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There's an old Gas Station in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. If you ever see it, keep driving
“SHIT!”
I wrenched the steering wheel over to the right, causing the tires to scream in protest. A deep horn blared loudly, almost rupturing my eardrums, and the interior was momentarily illuminated by harsh white headlights. For a split second, my life flashed in front of my eyes, and then I felt the bumpiness of the grassy edge of the road jostle me around. The eighteen wheeler which had veered into my lane missed me by less than a foot, blasting by in a blur at what had to be seventy miles an hour or more. After a split second of catching my breath, I jabbed the driver’s window switch down and stuck my head out into the pouring rain.
“Asshole!” I screamed at the retreating logging truck, though I knew the driver wouldn’t be able to hear me. A moment later, an outraged woman’s voice tumbled from the speakers of my rented Chrysler 300. “I beg your damn pardon?!” Regaining my senses and remembering I’d been in the middle of a phone call, I sat back down in the seat. “Not you, Erin” I said apologetically, “If you didn’t hear the commotion on my end of the line, I almost got splattered all over the front end of some moron’s Peterbilt who wandered over to my side of the road” There was a moment of silence from the speakers, and then my agent let out a small snort. “Well, isn’t that just grand? You’ve gotta love idiots on the roads these days” It took a softer tone. “I’m glad you didn’t get into an accident, Al. I don’t feel like losing my best client *and* close friend in one go” I laughed. “Helps me relax to know you care” I admitted, then, after a moment getting the tension out of my muscles, I pulled the car back on the road and continued on.
It was the winter of 2022, and I was on my way to a book signing in Seattle from where I lived in Gold Beach, Oregon. I was a writer who’d just broken the New York Times Bestseller list with my debut novel, and as such, I was on the start of my book signing tour which would take me around the country. Obviously, as many people would quickly realize who I am if I used my real name, I have changed it, along with others. Erin, my literary agent, had suggested I fly to Seattle from the airport in North Bend, but I’m someone who’s had a major anxiety over flying ever since the September 11th attacks in 2001. So, instead, knowing I hadn’t purchased a new car to replace my rather shabby and broken down one yet, she’d arranged me a rental, and I’d begun the almost seven and a half hour drive north.
“I wouldn’t have had to deal with those dingbats if Interstate 5 hadn’t jammed up with that accident” I muttered. “Well, you *were* the one who wanted to drive, Al” Erin’s chiding voice came through the speakers. “Do you have any idea where you are?” I glanced at the GPS map for what had to be the hundredth time. The screen almost seemed to glitch, jumping as the antenna on top of the car attempted to communicate with an orbiting satellite above. *Piece of shit*. “No, this stupid navigation system is apparently on the fritz” I snorted. “So much for Enterprise being a good car rental company” I looked back up just in time to see a sign with the gas symbol flash past. *Thank you, God, for small favors*, I thought. “Hey, there’s a gas station coming up soon. I’m a bit low anyways; I’ll stop there, get directions and then call you when I’m on my way, okay?” There was a sigh on the speakers. “Okay, just, please, try not to be too long. The publishing house won’t like it if you show up to your very first book signing late tomorrow” she said.
“I’ll be as quick as I can” I said reassuringly, then pressed the red disconnect button on the steering wheel, ending the call. I let out a sigh of relief; Erin was my saving grace and had been the one to orchestrate my contract, including a very nice advance, but after a while, it became exhausting to deal with her. I stared out the windshield at the two lane road in front of me, relishing the silence, save for the rain pelting the car’s windshield, the windshield wipers flicking it off, and the tires on the wet pavement. For a few more minutes, all I saw was nothing but endless trees pushing in close to the road, almost seeming as if they were jostling to see who drove up and down past them. Then, almost as if my thoughts had summoned it, I saw the bright lights appear ahead on the right like a lighthouse beacon.
