Thanksgiving dinner at the Baptist Towers Rest Home had always been difficult, but things had become an absolute circus since Anthony Adair moved into 14B.
The media requests usually began trickling in around Halloween. The locals still attempted to arrange an interview, hoping their persistence would eventually thaw the wall of stubborn silence the old man had erected. Time, The New Yorker and USA Today had thrown in the towel after a few years of being stonewalled by the world’s most famous historical tourist, but ambitious journalists still camped in the lobby on turkey day, hoping for at least a few photographs for their efforts.
And so it was with great anticipation that Jennie Granger flitted about the dining hall, refilling empty punch glasses and hustling back to the kitchen for replacement cutlery as forks and knives found their inevitable homes on the floor. Granger had built a cautious rapport with Adair; she hoped that almost a year of tending to his needs would culminate in what had proved to be humanity’s most elusive interview.
“Shoot,” she muttered as she distributed squares of pumpkin pie from a serving cart. “I can’t believe I’m doing this...”
“Doing what, dear?” Mrs. Salegovic said, her eyes magnified behind what seemed like an inch of bifocal. She, like many of the older guard, had turned down eye surgery on numerous occasions, opting instead for a natural aging experience. It was cheaper, to be sure, and there was more dignity in it, at least in the minds of the older generations.
“Oh, nothing,” Granger replied, blushing. “You have excellent hearing, Mrs. S.”
Salegovic winked, the gesture saying it all. You better believe I hear well, young lady. I hear everything.
Granger had serious misgivings about the plan, but she was going to go through with it.
Drugging Anthony Adair was their best option. It was as simple as that.
“Look, half of the clients are on the stuff already,” Caldwell Wilson, her professor at the university, had said. They’d been in bed together, rehashing the plan one final time. “And we’re not talking sodium pentathol here, Jennie. Just a single crushed Questar, dropped into his evening tea. Just a little nudge in the direction of honesty. You were born to tell this story, babe. Born to do it, but you need to see the tape...”
The memory was interrupted by Jim Flagler’s sonorous Southern drawl. The director’s beaming face appeared on the digital wall at the front of the dining hall.
“Thank you, one and all, for another fantastic Thanksgiving holiday!” There was a smattering of applause; someone in the back of the room called the director a turkey, and there were a few jags of caustic laughter. “It’s great to see you all in such high spirits. Thanksgiving truly is my favorite time of the year. It’s an essential reminder of all that’s important in life—friendship, community, and sharing.”
Flagler carried on with his Hallmark spiel for a few more minutes, then turned his eyes toward Anthony Adair. “As has become our custom since Mr. Adair joined us here at Baptist Towers, I’ll now ask the kind gentleman if he’d care to share his experience of the very first Thanksgiving! If you’re willing, Mr. Adair, we’d be honored to hear your tale.”
The room went silent. Over one hundred pair of eyes drilled down on the old man in the wheelchair.
Anthony Adair stared at the digital wall for a long moment, then slowly folded his arms across his chest.
“Very well,” Flagler said. He gave the room a gentle smile. “My momma always told me that it never hurts to ask. I want to sincerely thank all of you, once again...”
His words faded into white noise as Jenny Granger studied Adair. Just at that moment, his head swiveled and he met her gaze. Granger gasped sharply as a smile slowly formed on his face.
When he turned his attention back to the square of pumpkin pie before him she exhaled, unaware that she’d been holding her breath.
“Miss! Miss! May I have some more dessert?” Elmer Dunwoody called.
“Of course,” Granger replied, putting Adair’s knowing smile out of her mind as she finished up with the dinner service.
“Have you ever kept a secret, Ms. Granger?” Adair said. “Something...really juicy?”
They were back in 14B, the nicest suite in the complex. There was a large bedroom, a kitchenette, a sitting room, and even a spacious study. They were in the study when Adair posed his question. He remained in his wheelchair, his spindly legs covered with a quilt. Granger had helped him shrug out of his dress shirt and slacks and into pajamas. A fire sizzled and popped in the hearth, casting the dim room in shadows that danced across the spines of hundreds of books. “Have you ever been saddled with information that you knew might upset an important balance? Knowledge that would fundamentally change an entire way of life?”
