, dictated my choice I assured myself. Topping the dress with a light half-sleeve sweater would cover the scar on my arm. I wouldn’t worry about the scratch on my leg.

  Convincing my mother to allow me to leave home that night had been impossible until I told her about my date. Then her entire face lit up with a smile. She couldn’t agree fast enough at that point. Mom barely remembered to make a perfunctory inquiry about whether I’d finished my homework, which of course I said I had. Although “finished” was a stretch. So when Rom arrived promptly at seven p.m., Mom practically danced to the door to answer it.

  She saw Rom, sharply dressed in a white shirt over jeans topped with a black jacket, and she glanced at me with a gleam in her eyes. Was that a thumbs up she gave behind his back as he walked in? All my strength went into preventing an eye roll.

  At least Mom didn’t interrogate him. She did however, bring up my stepfather and his deployment to Iraq as if the fact he had access to guns would intimidate Rom out of trying anything funny.

  Rom accepted it all with his signature twist of a smile, assuring Mom my care would be of “preeminence” to him. With Mom’s admonition to be home by 10 p.m. and “have fun, honey,” we were finally out the door.

  Outside a red and rust Mustang, probably 1980s vintage, sat at the curb.

  “My chariot awaits.” Rom made a sweeping arm gesture toward the car.

  “Wow,” I exclaimed running toward the Mustang. “I didn’t know you had your license already.”

  What a dumb thing to say, I thought. Talk about stating the obvious. Duh.

  “I have attained my sixteenth year,” Rom said with a smile.

  We both
reached for the passenger door handle at the same time, but Rom beat me to it. Opening the door, he waited while I got inside before he closed it after me. I have to admit it made me feel pretty special.

  A short drive later, we came to a stop in the parking lot of Forsyth Park. Rom twisted toward me in the seat.

  “I am thinking we dine in the air.” He pointed to the picnic basket in the back seat.

  “You mean al fresco?”

  He grinned. “Just so.”

  Grinning back I threw my hands up. “Sounds great to me.”

  The fast setting sun just peaked over the tree line as we walked down the center of the park, talking about school. Rom laughed about an incident in his math class and I noted that I’d almost received detention in science class. We made our way past the civil war monument at the park’s center, and then veered off eastward toward the band shell area.

  A few people jogged the perimeter of the park. A dozen or so sat lounging on the grass or were milling about on the interior sidewalks. But as no music activities were taking place tonight, our destination was relatively empty. The band shell was situated with a fountain at its front shooting water in two separate arcs. Along the backside was a concrete building known as the Fort, which had been used for troop maneuvers during WWI and now housed a visitor center and a coffee shop.

  The stage, defined by a semi-circle of columns and topped by a white sail shaped roof, was vacant. After proceeding onto the stage, Rom placed the picnic basket down, opened it and took out a blanket, which he then spread out for us to sit on. The rest of the basket's contents consisted of drinks, sandwiches and chips. I might have spotted brownies in there too. We made short order of unpacking the food and drink.

  The western sky went pink and gold as the sunset.

  “Where are you from?” After taking a sip from a soda can, I nibbled on the sandwich. Tuna.

  Rom didn’t answer. He merely stared down at the blanket under us, tracing the geometric pattern that covered it with his index finger.

  After a few seconds I broke the silence.

  “What’s the matter? Is the information classified or something? If so, I’m cool with it.”