It was clearly one which had been here a very long time; the overall appearance gave the impression it had been around since at least the 1950s, if not earlier. I grunted with surprise as I saw the lit up station logo swinging around in a lazy circle on its pole. The faded green outline of a Brontosaurus and similarly weathered red letters spelling out *Sinclair* were ones I thought I would never see in person, seeing as how the company had gone defunct back in March. *Guess nobody told the owner of this one that*. I pulled into the station, my tires driving over a small black wire which caused a classic bell to ding loudly twice, somewhere out of sight. Pulling up next to the green pump, I shut the engine off and relaxed back into the comfortable leather, listening to the *tick* of the engine cooling down. As I closed my eyes, I could only hear the loud buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead, and the rain pelting the metal awning over the pumps.
I opened my eyes as I heard the rain peter out and looked around, glancing at the analog clock on the dash, illuminated by the overhead lights. *7:30PM*. Ten minutes had passed. I sighed. “Come on, man” I muttered, then quickly tapped the horn. The blaring sound of it almost seemed to shatter the stillness like a baseball through a plate glass window. Still nobody. “Damn it” I whispered, then unbuckled my seatbelt and pulled on the handle, using my foot to kick open the door. A bitingly cold wind smashed into my face as I stepped out onto the cracked concrete, causing me to flip up the collar of my coat in response. I glanced around, only hearing the sounds of the wind whipping through the trees, crickets chirping, and what had to be the hoots of an owl somewhere off in the forest beyond. The garage bays were open, and in the faded yellowed light of what had to be old incandescent bulbs, I could see what looked like a 50s Cadillac and a 70s International Scout up on the lifts, but no mechanic in sight. Leaning back into the car, I leaned on the horn, longer this time. Again, the sound reverberated off the trees and station. For some reason, I shivered at the noise. *It almost feels sacrilegious to disturb the silence out here*. I shook my head. Where the hell had *that* thought come from.
I shook it away and waited another minute or so. There was still no sign of life. *Maybe the station IS actually closed*. The thought was worrying; I hadn’t seen another sign of civilization, aside from the dumbass logging truck, in two and a half hours. I didn’t know how far it was until the next town or gas station, and as good as the Chrysler had been on gas, I didn’t want to try driving further on only a quarter tank. I decided to find out for myself, slamming the driver’s door closed with a loud *thunk*. Stepping around the front of the car, I walked across to the open bays, the sound of my footfalls echoing back at me. I glanced around, noticing the spilled oil on the ground, and mismatched tools, bottles and hoses heaved unceremoniously on the bench in the back. But still saw no one. *Great*, I thought, looking up to see the bright moon begin to appear from behind the clouds.
I had begun to turn and stride towards what had to be an office or convenience store when the figure burst out of the door, nearly causing me to jump out of my skin. “Gah!” I involuntarily let out, receiving a good natured laugh in return. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to startle you, let alone make you wait so long!” I caught my breath, then let out a strained chuckle and looked up at the man. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, dressed in a green Sinclair jumpsuit adorned with the same green dinosaur on the front patch; the patch on the other side proclaimed the man’s name to be Harold. The remaining hair on his head was slicked back, and he flashed me a smile with, surprisingly, bright white teeth. I held up my hand, giving it a little wobble and gave a laugh of relief. “Don’t worry about it, man. For a second, I thought this place was permanently closed or something” I said, the steadiness returning to my voice. “No sir, just the fact it’s only little old me working the night shifts!” he declared, jokingly wiping his brow. I snorted and smiled. The man clearly had a decent sense of humor.
“I’m guessing you need gas?” he asked, changing the subject to business and gesturing to my car. I nodded. “Yes, please, if you could fill her up with regular” He nodded, then began towards it as I jogged back around, opening the driver’s door and pressing the button to pop the gas cap. Harold let out a low whistle as he pulled the pump from its cradle. “*Very* nice car, sir!” he exclaimed, looking it over. “It looks expensive” I shrugged my shoulders. “It *is* a nice car, a Chrysler 300S, but, unfortunately, it’s not mine” He looked up at me and cocked an eyebrow as he slid the nozzle in and pulled on the handle. “It’s a rental” I added quickly, realizing it sounded like I’d jacked it or something. He seemed to relax. “Ah, that makes sense” he said jovially, “It’s nicer and newer than anything we normally see out here usually” I jerked my thumb at the open bays. “I’d say you have people with good taste around here, seeing as how that’s a 55 Coupe Deville back there” I said. He laughed, nodding approvingly. “I see you know your cars” he said with an impressed tone, glancing at the readout on the pump. “I do, love ‘em” I replied.