Granger nodded sincerely. “Probably not to the extent that you have, Mr. Adair, but I have kept a secret. My sister confided something…something monumental in me years ago, and I haven’t told another soul about what happened to her. I never will.”
Her pulse surged. She sensed that she was on the edge of something important, and her hand covered the tiny bulge of the pill in her smock. Perhaps there would be no use for it after all.
Adair caught the furtive gesture, and his blue eyes twinkled as a smile lit his face. “No need for that, Ms. Granger. No need. I think, if you’re willing to hear me out, then I’m finally ready to tell my story.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Adair? I just...”
“Come now,” he chuckled. “I’m not without resources. I know you’ve been studying journalism at the university. I actually applaud you for your dedication. And you seem very pleasant. It’s just,” he frowned and considered the gnarled hands folded in his lap, “I’m not sure that you’re strong enough to look at the tape. To tell the whole story.”
Granger sighed. “Do you mind if I join you—near the fire here?”
“Of course not,” Adair replied, smiling warmly. “Please—make yourself comfortable. But before you do, fetch me that volume there.” He pointed to a large book on the desktop in the corner.
Granger retrieved it and slid a high-backed chair into position across from the old man. “May I record this?”
Adair nodded, and Granger activated the device embedded within her contact lenses. She studied the book. The cover depicted the man—confident, smiling, much younger—now sitting opposite her. The book had become an almost universally required text in high school history classes over the last three decades.
She handed it over to Adair, and he looked at it for a long moment. Finally, he turned his gaze on the young woman. “So tell me, Ms. Granger. Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you strong enough to bear witness to what I saw on that very first Thanksgiving?”
“I am,” she replied, betrayed just a little by the warble in her voice. She felt a rush of adrenaline, then a pang of anxiety.
Adair nodded his head slowly. “Very well. In that case let’s start at the beginning.”
He opened the text.
“What do you know about Albert Quindlen?”
Granger smiled. “You mean the most famous person in all of human history?”
“Um, okay,” Granger said. “He created the Quantum Discovery Module in 2019. He was an amateur scientist and frustrated inventor, and then he stumbled upon the existence of parallel time channels. The first-generation QDM was the natural technological progression from that discovery. I know that he was the first historian to travel back in time—that he recorded the explosion of Mt.
from a safe vantage point just outside of .
That was back in 2023, and it was the first known instance of time travel,
although there are rumors that Quindlen had back-trekked a number of times
prior to that while he was building his prototype.” Naples
“Very good. And what else?”
“Well, he created Quindlen Technologies in 2025. In 2030, he opened the first Living History Travel Station out at the old Air Force Base—what used to be called Cecil Field. And then after that, his story and yours are pretty much intertwined.”
Adair nodded in concession. “Very good, Ms. Granger. A solid thumbnail synopsis. Albert Quindlen, like another famous Albert before him, was a very bright light in an otherwise dim world. He was an honorable and brilliant man who created something that changed the way we live. Did you know that he designed the first QDM in the machine shop of a little old swimming pool supply store?”
Granger nodded that she hadn’t and Adair chuckled at the memory.
“’Al’s Discount Pool Supply,’” he mused. “His shop was located in the second unit of a depressing old strip mall, located almost at the northern end of St. Johns Bluff Road. Sandwiched between a nail salon and place called Canine Creations. They made gourmet dog treats—even doggy ice cream, if you can believe that! Albert once told me that he knew it was time to quit for the day when the woman next door would bake those treats and his stomach set to growling.
“At any rate, Albert Quindlen had intended that his invention to be put to noble purposes. He hoped to provide a first-person account of humanity’s benevolence and strength. Do you recall what happened after Bindal Al Mirashi went back and recorded Muhammad’s first revelation? Back in 2034?”
Granger nodded. “Radical Islamic terrorism, as we had come to know it, ceased to exist. Al Mirashi’s observations created the truest interpretation of Islam that the world had ever known. Things changed forever.”
