Prowler: Three Haunting Tales

by Michael D. Britton

  But now I was alone. Me, the crickets, and a 1979 Fleetwood Prowler – twenty years old, but in pristine condition.

  #

  First thing I noticed when I woke up was the smell.

  A new-car smell had replaced the musty aged-vinyl smell of the trailer. I sat up and looked around – everything seemed just a little bit shinier, cleaner. Yet there was no smell of cleaning agents. The green curtains were brighter, the linoleum floor had a sheen I hadn’t noticed before.

  A good night’s sleep in seclusion seemed to have awakened my senses, given me a new outlook on the world around me.

  I moved through the narrow hall to the front, past the mini-kitchen, and noticed the hum of the refrigerator – the fridge that hadn’t worked since long before I’d bought the trailer. I opened it and stuck my hand in – cool air poured out around my forearm.

  Weird.

  I pushed open the front door and stepped out into the morning sun, down the black metal steps that could be retracted for towing.

  I thought the trees in this private little grove had been taller and thicker when I pulled in late in the evening, but then, I was tired last night and it was getting dark.

  I turned to go back inside and froze. Someone had applied a new coat of paint to the trailer while I slept! And it looked totally original – the same pin-striping, a nice glossy coat that was already dry.

  The trailer looked brand spanking new.

  Then I saw the truck.

  My rusty old 1978 Chevy had also been painted to look like new. Someone had switched out the license plates and put on those old yellow-on-black Oregon plates from years back, but they, too, were shiny and clean.

  I hopped in, and was struck immediately by the clean new smell and the obviously false odometer reading – only sixteen thousand miles.

  My mouth went dry and I felt sick, like I hadn’t eaten in days. I felt dizzy for a moment and laid my head down on the steering wheel.

  I needed to figure out what was going on – who was screwing with me – how they had done this.

  I jumped out of the truck, removed the jack stands from under the four corners of the trailer, and prepped it for towing by cranking the tongue jack until the tow-hitch ball supported the full weight of the Prowler.

  I pulled out onto Jacksonville Highway. The narrow two-lane road weaved eastward through the thick fir trees. As I neared Medford, I noticed they were having one of those classic car rallies they have in the summer. Lots of nice old Fords, Chevys and Chryslers, restored to mint condition.

  Yep, lots of old cars.

  But – no newer cars – like they’d been cleared from the streets.

  And some of the old west side neighborhoods had been spruced up for this weird, all-encompassing car show – new paint jobs, yards weeded and cleaned up a little.

  Then I saw the people.

  Everyone looked like they were stuck in the seventies. My heart started to race. Something was very, very wrong here.

  I clicked on the radio - maybe there was some information available.

  Oldies, oldies, oldies. Where were all my stations?

  The ads were strange, too. It was like everyone was having some kind of nostalgia trip, playing old seventies radio spots.

  By the time I got all the way downtown, it was clear that this was not just a 70s Flashback Weekend or classic car cruise.

  Everything had changed.

  #

  I sat in the trailer, parked outside what used to be the Kopper Kitchen restaurant, but now was called “Joe’s Diner,” reading “today’s” paper.

  I figured it was a joke, until I saw that every newspaper in every newspaper stand had the same crazy date.

  July 15, 1979.

  Twenty years to the day.

  One thing was for sure – the ex-wife wouldn’t find me here.

  Unfortunately, I had no allies here, either. In 1979, my parents hadn’t moved here yet from California, and I didn’t yet know anybody.

  I needed to explore my new world, so I decided I’d better buy some shoes.

  My Levi jeans and plain t-shirts were neutral enough, but I didn’t see anybody going around in bright white Nike cross-trainers, since they didn’t exist yet – so to blend in I walked barefoot to Norris shoes on Main Street. In 1979 Medford, I fit right in without shoes, but I hated walking barefoot, so I picked up some comfortable black leather loafers, well-made for the price.

  I pulled out my Rogue Credit Union debit card, then thought better and quickly put it away. Instead, I ended up counting out a bunch of quarters, careful to make sure there were no newer ones in the bunch.

  This money thing was going to get tricky.

  I went back to the trailer, grabbed some stuff – an iron skillet, two pairs of old Levis, a spare tire for the trailer – and headed to the pawn shop on North Central.

  Gone. Or rather – not there yet.

  Back down Riverside past familiar old places and some stores I’d never seen before, to the other pawn shop.

  Excellent – nineteen dollars and fifty cents in good old 1979 cash.

  I returned to the trailer, stepped inside, enjoying its new smell and clean surfaces.

  It was nice to have a “new” truck and a “new” trailer, and to feel the weight of my past life gone – no chance of running into my ex, no worries at all.

  But I had to find out what the heck was going on, and find a way back home. Somehow I knew I couldn’t stay here.

  Was this some kind of crazy time-traveling magic trailer? Or was something broader going on – had the whole world turned back, but left me intact somehow? Perhaps being in the trailer protected me from the cosmic shift.

  Or maybe it was something about that spot where I spent the night in Ruch. I decided to head back there to see if I could find anything strange.