He looked back up at me. “So, are you some kind of auto collector or race car driver, then?” he asked. I shook my head. “No, afraid not. I’m a writer” He jerked his head up, his green eyes seeming to twinkle in the fluorescent lights. “A writer? Well, blow me down, I never thought I’d get a God-to-honest writer in my station!” he exclaimed, smiling. I nodded, feeling a slight sense of uncomfortableness wash over me. I still hadn’t gotten used to the reaction people had when they learned of my profession. He pressed forward. “What kind of books do you write?” he asked excitedly. “I write in the horror genre, honestly” I admitted, causing him to smile widely at the news. “Horror is my favorite style of books to read!” he said. “I love everything from the old classics, to Stephen King!” He looked at me quizzically. “How many have you written so far?” I held up a single finger. “Just one published; I’m actually on the way up to a publicity signing right now” He nodded approvingly, then looked back at the pump before speaking again.
“So, have you ever seen anything truly scary?” I raised an eyebrow at his question. *That came completely out of left field*. “What’dya mean by that?” I asked in return. He still watched the pumps, but replied. “So many horror writers I’ve heard about talk about how they’ve had their own frightening experience, whether it’s a plain old scare, or even a supernatural experience. It’s what helps them write truly horrifying tales” Now, he looked back at me. His face held a smile which caused me to inwardly shudder a little bit. It almost seemed far too wide for a moment. Then, blinking, I realized it was just a regular grin, if not just a bit of an odd one. *The lights must’ve caused you to see things*. He finished. “So, I was just asking if you’d ever had a scary experience which got you into writing horror” For a moment, there was silence between us as I pondered his question, only broken by an owl’s screech somewhere in the gathering darkness. Then I shrugged.
“Honestly, I hate to disappoint you, but, no” I admitted. He gave me a slightly surprised expression. “Really?” I nodded, deciding to be honest with him. “Really. To be completely truthful with you, Harold, as much as I love horror, both writing it, and reading and watching it, I’ve stopped being scared of it a while ago” The surprised expression seemed to grow on his face. “Really?” he repeated, then looked down at the pump again. “That’s a shame” he said, his voice almost holding a trace of sadness in it. I nodded, having to agree with him. “It is. I used to love getting scared by a good horror film or book, but, as I got older, it just seemed to, you know, drift away. Now, I just write what I know others are afraid of, like I did with my first book here, but, honestly? When I write, I don’t feel that fear in me at all” I hated admitting it; even when I’d given my first online interview with a magazine about my novel, I’d lied about it, saying that my own work could scare the hell out of me. But, in a way, it felt good to finally admit the truth to someone, even just a stranger I’d likely never see again.
I looked up to find him giving me a rather intense, and honestly, extremely creepy stare. His green eyes almost seemed to glow in the lights, and his smile had completely disappeared. I took a step back at the abrupt change in his demeanor, but just as quickly, it too, was wiped away, replaced by the smile I’d known since he appeared. “Well, I’m sure if you search hard enough, you’ll find that feeling again” he said, his voice filled with what sounded like genuine empathy. I nodded, looking out at the woods. “I hope” I truthfully admitted, then heard the sound of the pump finally clicking off. “Ah, all done!” Harold said happily, pulling the pump out of the car and replacing it back in its cradle. He looked at the readout. “That’ll be $23.17!” I started slightly. *Under 24 bucks for three quarters of a tank?* I hadn’t heard of gas this cheap since I was at least a teenager, but, at the same time, I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I reached into my back pocket, pulling out my wallet, and from it, my credit card. “Do, you happen to accept credit?” I asked, half afraid he’d tell me he didn’t.
