Adventures with My Time-Traveling Uncle - Chapter One

One

Behind his back, Jacob Kessler has been called a lot of things. The most polite of these is "eccentric," which is what my mom calls him. Dad finds it easier to just call him a bum. I guess I'm supposed to call him Uncle Jake.

Truthfully, though, there was never any need for me to call him anything until a few months ago, when he'd just shown up on our doorstep with what looked like a cross between a skateboard and a jetpack tucked under one arm.

My parents and I had been eating supper at the time, which is something we rarely do together. Well, they were eating. I was just poking at the cold lump of an egg roll on my plate. I'm not that big a fan of Chinese takeout. When Mom is working late at the law office and Dad's swamped editing what is to be the local newspaper, I usually scramble some eggs and have it with toast.

Mom was just about to remind me to "eat it already, Kimberley" when the doorbell rang. Understandably, I was only too eager to get up and answer it.

Apparently, Uncle Jake is yet another member of my mother's family who inherited the infamous (but typically recessive) redheaded and farsighted genes. He squinted uncertainly through circular glasses underneath a moptop of shaggy orange hair – and I, the only other redhead in the family, squinted right back at him.

Needless to say, I didn't immediately recognize him.

"Er, hello," said the man I didn't immediately recognize as my uncle. His gaze shifted around the empty space over my shoulder, as though he was trying to see into the house, before he continued with, "Are your parents home?"

Oddly, I found myself silent, at a loss for words as I contemplated what would be the best response. This guy seemed a little familiar, yet weird. I'm not psychic, but I could tell he gave off these weirdness vibes. I wanted to send him away because he gave me the creeps, but I also wanted to ride that jetpack skateboard of his. It was a tough call.

Eventually, Mom came over, wondering why I was taking forever. When she saw our visitor, though, her expression faltered for several aggravatingly long nanoseconds before she plastered on a smile that would've put the Cheshire Cat to shame.

"Jake!" she exclaimed. "What a pleasant surprise. Please come in!"

Noticing my dumbstruck expression, Mom turned to me and added, "You remember my brother Jake, don't you, Kimmie?" That would've gone across well if she hadn't called me by my embarrassing nickname.

"Not really," I replied in all honesty. There was this one vague memory of his visit to my fourth birthday party. There had been a lot of crying.

"Who's there, Louise?" my father called from the kitchen. He made his way into the foyer, but did a double take when he saw Jake. Wordlessly, he pointed at the tall, skinny redheaded man who stood before him.

"Hey, Roger," said Uncle Jake, pumping Dad's hand up and down as if he'd extended it to shake. Dad smiled – more like cringed – awkwardly in return.

"So," my mom intervened, attempting to break the block of ice that seemed to have formed around my father, my uncle, and myself. "What brings you here?"

Uncle Jake paled, then blushed, then turned a few more interesting colors. "Well, um, I moved in just last week and I figured I'd track you guys down and say hello. It's been a while," he added sheepishly.

"I'll say," Dad muttered just a little too loudly.

Mom was undeterred. "Oh, that's wonderful! To where?"

"You know that house at the corner of Elm and Vine that's been for sale forever? The sellers must've been desperate to get rid of it; the price was so cheap, so I grabbed it!."

That house. There was only one house at the end of Elm that was always for sale, and despite pronouncements, predictions and premonitions that no one would ever buy it, my uncle had.

"We'll come by and visit sometime," Mom declared, smiling tightly at my dad and me.

She could call me Kimmie, make me weed the garden, eat turnips, and listen to heavy metal music every hour of the day for as long as I live, but there was no way Mom would get me to visit the old Spencer House. My bus passes every day on the way to and from school, and it's like something out of The Addams Family.

Rumor has it that the house is haunted by the ghost of some old miser named Hezekiah Spencer, who'd built it back in 1916. Rumor also has it that a lot of high school students hang out there. Only the latter has actually been proven, but I stay away from that place at all costs.

And this new development was not going to change my mind.

"Well," said Jake, running for the door, "I'd best be heading back to the house. Danny's going to want my help with dinner."

"Oh, Danny still lives with you?" Mom asked, surprised.

Jake nodded hurriedly. "Yeah. He's good." With that, he was out the door.

Moments later, I heard a loud boom from somewhere outside. I ran to the window to see the man I now accepted to be my uncle sitting awkwardly in the middle of our otherwise quiet street. Smoke wafted up from his jet-powered ride, which had fallen to the ground at his feet.

Dad was, for once, tactfully silent.

"We really ought to visit him sometime," I heard Mom say absentmindedly behind me.

In your dreams, Mom, I wanted to say.

But alas, dreams can (and occasionally do) come true....

....Which seems to be the most logical explanation for why, two weeks later, I was sitting in the back seat of my parents' mini cooper as we headed for what was now Uncle Jake's house.

Dad, who'd get lost mowing his own lawn, was grumbling at his constantly recalculating GPS. Mom was sitting in the passenger seat, humming along to "Back in Time" by Huey Lewis and the News.

When adults make a decision to go away for an extended period of time, namely to attend a wedding in Florida that didn't seem to want children around, kids never do have a say in the matter.

Mom had planned for me to stay home with a babysitter, but all of a sudden, it seemed so much more convenient (and economically practical, as uncles don't generally charge fees) to dump me on Uncle Jake and my cousin, Danny.

The duffel bag at my side was packed carefully with one weekend's worth of clothes. This could be worse, I told myself, patting the zipped-shut cover. At least I wouldn't be here for a month. With any luck, time would fly.

With any good luck, that is. That's where my optimism was starting to run short.

Three turns – one wrong and two U-turns – later, we pulled up alongside the Spencer House on the corner of Vine Street and Elm Boulevard. Shivering, I could only imagine wraithlike creatures dancing around the circular tower room that jutted out oddly from one side of the house.