“And those were the beautiful assurances, you see. Those were the affirmations that were necessary for mankind to move forward as a global community. And for many years, the most astonishing facet of the technology was just how useless it truly was. Because history had been, by and large, phenomenally accurate.
“Sure, there are the infamous misses. Those are bound to happen, of course. Who would have ever guessed that George Washington had such nefarious…appetites? Who could predict that Elvis Presley had been murdered by his own manager? And of course, I don’t need to get into the JFK tapes. That remains my most controversial trek—well, aside from the tape that I’ll show you later tonight. But, what I mean to say is that instances like those were few and far between.
“The QDM brought the past to life, and for many years, I was its most prominent advocate.”
Granger nodded and watched as Adair thumbed through the book until he arrived at the first chapter. He passed it to the young woman.
“Read this, please.”
Granger cleared her throat. “To know America—the term often used synonymously with the country now called the United States of America—is to know a nation built upon a foundation of bloodshed and conquest.” She looked up from the page, confused, and then pressed on. “That foundation begins, for practical purposes, with Spaniard Pedro Menendez de
Aviles and the country’s oldest continuous settlement of
European descent: . The first governor of St. Augustine,
Florida , Menendez and
his company of soldiers quickly dispatched the peninsula’s native inhabitants,
the Timucua, and their leader Seloy. Thus began a long history of usurpations,
land acquisitions and military campaigns by the peoples of Florida France, Spain,
England and against
populations indigenous to the continent…” America
She read through the end of the first section of the first chapter before closing the book and staring at Adair. “What is this? It’s nothing like the text I remember reading back in school.”
“It’s my final edition. The truest draft, my dear. Go ahead—scan the tape.”
Granger cracked the book open and touched the pads of the index and middle finger on her right hand to the sensors at the bottom of the page. In the telefields of her contact lenses, she saw familiar images of the Spanish and the Timucua hunting together. There were images of the natives trading with their foreign visitors and building homes and forts together—all neatly edited and spliced together. The overall effect was to give a primary account of daily life in the 1560s.
“I’ve seen all of this, Mr. Adair. We had quizzes on every one of your lessons. You should be very proud to have…”
“You haven’t seen this version. In this version, I’ve included everything that I witnessed. Even the sections that were…edited for sensitive audiences.”
Granger swallowed, nodded and returned her fingers to the sensors. The tape showed the Spanish and the Timucua fishing together. She knew the waters were nearby, and she felt excitement and pride that such an important period in her country’s history had unfolded in her own back yard.
There was a momentary blip in the tape, as if another portion of footage had been affixed to the original she recalled from high school, and that’s when she saw the massacre. A group of Timucua natives were hunting in a marshy slough. She counted nine of them, all males. One, recognizable by his dress and the way he wore his long hair, was Seloy. They crept through the saturated lowlands, bows at the ready; two more carried nets as they scanned the pools for fish.
Granger was absorbed by the images. The methodical manner of the hunting party increased the tension of the scene playing out before her. She heard, far in the distance, the occasional cry of a whippoorwill. Other than that, Adair’s footage was almost preternaturally silent.
She flinched when the first Timucua fell to the ground. A shaft of arrow jutted from his back, and he lie perfectly still—face down in the muck.
She withdrew her fingers and locked eyes with Adair.
“It was all very sudden,” he said quietly. “Thankfully, by the time that I captured this footage, Quindlen’s people had perfected the Whisper Suits. I can’t imagine what might have happened if I’d been discovered.”
She touched her fingers to the sensors and watched in mounting horror as a group of Spanish horseman overtook the hunting party. With knives and clubs and arrows, they made short work of the Timucua, piling their bodies on a spit of dry land before setting covering them with driftwood and Spanish moss. A captain set fire to the remains and the Spaniards celebrated their ambush.
The only thing they did not burn was the Timucua chief’s head, whose unblinking visage was instead tucked into a saddlebag by an infamous Spaniard with streaks of blood in his beard.
“We were always told that they coexisted,” she whispered when the tape was finished. “We were told that the Spanish and the Timucua relied on each other for survival.”