But he plucked the card, happily, out of my hand. “Of course we do, Mr.-“ he looked down the name on my card, “Mr. DeMascus! The credit card reader, however, is back inside the main building” He gestured back towards the door he’d exited from. “Would you mind if I took it back there and ran it?” I shook my head. “No, by all means, go right ahead” I said, and he turned away and strode back across towards the building. “I’ll be back out with your receipt quicker than you can say, Bob’s your uncle!” he called. I let out another laugh at the phrase I hadn’t heard in years when I noticed something. I hadn’t seen the man’s back since he’d appeared, and this was my first time. The back of his jumpsuit was the same stained green as the front, with a red oil rag peeking out of the back pocket, but my eyes were drawn to one thing. What looked like a large tear in it, just below the large logo patch adorning the back, almost as if he’d been slashed. I could see an equally stained white shirt underneath it.
“Uh, hey!” I called out to him. He stopped and turned back to me, still smiling. “Yes?” he asked. I pointed to my own back. “Your, uh, your jumpsuit has a huge tear in the back of it. Just wanted to tell you, in case you didn’t know!” For a moment, the same funny look came over his face, and then he waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, I know; I haven’t had a chance to mend it yet!” he said, then, holding up a finger, pulled open the door, causing a bell hung from the inside handle to jingle, and stepped inside. I was left alone again, with only the buzzing sound of the lights almost causing my ears to ring in the sudden silence. Not wanting to seem rude by waiting back in the car, I instead walked to the front and leaned against the hood, staring out into the night. My eyes absentmindedly drifted off into the gloom as I waited for Harold to return.
That’s when my eyes finally glanced over at the large sign directly ahead of me. It was the one which advertised the price for gas by the gallon, and as I’d pulled in from the other way, not to mention getting too caught up talking, I hadn’t even looked at it. You could easily tell it had fallen into a bit of disrepair, as the light inside which allowed you to see the prices at night flickered on and off, precariously seeming as though it would burn out at any second. You could even hear it flickering loudly in the silence. That wasn’t what drew my eye, though. No, what drew my eye was the prices displayed on that flickering sign. “There’s absolutely *no* freakin’ way” I whispered to myself. I scanned down, but kept looking at the top two figures. *Eighty-eight cents a gallon for regular?* I felt a small wave of confusion fall over me. No matter how out in the middle of nowhere this station was, there was no way that it would charge *that* little for gas. Not to mention, it showed prices for both unleaded *and* leaded gasoline, something that had been banned since at least the mid 90s.
As my mind attempted to process this, something else finally sunk in. The entire forest around the station had fallen silent. And I’m not talking a normal silence, either. The crickets, the owl, the rustling of what I’d thought were deer or elk in the trees, had vanished. Even the wind had seemed to stop. It was an almost unearthly stillness, as if the entire forest were holding its breath. It was beyond unnerving and eerie, to say the least, and it caused a shiver to shoot up my spine. The only sound I could hear was the almost maddeningly loud buzz of the overhead lights, which seemed to drone like that of a growling creature. I realized every muscle in my body had tensed up, though I couldn’t understand why. *Sure, the silence is eerie, but, it’s nothing to be truly afraid of*, I thought. As much as I repeated that thought to myself, I couldn’t help but feel increasingly on edge in the stillness. “Okay, fuck this” I said finally, the sound of even my own echoing voice sounding just…*off* to me, pushing myself off my hood and beginning for the door Harold had gone through. As I walked, I looked at the watch on my wrist, seeing another fifteen minutes had passed since he’d left. *Where the hell is he?* Letting out a sigh, both of frustration, and to try and relieve some of the odd sensation forming in my gut, I finally reached the door and reached out, gripping the handle.
It felt almost shockingly cold in my hand, and I quickly twisted it, opening the door and causing the bell to jingle, sounding too loud in the quiet. I stepped inside and allowed it to swing shut behind me, the bell giving another jingle, this time muted in the building’s interior. I looked around. Aside from an old Coca-Cola machine in one corner of the room, there were no food or drinks in here. Instead, the two or three aisles taking up most of the space were filled with what looked like older style cans of motor oil and other assorted automotive bits and bobs, all adorned with the dinosaur logo. I drew in a breath, then coughed a little. It felt more than a little musty in here, as if it hadn’t been aired out in a long time. Looking directly ahead, I saw the counter that Harold must usually be stationed at. An older style cash register sat atop it, and behind it lay an open door marked *Employees only*. Beyond was a long, tiled hallway which stretched out for a while before disappearing around a corner.