  I put some gas in the truck – a whole tank for less than six bucks! – and headed back out Jacksonville Highway, amazed at the way everything looked in 1979. Everything a little fresher. The roads a little narrower (the big population boom of the late 80s and 90s, along with its road projects, hadn’t happened yet).

  I nearly missed the turn into the secluded grove where I’d spent the previous night.

  I slammed on the brakes (they reacted like new) and turned in, then slowly rumbled and bounced along the gravel ruts for a few hundred feet, my wheels crunching along the ground. Then I turned right, toward the river, and crossed a few yards of flattened grass, between branches of scrub oak clawing at the sides of the trailer.

  I came to a stop in the tiny clearing, where I could see between the trees to the river rolling by. I got out and started to look around, not sure what I was looking for.

  Until I saw it standing there.

  It was about three feet tall, with thick orange hair over its whole body, except for its face and head, which were completely bald, revealing a light green skin color. It had two sets of two eyes on each side of its head, no nose, and a small mouth. Each hand had seven slender fingers – also hairless.

  It stared at me.

  Before I could react, I heard a voice.

  Inside my head – like a good stereo recording.

  Hello, Burt.

  “Uh, hullo?” I said. “W-what’s going on? Who are you?”

  I am Rell. I am of the Forru. We come from far beyond your sky. Please remain calm.

  “Calm?” I barked. He must have sensed my rising agitation. I tried hard to control it. “Tell me what is happening here.”

  Oh dear. They told me this might happen if I wasn’t careful. This is my first assignment. Probably my last.

  “What?”

  We study humans. We have moved you to this location in time. I am one of several hundred Forru researchers on your planet, conducting various tests. This test has been compromised by your discovery of me, and will now be terminated.

  “What does that mean? Are you just going to leave me here? You can’t do tha
t! And what are you studying us for?” I could barely believe I was angrily firing questions at a fuzzy little telepathic alien. But then, I was trapped in 1979, so I supposed anything was possible.

  We study various species to gauge their readiness for socialization with the rest of the galaxy. That is the special calling of the Forru – we study, we gauge, and then we recommend a species, if warranted. And yes, I’m afraid a terminated subject is on his own. Good bye, Burt.

  “Wait!” I called, as this thing turned away and started to walk into the bushes. “I want to know more.”

  It stopped and turned.

  “How close are we – the humans – to getting recommended?”

  We are nearing the end of our tests, which began just over fifty Earth years ago. You are one of the final subjects, actually. I’m sure we will have sufficient data to finalize our analysis without your test results.

  “How did you bring me back in time? I need to know, so I can try to find my own way back.”

  Why not just stay here and enjoy yourself?

  “I don’t belong here.”

  How do you know?

  I thought for a few moments. “Is this part of the test?”

  Rell snorted and bare his teeth. You are a very strong subject. Yes. Gauging human willingness to reside out of their own temporal context is Key Number 47. You demonstrate a strong desire to exist in your own time, despite the fact that your life there is utterly unsatisfactory. This bodes well for your species.

  “You know about my life? What do you know?”

  That you have suffered from an abusive relationship, that you are now basically homeless, with little going for you but your strong religious faith. That if you could go back in time, things would likely be better for you, because of the poor choices you’ve made.

  “So, you mess with time to make sure other people don’t want to mess with time. Sounds pretty hypocritical.” I sat down on a rock. “Any other hurdles to clear,” I said cynically, “or are you going to snap your fingers and send me back to my own time with my memory of this wiped?”

  Unlike your television entertainment, we do not wipe memory. We can master many elements of space-time, but we hold the minds of individuals sacrosanct. You will be left intact.

  “So, you put people all over the world through these tests, but leave them with their memories? I find that hard to believe.”

  There are over six billion people on Earth, Burt. We only run tests on about ten thousand. You are subject 9992. How many people do you know who believe in intelligent off-world life?

  I thought for a moment. “Are you telling me that all those crazy people aren’t really crazy?”

  Rell just stood there, blinking each of his four eyes in succession.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, listen. You mentioned something about being in trouble for letting me discover you. Was that true?”

  Regulations state that I am to remain invisible to my subjects. If discovered during a test such as this, I am to test for Key Number 47, then depart. I’ll probably get demoted, but it is not the end of my career.

  “What if I could help you get promoted instead?”

  Go on.

  “Here’s an experiment that may not be in your regulations.” I stood and strolled to the truck, leaned on it. “Send me back to my own time, but allow me to stop and talk to myself on the way – the self of five years before my time.”

  Out of the question. That would alter your time line.

  “Haven’t you already altered stuff by sending me here? I’ve interacted with people, traded things.”

  What would be the point of this experiment?

  “To determine what one thing a human would tell his past self, if given the chance. Give you some insight into humanity.”

  Rell closed two of his eyes and the other two looked up to the sky. After a few moments, he once again spoke in my mind.

  Very well. I have received approval to proceed. You may choose the exact time to meet yourself, and you may only speak to yourself for one minute.

  I thought for a few moments, my mind moving from time to time, trying to figure out when and where in my life I could be most useful to myself.