Adair flashed a mirthless smile—a grim line that spoke to an underlying pessimism that was as strong and reliable as the
St. Johns River. “Go ahead. Finish the
chapter. I think I’ll pour myself a brandy. Would you care for one?”
Granger refused; she paged forward in the text, engrossing herself in a history the world had never known.
It was ten minutes before 11:00 p.m. when Granger had finished the first chapter. She closed the book with a sigh, turning her attention to her host, who had been snoring in his wheelchair for more than an hour.
“Mr. Adair,” she whispered. She put her hand on his forearm, amazed at how brittle the man was. It was like touching a chicken bone wrapped in a dishcloth. “Let’s get you into bed.”
She began to wheel him toward the bedroom, and he came awake with a start. “No! Not yet, Ms. Granger. There is still time to finish this before the conclusion of our beloved holiday. Please—fetch me that text.” He pointed to a bookshelf on the far wall. Granger went to it.
“Third row from the bottom. To your right just a bit. Just a bit more. There! Try that one!”
Granger pulled a slender volume from the shelf.
“Please, Ms. Granger—build up the fire a little, would you?”
She added another Duralog, smiling at how sentimental the old ones could be, then handed him the text.
“I can’t...I can’t believe what I just saw, Mr. Adair.
Popham. The things they did to each other!” Jamestown
Adair offered a grim nod. “Such is the way of conquest. This is the one that they all want to see. This is the one that they’ve hounded me for since I returned.” A wistful quality appeared in his eyes and he smiled. “Would you like to hear something amazing?”
“Two months before he died, Albert Quindlen told me that he’d found a way to replicate the coding for the time channels. Quindlen thought, within a matter of years, technology would make it possible to visit these places more than just that single time.”
“But they never discovered how?”
“They never did,” Adair replied with a rueful shake of the head. “That’s one secret—although I’m sure there are many, many more—that Albert took with him to the grave. The government has tried to go back—to observe him at work in his laboratory—but they haven’t learned anything useful. Now they’re scared as hell to use the time channels; they’re worried they’ll exhaust the Quindlen footage without having anything useful to show for it.
“At any rate, you hold in your hands a chapter called ‘
Forgive me if I nod off. A man my age must take his sleep wherever he can get
it. Please, Ms. Granger—wake me when you’ve finished.” Plymouth
He smacked his lips a few times and closed his eyes, his head shrinking down on his shoulders like a turtle’s ducking into its shell.
Granger opened the text. The notes had been recorded on a typewriter—not a word processor or a digipad, but an honest-to-goodness typewriter. There were hand-written scrawls in the margins.
She started to read—the words merging together in the firelight to create a narrative of struggle and misery, of determination and achievement. She read for over an hour and, in the first minutes of the day after Thanksgiving, in the year 2063, she touched her fingers to the sensors and became one of two living souls to see the only eye-witness account of the very first Thanksgiving.
“Ms. Granger,” Adair whispered to the distraught girl. He reached out to touch her arm. “Ms. Granger!”
She flinched at the feathery contact, squirming away from him in her seat. “How did you? How could you..?” she said, tears streaming from her eyes.
Adair merely nodded. “Perhaps I could have better prepared you for that footage. Perhaps I should have...”
Granger stood. “You! You just sat there and watched!”
“But I did not—I could not—intervene, Jennie! You must understand that! I merely recorded what happened. I could not intervene—you know that! And now—now you’ve seen it! You must understand why I’ve kept this to myself all these long years. Why, can you imagine if that footage had been leaked to the American people? Can you imagine if..?”
Granger tossed the book onto the old man’s lap, as if it might burn her. “It’s horrible, Mr. Adair! It’s revolting! You should have destroyed the tape years ago!”
“Well, then, do it now, girl! There,” he pointed, “throw it in the fire!” With shaking hands, he extended the book to her.
Granger swiped a tear from her cheek, snatched the text, stomped over to the fire and tossed it into the flames. They watched in silence as the edges caught and began to curl in the heat. When the book was nothing but collapsed ash, Granger made her way to the doorway.
“Did you get what you needed?” Adair called to her. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Did you find the story that you hoped to tell the world?”