I stared at the cash register. *Haven’t seen one of these old jobs since I was a kid in the 90s*, I thought, a few nostalgic emotions breaking through my other emotions and tugging at my heartstrings. But it was just as quickly shooed away by the uneasy feeling that was settling over me like a cloud of dust. This whole thing, this whole place just seemed…*wrong*. I couldn’t tell why, but it was making my arms and legs feel as though insects were inching along under my skin. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened my mouth. “Uh, hey, Harold?” I called, my voice seeming muted just like the bell had. I waited. No answer. “Hey, Harold, are you back there?” I called again. Still nothing. Feeling increasingly on edge as the fluorescent lights in here sounded like they were also buzzing too loud, I craned my neck to look down the corridor. Just barely at the corner, I saw the bright blue sign indicating a restroom. I made my decision, calling out again.
“Look, if you can hear me, Harold, I’m coming over the counter to use the restroom, okay? I can’t hold it until I get to the next town!” It was a lie; I hadn’t eaten or drank anything in the last two hours to make me have to go, but, just in case he came around the corner, I didn’t want to get into trouble, as odd as I felt. I still didn’t want to piss the man off. Taking a deep breath, I hopped the counter and stepped into the corridor. Unlike the main room, this was lit by three or four incandescent light bulbs, dangling down from the ceiling. It gave the hall a slightly dimmer look than behind me, and I hesitated for a moment before starting down it, taking care not to have my footsteps echo too much. The hall seemed to go on forever, but eventually, I reached the corner. Wanting to keep up appearances, I turned the knob for the bathroom and opened it. After looking into it for a split second, I shut it quickly, suppressing a cough and a gag. It had looked disgusting, as though it hadn’t been cleaned in years, if not decades. Turning back, I noticed a brighter light down at the end of the next stretch of hallway. I debated for a moment, then began down it. All I wanted was to be out of here.
I passed another open door; glancing through it, I saw the two garage bays and the view outside. The blast of cold, fresh air relieved me somewhat, and I continued on. As I reached the doorway, I looked around, seeing that it was an office. Two desks stood inside, each with nameplates on the edge of them. I spied Harold’s name on the far one. I also saw my credit card sitting in the middle of the table; the bright blue stood out among the dark wood and white papers. Letting out a relieved sigh, I crossed to it quickly and picked it up. I decided I’d just leave a twenty and a ten in cash on the desk instead and get the hell out of here. I didn’t know where the man had gone to, and every fiber of my being was telling me to leave. As I reached for my wallet, my eyes caught a plaque on the wall behind the desk, the faux gold glinting in the low light. I stared at it. The photograph was clearly Harold’s, looking almost the same as I’d seen him, just a lot cleaner. Below that was a declaration etched into the fake gold. *Employee of the Month, Harold Jankowski*. I couldn’t help but smile a little at how hard he must’ve worked for it. Less than a second later, though, the smile dropped from my face as I read the inscription underneath it.
*August, 1976*. I shook my head, hoping that I was just seeing things in the low light, hoping that it would change to 2006, or hell, even 1996. But, no. It remained the same.”What the fuck?” I breathed out, feeling another shiver go down my spine. There was absolutely no way that, if he’d looked to be in his forties or fifties in the mid-seventies, that he would s*till* look the same forty-six years later. He’d at least be in his eighties or nineties now, and would very much not still be working here. “What the hell is going on…” I whispered again. Feeling like tendrils of dread were reaching out of the gloom and jamming themselves in me, I turned to book it out of the room, and out of the station entirely. But I froze, as I saw Harold.