Somebody had painted the name Kessler in big, black letters on the side of a very rusted mailbox, the only sign that someone living was now here.

"Come along, Kimmie," Mom called over her shoulder, taking her pocket book and stepping out of the car. Dad volunteered to stay inside, but was only too eager to shoo me out.

If lawns could talk, this one would speak of an eternity of dehydration. Dead grass wilted from cracks in the driveway in thick, browning clumps.

"What a nice place," said Mom to no one in particular as we made our way up the lumpy walkway.

The front door looked like it could use a new coat of paint. Mom pressed an ancient-looking doorbell, but nothing happened.

"Great," I muttered. "They might as well be having a power outage for all we know."

Mom just forced a smile and reached for the door knocker.

The brass door knocker was made to look like a roaring lion, but unlike most, it appeared one needed to lift the head itself and not a ring underneath it.

Mom ever-so-carefully lifted the lion's snout, as though it might bite her hand off. To our surprise, the lion's eyes flashed red and immediately, a doorbell chimed ominously from somewhere within the house.

"Very Addams Family," I quipped.

"I wasn't expecting that," Mom stammered shakily.

Inside the house, I heard a set of footsteps making its way towards the door. Slowly, eerily, the door opened a crack and a young-looking face peered out at us.

"Aunt Louise?" it said uncertainly.

"Oh, hello, Danny!" Mom gushed, remembering the name I'd just drawn a blank on. "This is your cousin, Kimberly, and she's going to be spending the weekend with you and your father!"

Wow, I thought. She seems so ... happy to get rid of her child.

"I know," my cousin replied blandly. He opened the door some more and wordlessly ushered us in. We stopped in the kitchen and were invited to sit at the table, which looked as antique as the rest of the house.

"Where's your father, Danny?" Mom asked, studying the peeling paint on the kitchen walls.

Danny did a double-take from in front of the refrigerator, where he was digging out a carton of orange juice. "Oh, he's just … out shopping. He'll be back soon, I guess."

Mom gratefully accepted a paper cup of juice. "Well, you look like the responsible type," she said, seeming not to notice that the next room was a complete mess. "I'm glad to know I'll be leaving my Kimmie in good hands."

As Danny glanced incredulously at his hands, I cringed behind my cup. Why did she have to keep calling me that?

Outside, Dad honked the car horn. Simultaneously, Mom's cell phone rang. Mom stood up and brushed off some (presumably imaginary) dust. "Looks like I'd better leave you to get settled. Danny, you'll help your cousin unpack, won't you?"

Danny shrugged noncommittally. Some cousin he was being.

Mom kissed my forehead and headed for the door. "Have fun, dear."

"I'll try," I said, trying to mean it.

When the car's gentle rumble faded off into the distance, Danny slung my duffel bag over his shoulder. "I'll show you your room," he said.

There had been a large staircase in the front of the hallway that was covered by a moth-eaten, full-length carpet that had seen better days. Instead, Daniel opened a discreetly placed door in the kitchen that housed two flights of stairs. One led upwards, the other led down to what I assumed was the basement.

"Dad doesn't want anyone wrecking that carpet," he explained. "These are the servant stairs."

An old piece of rope cordoned off the descending staircase at waist-level. A paper emblazoned with the words You Shall Not Pass!hung authoritatively from it, complete with a little doodle of Gandalf the wizard.

"You shall not pass?" I repeated, somewhat amused. "What's down there?"

Danny paled suddenly. "N-nothing," he finally stammered. "Nothing at all."

"Ummmm, okay," I replied slowly, taken aback. I chose not to speak more on the matter.

We took the stairs upwards until we reached another hallway. The walls were plainly decorated with faded wallpaper, revealing splotches of the bare wall where it was peeling off. At one end of the hall was an opened door. It led into what looked like someone’s bedroom, because I saw a nightstand covered with magazines and half-open paperbacks, and the floor was covered with – ugh! – a huge pile of dirty laundry.

And Mom says my room is a mess, I thought to myself.

Danny noticed me staring and shut that door quickly. "That’s my dad’s room," he admitted sheepishly. Somehow, I wasn't surprised. Danny didn't seem the messy type.

In the middle of the hall, there was a full bathroom as well as another bedroom. Danny shut that door too, but not before I caught a glimpse of what was inside. If Uncle Jake’s room had looked like a tornado had swept through it, this one looked like it had just encountered a tornado, a hurricane and a tsunami combined!

Finally, at the other end of the hall, there was one other door. Daniel opened it with an unenthusiastic flourish.

It was the tower room.

"Wow," I sighed, my breath momentarily taken away. "This is going to be my room?"

Danny nodded and set my bag down by the door. "Dad’s got some boxes stored away in there, but you should be able to find the spare bed"

The "some boxes" that he was describing turned out to be The Great Wall of Boxes, which was piled haphazardly against the one flat wall of the room that connected it with the rest of the house. On the other side (assuming you can call a curved wall a side) was a bed with a worn out, lumpy, bare mattress.

"Um, are there any sheets?" I asked, eyeing the bed.

"I’ll get some from the linen closet," Danny said, stepping out into the hall.

He returned a few minutes later with a bundle of mismatched sheets that must have never been bleached before.

"Will you need any help setting them up?" Danny asked, putting them at the foot of the mattress.

"No, I’ll be fine," I said, giving my cousin what I hoped was a friendly smile. "Thanks, Danny."

"You’re welcome," he replied with a tight smile, showing off two rows of thick, metal braces. "And it’s Daniel." He lowered his voice as if there were other people who he didn’t want to hear him. "Only my dad calls me Danny these days."

As if to emphasize his point, a door slammed from somewhere below, and a voice called out, "Oh, Danny-boy! I’m home!"