“It’s a curse,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “And now you’ve cursed me. Goodbye, Mr. Adair. I think this is the last we’ll be seeing of each other.”
She opened the door and stepped into the sitting room, the old man’s shrill laughter chasing her from
“It’s a secret, Ms. Granger!” he shrieked between cackles. “It’s a secret, not a curse!”
Granger left him there, laughing like the madman that he surely was. She took the elevator down to the lobby, unpinning her identification on the way down.
“Oh, there you are, Jennie,” Rita, the head nurse, said. “I was hoping you might...”
Granger swept right past her, pausing only once in the foyer to toss her badge in the garbage. The outer doors yawned open, a rush of cold air flooding into the Baptist Towers Rest Home, and Jenny stormed out into it, oblivious to presence of goose bumps rising like dunes on her forearms.
“You’ll never believe this,” he said. He was in his early twenties; the smirk came easily to him, and he had much occasion to use it at the Atrium Retirement Villas. “That old broad in 23C claims that she saw the first Thanksgiving! Says it’s all there—right in those old contact lenses of hers. Can you believe anyone still wears those things?”
“Granger?” the head nurse replied. She thought that if the kid could finish up the week, he might actually work out. Then again, young people like him came and went all the time. That was the nature of assisted living.
Troy Spenser consulted the clipboard he was holding. “Uh…yeah. Jennifer Granger. You guys must have heard that one before, I take it?”
Beverly Quemps nodded. God, but a cigarette sounded good! She yawned. “Ms. Granger has been singing that particular tune since she joined us...oh, I don’t know, nine or ten years ago. Only it gets worse right around the holidays—when the big day’s just a couple of weeks away.”
Spenser’s smile widened just a fraction. “Did anybody ever check it out?”
Quemps frowned. “Now why would someone go and encourage her?”
Spenser shrugged. “Well, that’s not something you hear every day, you know. It just sounds interesting, I guess.”
Quemps waved her hand, like she was shooing a fly. She rummaged in the front pocket of her smock, hunting for her cigarettes. “Nothing interesting about a senile old woman’s fantasies, Troy. It can be harmful to their minds if you encourage certain things. We have to be careful in what we acknowledge as reality. Mind the front here while I step outside for a cigarette, would you?”
Spenser nodded. He put Granger’s chart down and took a seat at the front desk, where his eyes found the bank of monitors that displayed everything inside the Atrium’s walls. One lonely camera was trained on a closed door.
Hell, he thought, maybe the old broad’s seen some interesting stuff. Yeah, she’s lying about the Thanksgiving thing, but who was to say there might not be other interesting things to look at? Contact lenses!
He laughed out loud at the thought of it. Nobody wore lenses anymore—not since ocular replacements had gone mainstream.
Spenser hated the gig—the clients were often hostile—but for the first time since he’d signed his employment agreement, he was just a little excited about the following day’s shift.
If the old woman wanted someone to take a look, why, he’d help her out.
Where was the harm in it? He could indulge an old woman’s fantasies during the holidays—it was, after all, the happiest time of the year…
Stephen King writes eloquently here (and in another less-publicized essay titled "Great Hookers I Have Known") about the power of great first lines. Look, his introductory line to the supremely underrated The Mist is still one of the very best you'll find in literature, and it's been recycled probably dozens of times. Here it is:
Come with me, that line says. Let's get to the bottom of this...
This is what happened.I love it. Absolutely have to push forward with that one, if nothing else than for its stark ambiguity. If you love stories, the dare is right there.
Come with me, that line says. Let's get to the bottom of this...
Wakulla Springs was one of the best handful of stories I read last year, so I was happy for Duncan and Klages when I saw that the story won a World Fantasy Award. This multi-layered yarn is woven through with magic and love--with a genuine sense of place and a truly beating heart. It's an impressive story in its narrative scope, attention to esoteric film history, and focus on the power of the past to leave a mark on the present.
If you're looking to get lost for an hour, I'd start here...
If you're looking to get lost for an hour, I'd start here...
Charleton checked his watch—maybe an hour of daylight left.