He sat in an old style black swivel chair, his back to me in the next room. I couldn’t tell what the room was, as it was lit only by a single, very dim bulb directly over him, but the room was giving me off truly creepy vibes. For the first time in years, I felt the first inklings of fear. Before I had a chance to move or say anything, he spoke. “Well, Mr. DeMascus” he said, his voice almost inflectionless. I began to speak. “Look, I’m sorry I barged back in here, it’s just-“ I was cut off as he continued. “Well, Mr. DeMascus, how do you feel?” My shoulders slumped as I felt a wave of confusion envelop me. “Ex-excuse me?” I managed out. “How do you feel?” he repeated, then continued, his voice finally seeming to gain some cadence to it. “Do you feel…*afraid*? Do you feel…*fear*?” He let out a low chuckle, one that almost seemed different from the happy one I’d heard outside. I didn’t know how to respond. Finally, he spoke again. “It’s okay; you don’t have to tell me. I know, I can *feel* it” He let out another chuckle, and I felt multiple shivers shoot up my spine.
“And, frankly, Mr. DeMascus, I’m happy about that” he said, standing up, but still keeping his back to me. “Because, you all taste so much *better* when you’re afraid” This time I did manage to say something. “…The fuck…” It wasn’t the most eloquent response, but apparently Harold found it funny, as he let out another low, creepy chuckle. He finally turned towards me, and I jumped backwards, slamming into his desk and causing his nameplate to fall to the ground. The man still smiled at me, his smile now holding a very definite wideness to it, holding an almost pants pissing wickedness in it. But, he didn’t seem…*alive*. His previously sparkling green eyes now seemed glassy and unseeing. To put it bluntly, he almost more resembled a ventriloquist’s dummy, a *puppet*, than anything. He almost seemed to lean towards me. And finally, he spoke. “I’ll make it sporting, though. You have twenty seconds to run” he said. Swallowing hard, I looked around and saw a tire iron on his desk. I snatched it up, ready to club the man over the head if he made a move towards me.
That’s when he simply dropped forward onto his face. He fell halfway forward into the room and didn’t move. I looked down at him, and gasped as I realized what I was seeing. The man looked nothing more than like a deflated beach ball, as though all the organs and blood in him had been sucked out. I saw the tear in the back of his jumpsuit again, this time much more pronounced. Behind it, his dirty white shirt had been torn as well, and it revealed…*oh, fuck me sideways*…a hole in his actual back. I could see the white of his spine clearly visible in the yellow light. As I stared down at him, I heard a voice. This one, though, was *not* Harold’s. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, much lower than I’d ever heard a human voice speak, and. It alone almost caused me to piss myself, because it held a truly evil, sadistic tone to it. *Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.* I looked up and into the darkened room Harold had fallen out of. And finally, for the first time in years, I screamed.
Hovering just in the darkness beyond the edge of the dim light’s gaze, were two enormous, *glowing* green eyes. They were larger than a human’s eyes ever could be, and in a very inhuman shape, looking like crescent moons. They held the most evil, sadistic glee I had ever seen in my life. At my scream, the voice stopped counting down, and…it fucking *laughed*. A great, booming laugh that sounded like nails on a chalkboard. And then it began counting down again, the malicious excitement in it audible. *Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen.* I didn’t wait any longer. I didn’t want to see what those eyes belonged to. I turned and I sprinted out of the office, running down the corridor, my footfalls and panicked breathing echoing back to me like a gunshot. The corridor seemed to go on forever, and I couldn’t understand why it was taking so long to reach the corner. Finally, though, I reached it. And froze.
I was *back* at the entrance to the office. *What the fuck?!* Behind me, I heard the voice reach ten, and I began sprinting again down the hallway. It seemed to take even longer to reach the corner, and this time, I reached out to grab the corner edge with me hand-only to grab the wooden edge of the office door. My eyes widened and I felt tears begin to fall from my eyes as I ran again. The voice continued as I dashed for down the ever increasing corridor. *Seven. Six. Five.* I let out a strangled sob as I grabbed for the tiled corner, pushing off the edge of the corridor to snatch at it. Instead, I smashed into the wall…next to the office door. I fell in a heap, trying to force myself up when I heard it finish.