  And at what point I would actually believe that I was really visiting myself.

  Rell stared at me with all four eyes, making me a little nervous.

  “Okay, fine. I know when I want to go to.”

  Rell placed his palms together as if saying a prayer, and without warming the world transformed around me. Everything disappeared, including Rell.

  I found myself in my old bedroom at my parents’ house on Barclay Road. The walls were covered, floor-to-ceiling, in full-color posters of exotic sports cars. The angst-filled strains of Pearl Jam’s album Ten (brand new at the time) were droning away on the CD player. A pair of guitars leaned in the corner by the single bed, and a little Tascam four-track recording board sat atop a small table near the stereo.

  To think, I’d actually believed I could be a musician. Those were the days.

  I found myself standing behind a young man in a yellow tank top and gray sweat shorts. He was deep in thought, scribbling away in his journal – some kind of college-kid poetry, if I recalled correctly.

  The guy had a mullet.

  Woah – that guy is me. Was me.

  What was I thinking? Maybe I should’ve gone back further and prevented this fashion tragedy.

  No, that wasn’t as important as saving myself from a lot of heartache and misery.

  The hair would just have to be what it was.

  I tapped myself on the shoulder. It felt weird to touch myself from the outside.

  The other me jumped, his eyes freaked out, and he yelped a little.

  “Shh,” I said. “It’s me – you.”

  The other me looked shocked and puzzled, but said nothing, just gulped at the air.

  “Look, I don’t have much time. In fact, I only have about forty five seconds left. I am you, about seven years in the future. I don’t have time to prove it – you just need to trust me and listen closely.”

  The other me, the one that was twenty, going on twenty one, continued to stare at me, but closed his mouth, his eyes serious.

  “This is the most important piece of advice I can give you: stay away from Shara. You’ll meet her in the Half Time Sports Bar sometime in the couple of weeks or so. You’ll want to date her. Don’t. I’m trying to save us both a lot of misery. Trust me on this. Stay away from her!”

  As I said the last word, my reality faded around me. The last thing I saw were my own bewildered eyes staring back at me, begging me with unspoken questions.

  I next found myself back in the wooded grove with Rell, the warm sun on my skin and the smell of the river in my nose.

  Did you speak your peace?

  “All that I could, in such a short time. So, how come I still remember the last seven years of my life as if nothing has changed?”

  You are currently isolated from the effect. We are still in 1979, before the last seven years of your life, from your perspective, have occurred. When I return you to your own time, you will return to a new reality, but you will still retain memories of the original time line. And of our encounter.

  “How will that work?”

  You will understand. Farewell, Burt.

  He pressed his hands together once more, and I suddenly found myself in a dark, cold room.

  Surrounded by bars.

  I was in jail.

  My hair was long, and I had a beard.

  My mind ran over the last seven years of my life – the new life I’d created by speaking to myself all that time ago and warning myself away from Shara.

  How could it be? How could things be so much worse for me?

  According to my new, dual memory, I had taken my own advice and steered clear of the woman who would nearly ruin me. Instead, I had chosen a path of self-destruction.
>
  What I’d neglected to consider was that Shara had introduced me to religion – and that I’d used that religion to buoy myself up through the hard times, to find reasons to make better choices for myself, despite the misery she’d put me through.

  And now I was the victim of unintended consequences. I found it profoundly impossible to believe that the best choice, the thing that would’ve been best for me, was to experience the last seven years the way I did – utter misery and the near-destruction of my person at the hands of a sick, troubled, selfish woman.

  Yet somehow I’d ended up worse for not having known her, for not having gone through those fiery trials.

  I’d driven myself into the ground, and was clearly at rock bottom.

  I looked around at the cell. Barren. Empty. Like my soul.

  No, not quite.

  I was now armed with the knowledge of how things could be. I had the understanding of what my alternatives were, and my heart still had the stirrings of the religion I’d made a part of me in that other life.

  As I rested my arms on the horizontal bar between the cage bars, and lowered my head to touch the cold steel, my memories of that other life and those other choices began to slowly fade, and my new “real life” came more sharply into focus.

  As I contemplated the choices that had led me here, and considered the things I could do to integrate my good choices from my other life with the realities of this one, I started to formulate a plan to get out of this circumstance and begin a road to recovery.

  In the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a short, fuzzy creature in the darkness.

  “Rell?”

  Just a final follow up, Burt. What is your conclusion? Would you like to undo these changes and return to your other time line?

  I turned to him and squatted so I could look him in all four of his eyes. “No. I will stay here and dig my way out to a better life.”

  Rell nodded slowly. Excellent. He closed two of his eyes once more, and looked up with the others for a few moments. You will be pleased to know that the Forru Eschelon has passed along its recommendation to the Galactic Council. In favor of bringing Earth into the fold. It was your decision – just now – that made the difference. A willingness to accept consequences, a willingness to work to correct mistakes, and a willingness to suffer for a greater good are all requisite to an enlightened existence. It is clear that humans are ready. Well done, Burt. And good luck. Perhaps we will meet again one day.