A cabin stood three miles to his north, and he picked up the pace, the only sound the rustle of trees in the wind and the almost constant baying of the wolves that were circling him.
This, he had decided, would be his final hunt. Brayer Cattle paid him well, but he didn’t need the money. Hadn’t needed it in years, really.
No, when all was said and done, he simply enjoyed killing them.
But this was different. They were closing in on him.
He covered terrain in sips and swallows. At dusk, the sky opened, spilling snow over the Oregon backwoods. Charleton sighed and ran for the meadow—and the cabin in the distance.
He was halfway there when he heard their approach. He wheeled, rifle leveled. A dozen majestic wolves fanned out around him, stalking him. Herding him. He trotted for the cabin, just as a horrible clatter of tin bells and thunderous hooves exploded behind him.
Startled, he sprawled there in the snow as a procession of spectral creatures astride eight-legged steeds thundered through the sky above him. Hounds—dilapidated creatures, their bone and gristle showing—snapped at the wolves, scattering them.
The procession roared past, a demonic maiden leering at Charleton from her saddle.
“The wild hunt,” he gasped, knowing all too well that the wolves were the least of his concerns, and that the worst of it was really only beginning.
|The Beast Roils|
They huddled together on the far side of the spit, whitecaps spraying surf over the jetties in the last of the afternoon light. What remained of the village watched from the mainland, their torches low in the persistent drizzle. Mostly, there were only women and children left.
A pile of corpses, what Briggs prayed was the last of the leviathan’s brood, blazed at the far end of the spit. Gobbets of fat sizzled in the inferno; it generated a sooty cloud that stung the eye and fouled the air.
“And their mother?” Stern asked. He had yet to bury his sons, and the shock of what had happened in the harbor was etched on his features. “What is to be done of her blasted corpse?”
“It’ll burn, John,” Briggs replied. “It’ll burn like her cursed spawn. We’ll haul whatever’s left out to sea, and sink it so deep it'll never see the sun again.”
Night fell as they shuffled into their skiffs, pulling hard for shore. The fire glowed in the distance, growing dimmer as they approached the harbor. They were almost to the edge of the ruined waterfront when a cry—a piercing note of rage and utter sadness—drowned the howls of the western wind.
Briggs thrust his lantern into the darkness, keenly aware that the very night itself was changing.
“Lo!” he shouted as the first appendage whipped out of the sky. It fell heavy on a skiff, splintering wood and bone in one easy motion. “The beast is risen! 'Tis Father, returned to claim his kin!”
If you wanted me to sit still in the 1980s (thankfully they weren't handing out ADD meds like candy back then for kids that had a little restless streak in them), you had to put me down in front of The Twilight Zone. This particular episode had me spellbound. It had everything that a young boy could imagine: exploration of an abandoned research lab, an intriguing plot about fixing the world's hunger problem, and giant spiders.
Really, really big spiders.
It's short, but still really effective...
From Troy to Bend and clear down to Horse Hill. From the beaches of Brookings to the bluffs of Astoria and across the foggy gorge to Hood River. Across all of the meadows, valleys, mountains, and towns in between...let there be a full and concerted marshaling of human positivity toward the young athletes of the mighty University of Oregon.
Men are coming.
Brutal, savage, smart men with devious plans. Men with bad intentions and high IQs. They come on airships to Eugene, intent on taking what's rightfully ours.
They converge on Autzen Stadium, the true and just kingdom of American collegiate football. They want what we have: supremacy in the North.
But our team is ready. We're sharp. We're dedicated, focused, and prepared.
We are Ducks.
Destiny is yours, fellas. We knew when we looked at the schedule that men were coming. We knew all along that the road to achievement would be filled with pitfalls, and that Stanford represented the greatest challenge of all.
Destiny is yours. Take it!
If you spend any real time at the word processor, you understand that sometimes the writing flows and you just know in your heart and in you...
If you spend any real time at the word processor, you understand that sometimes the writing flows and you just know in your heart and in you...
There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope....
When I think of compliments as they apply to fiction, the word "unsettling" springs to mind. The best of Rod Serling's work wa...