Exceptional A continuation of the saga of Danny & Timmy... The Crypt of Hubbard Hayle:Part 3 by Dean Kuch

The Crypt of Hubbard Hayle   ~Part 3~   “Go to Heaven for the climate Hell for the company.” – Mark Twain   —3—   ~The blow knocked the wind out of my lungs, and I saw a side of Timmy I'd never seen before then. All those years of fat jokes, insults and degradation finally came to head there on Harlan's Hill. His eyes were blood red, and I saw something in those eyes that nearly caused me to toss my cookies. I saw murder in those eyes... ~     I gotta' tell you; I was knocked for a loop when ol' Timmy launched his one hundred and ninety-eight pounds at me. Have you ever seen an old Looney Tunes cartoon, when one of the characters like Bugs Bunny, or Wlie E. Coyote, takes a lump to the noggin, and they start seein' stars, birds, and swirly-things swimming before their eyes? Yeah...that was me. Even as hard as he'd nailed me, I couldn't help but start laughing. His jowls were flappin', sure, but I was laughing too hard to hear what was actually comin' out of his yapper. My laughter only seemed to make it worse. At first, as he tore into me with arching, stinging roundhouse punches to my exposed mid-section and arms. I thanked my lucky stars that something stopped him from hitting me in the face just then. That would not have been good...not as mad as he was. I knew it, too!   I rolled up into a fetal position, trying to stave off the brunt of his blows. “Pluh—please, Timster, I'm sorry, okay? Just stop hittin' me for a sec...” “You called me lard-ass! You, of all people on the face of this earth, know how much I hate that! Jim Melban and his dorky friends at school call me that, every damn day!  I ain't gonna have one of my friends doin' it. You got me?” What could I say but yes, with a nearly two-hundred pound enraged kid on my chest, and eyes as blood red as the surface of Mars? “Yeah, yeah, I...I'm really sorry! I shouldn't have said that, Timmy, honest.” The laughter kept coming outta' me, though. I just couldn't help myself. Call it nerves, or call me a whacko, but the laughter was uncontrollable now. I was crying, and my gut ached. Maybe that's the only thing that truly saved me, however...the laughter. Timmy started with a few short guffaws—really, they were muffled belches of air more than anything else—then he bursted out laughing himself, right along with me. Now, the two of us were rolling around on the ground, babbling incoherently and crying our eyes out, as we tried to tell each other what just happened between us, but couldn't. Eventually, after a couple, more minutes of this, we both lay spent and sore in the brambles. Of course, I was hurtin' a bit more than Timmy was, but I deserved it. He was right; I knew how much he hated kids at school calling him names, especially that one. Timmy got up, and I scraped myself off the ground. My ego was more bruised than my body was, but it wasn't something I felt I wouldn't be able to recover from. I would be back to my old self in no time, and Timmy would revert back to being my subservient follower. “Dang it, Tim. You ripped my new plain pockets! My mom is gonna have my butt in a sling now.” “I...I don't know what come over me, Dan-o. It's just that...that name, it goes right through me like the Hershey squirts.” Timmy was already becoming his mildly meek and apologetic self again. I smiled. “Well, I can't say as I blame you, Timster, not really. I 'spose I had that one comin'. I'll just have to tell Mom that I ripped 'em helping Mrs. Jolston's cat outta' her tree again. I just pray mom don't go askin' her any particulars about it.”     Timmy and I dusted ourselves off, then made our way back up the narrow pathway. We'd walked about fifteen minutes while exchanging a bit of idle chitchat, and were just about to round the first bend, when a strange little woman came around the corner, heading straight for us. She blocked our path with a rickety-looking wagon she lugged behind her.     “And just where is it that you two think you're going at this late hour?” She was giving us both her best 'you'd better be honest with me look...or else!', and tapping her foot. Snow boots covered both of her feet. Now, I had no problems with that — folks wearing snow boots. Except on this occasion, there wasn't a snowflake in sight. Timmy, having seemed to have gained some new-found confidence from planting me in the dirt, spoke up first. “Who is it that wants to know? We ain't breakin' no laws.” The rotund woman smiled then, revealing rows of yellow and brown, nicotine stained teeth. At least, I assumed it was from smoking at the time. It was the only thing I was aware of then that could wreak such havoc in one's mouth. I found myself thinking briefly of my dead Uncle Billy. “Irene Dimwitty, that's who. Does that sufficiently answer your question, wee little man?” Timmy shot me a glance just then, one which screamed confusion and aggravation simultaneously. “Well...do ye got somethin' ta say to me, laddie?” The old crone folded flabby arms across her bulbous bosom, then – tap-tapped – her snow boot clad tootsies once more. “I, uh...I'm sorry?” Tim never looked at her when he said it, his glare was aimed directly at me. It came out of his pie-hole as a question, more than anything else. “You! The big, quiet one there. What have ye got ta' say fer yerself?” “Please, ma'am. Let us pass, we mean no disrespect to yuh...” Ms. Irene Dimwitty cut me off mid-sentence. “There! Did ya hear that, ya wee chubby twit? Now, that's how you make an apology.” “Ms. Dintippy...Dist...” She spat out what looked like a wad of chewing tobacco accompanied by globs of thick, brown juice, then held up her hand. The meaty appendage was encased in a tattered, wool glove. All of her fingers and thumb poked through each of the glove's fingertips. Her fingers had the look and consistency of Vienna sausages. “Dim-Witty, young man, Dimwitty — with the emphasis on the witty part.” I tried to continue without laughing, but it was touch and go there for awhile.     “Ms., uh, Dimwitty. We're on a quest, see? Like two noble knights from King Aurthur's round table. Me and Timmy there, we're goin' up the hill a ways to the old cemetery at the top. We hav'ta go in there and bring something out, to prove to all of our friends that we ain't chicken. That's all we're tryin' to do, really.” “Oh... I see. A noble quest then, is it?” Timmy held his hands out to his side in a - what the hell are you talking about - gesture while I continued. “Well, we like to think it is. We ain't no scairdy-cats.” “Oh, I see. Well, if I was you lads, I'd turn 'round — right now. I just come from there, see, to place a wreath on my dearly departed Harold's grave and remove the old one. You don't want to go up there... not now. There's something lurking about 'tween them old, crumbling headstones. I seen it meself. Come back when it's daylight; you stay away from that wretched place at night.”     Timmy's face was flushed a bright red. He resembled an over-cooked wiener, roasting over a campfire — about to explode. He was fuming.   “I knew it — I just knew it, Danny boy! You're leadin' us right to our own graves, and all you care about is showing everybody how brave you are? At least we'll already be in the cemetery when the search party finds our half-eaten bodies!" I tried to play off what the old woman had said as best I could. I had Timmy's trust and respect on my side. “C'mon, Timster...just look at her! Who are you gonna' believe — me, or this crazy old hag?” Ms. Dimwitty's brow furrowed deeply then, and she angrily snatched off each of her threadbare gloves. “Crazy old hag, is it? So, the true spirit of the ones doin' the leadin' of this...expedition – shows his true colors, 'ey? Aye, so be it then. 'Tis your funeral. I wash my hands shed of the both of ya.”   Irene Dimwitty, along with her rickety wooden cart, went clacking away, back down the rutted path. Soon, she disappeared from view. Looking back on the whole, bizarre situation now, I realize that perhaps she'd vanished a bit too soon. Timmy plopped down on a fallen stump while gazing at his feet. Without the slightest raising of his head, he spoke... Danny, as God is my witness, when we get outta this and get back home, I'm going to beat the living crap out of you. Based on what happened earlier, back down the pathway, I had no reasons to doubt him.     Recognized Author Notes I would like to humbly dedicate this chapter to my fellow FanStorian, Mr. Mike Battaglia, whose generousity made the posting of this chapter possible. Thank you, Mike. You may be a horror writer, that's true. But I know from personal experience that those who choose to write in our beloved genre -- the genre of horror, have some of the biggest hearts of all. Thank you, my friend.

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