[ WP ] You have discovered an old typewriter in your attic , but it does more than simply print words onto paper ...

Bryan blew the dust from the type bars after setting the ancient-looking thing on the kitchen table, its cracked and beat-up leather carrying case on the bench beside him. 
 
 “ Coool, ” he breathed, looking at the black metal anachronism before him. He knew what it was, of course. He ’ d just never actually seen one before. 
 
 He ’ d poked around his grandparents ’ attic dozens of times as a youngster, endlessly fascinated by the decades ’ worth of junk they had stored up there. This time hadn ’ t been for fun, however. Gramma Bert had asked him, a note of sadness in her voice, if he could start going through the layers of odds and ends, getting rid of anything that wasn ’ t of use anymore. Bryan hadn ’ t wanted to hurt her feelings, still fragile even eight months after Grandpa Walt ’ s passing, so he ’ d bit his tongue on his first impulsive response – that *everything* up there was pretty much useless. Instead, he ’ d hugged her and told her he ’ d take care of it. 
 
 Besides, he thought now, turns out I was wrong: If this was up there, there were probably other things worth hanging onto, too. He knew for a fact that Walt ’ s old Army trunk was full of cool World War II memorabilia, as well as the cleaning kit for his 1911 Colt. Walt had left the pistol to him, along with a few other odds and ends that Bryan cherished. Other family members might like one or two other things as keepsakes, as well. 
 
 Like this typewriter, Bryan thought, looking it over. Other than the dust clinging to the inky old type bars and roller, it looked to be in good shape. A Remington Rand portable, read the label on the front. Manually operated, chunky, clunky and pretty freaking heavy – especially for something billing itself as “ portable, ” he thought. Of course, plastic wasn ’ t around when this thing had been built. 
 
 He hit a few keys experimentally, delighted by the loud clacking sound they made. The return lever worked fine, the roller rolled, the space bar spaced. Awesome. 
 
 Bryan got up and went to Bert ’ s desk and grabbed a few pieces of paper out of her copier ’ s feed tray, then sat himself back down before his new possession. It took him a few tries to get the paper rolled in right, and to figure out the more unfamiliar keys. Then he began typing: 
 
 “ The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. ” 
 
 Yes! All the keys appeared to work. He knew this was probably a find – there had to be people out there, collectors, eBay denizens, who would pay decent money for a working old typewriter. And he could use the money – his crappy part-time job defrayed some of his college costs, but putting gas in the car was a weekly challenge. Matter of fact, he was sure Bert wouldn ’ t mind if he used her laptop to- 
 
 Movement in the back yard caught his eye, drawing his gaze out the sliding-glass door across the kitchen table from where he sat. A large dog, some kind of mastiff, was lolling in the shade made by Bert ’ s jacaranda. Which was odd, since Bert didn ’ t have a dog. But the sleeping dog wasn ’ t what he ’ d first noticed. The movement had been furtive, off to the left, nearer to the back of the yard, where Bert ’ s well-manicured lawn ended and the more wooded and overgrown right-of-way began. A fringe of bushes marked the boundary, and he could just make out an animal of some kind, its snout sticking out of the bushes. 
 
 “ That ’ s a fox, ” Bryan said aloud, nonplussed. Foxes in the area weren ’ t unusual – his grandparents ’ house was sort of in the sticks, and there were almost always raccoons, opossums, deer and other critters around. Including foxes. Except all the ones Bryan had seen were red, and smallish. This one was larger, and as it emerged slowly from the bushes, he saw that its coat was a gray-tinged brown. 
 
 As he watched, the fox slowly approached the sleeping dog, pausing to sniff and look around every few feet. Then, when it was just a few feet away, it hunkered down, paused, then leapt over the dog, landed, then shot around the side yard and out of sight. The dog didn ’ t even stir. 
 
 Bryan sat, staring out the window at the mastiff a moment longer, then looked down at the paper. It was blank. He looked back up, out the window, as the dog lifted its hind end, stretched out its front legs, licked its chops a few times and then wandered away in the same direction as the fox. 
 
 “ Holy shiiitt… ” Bryan whispered, staring back out at the now-empty yard. “ No way that just happened. ” He looked back down the typewriter, moved his hands to the keys, then jerked them back, as if they were hot to the touch. “ Seriously … what the fuck just happened? ” 
 
 He got up and backed away from the table, staring at the typewriter. “ OK bro, get a grip, ” he said softly to himself. “ That was … a coincidence, that ’ s all. A really, really weird coincidence, but that ’ s all it was. ” 
 
 He walked to Bert ’ s fridge and grabbed a cold Budweiser, popping the tap and gulping down half the can. He belched hugely and, eyes watering, walked back to the table, staring down at the typewriter again, confirming that the paper was once again blank, with no sign of ink or any impression left by the keys. 
 
 “ Holy shiiitttt, ” he said again, softly. He put the half-empty beer on the table and sat down again, staring out the window, his hands resting gently on the tabletop in front of the keyboard. 
 
 “ Okay … here goes nothing, ” he whispered. He placed his fingers gently on the keys, almost caressing them. Then he typed: “ Walter Fleming bought 1,000 shares of Apple in 1980. And he left them to his grandson, Bryan Fleming, when he died. ”