*Three. Two. One. Ready or not, Mr. DeMascus. Here. I. Come.* As it finished uttering the last word, the voice dropped even lower, as if I were hearing the voice of the devil himself speak to me. I realized if I looked behind me now, I’d see it. Standing in the middle of the office, over its human puppet. I refused to look back; I knew it wanted me to. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks, mixing with the blood from my head where I’d slammed into the wall. Every horror movie death in movies and books flashed through my mind. And I knew all of them weren’t even remotely as horrible as what that…*thing* had planned for me. That’s when a thought, just a tiny glimmer of hope, flashed through my mind. Something I’d seen as I’d walked down the hall to the office. I felt adrenaline course through me. *I might die trying to do this, but I have to try*, I thought.
I heard the floor behind me rattle, and felt hot, stinking breath fall across the back of my neck. For a microsecond, I felt paralyzed with fear, and then I let out a strangled cry, exploding into motion. I heard a bellow of frustration behind me, followed by a laugh. It knew once I reached the end of the corridor, it’d use whatever power it had to bring me right back to it. It had power over this corridor. *But it doesn’t realize it left a weak spot open*. The thought still echoing in my mind, I ran, unable to keep myself from screaming this time as I dashed down the corridor. It seemed even longer than before, but as I reached the halfway point, I saw what I’d been hoping to spy. The door into the garages stood open, almost hidden out of sight behind a shelf of oil. I let out another cry; this one of determination. Behind me, I heard the creature stop laughing. Now, it let out a bellowing cry of rage, realizing what I intended to do. I felt it begin to thunder up the corridor after me, to snatch me up. The feeling of something sharp sliced across my back.
And then I was leaping for the doorway. And through it. I landed in a puddle of still sticky oil underneath the Cadillac, what I saw now was rusting away with decades of disrepair. Not wasting a second, I jumped to my feet and ran for the open bay doors. Behind me, I heard a louder bellow, but I didn’t look back. I burst out from inside the doors into the night, now laden with the sounds of the forest again. I dashed for my car, almost flying over the hood and ripped open the driver’s door. Crashing into the seat, I stabbed at the start button, for a moment terrified that, like the typical horror cliché, it wouldn’t start. But, to my surprise- and gratitude, it did, the roar of the V6 thundering out. As I grabbed the knob to jam into drive, I risked one glance up. And I couldn’t help but scream out again.
The entire gas station had gone dark. The inside, the overhead lights, everything. I could see the outline of the building, but that was it. And the eyes. The eyes glowered at me from inside the bays with absolute rage and hatred. Still screaming and staring at them, I slammed my foot down onto the accelerator. The tires screamed, and the car shot forward like a rocket, tearing out from under the awning and out onto the road. I refused to look in the rear view mirror. I knew I’d see those eyes one final time in them, and I didn’t want to. I just kept my eyes on the road in front of me, as far as my headlights reached, my knuckles white as I gripped the wheel and roared away from the hell behind me.
I just about never let up my foot from that gas pedal, taking the corners far too fast. Not until the warm lights of the next town finally came into view, one I can’t recall the name of. I felt myself beginning to cry, this time tears of happiness and relief. I drove straight through to the police station. I knew I could never tell them what had actually happened to me; they’d think I was utterly insane, or on something. But, I could tell them I’d been attacked by a crazed lunatic at an old gas station. And that’s exactly what I did. I burst in, begging to speak to someone. The officers at the desk calmed me down and took my statement, taking it all very seriously when I showed them my back, which, as it turned out, had three deep slashes in it. But when I told them where it happened, confused looks came over both their faces. As a paramedic rushed in from outside to check my wounds, one of the officers walked into the back, returning with the sergeant on duty, an older gentleman in his sixties. “Please tell me again, what happened to you” he asked gently. I did, and when I finished, he shook his head. “Son, it couldn’t possibly have happened at the Sinclair station ten or twelve miles back” he said softly. I stammered. “W-why not?” I demanded, struggling for my words. “Because” he began, “It closed in 1979, after a huge fire gutted it, killing everyone inside”
It’s been almost half a year since that incident now. I never made my book signing, which earned me a furious phone call from Erin. Her fury disappeared when she heard I’d been attacked. I told her it had been from someone I’d pulled over attempting to help on the side of the road. I didn’t want to repeat the same conversation I had with the police. They said they’d try and find whoever attacked me, but I know they never will. Not after they showed me a newspaper article, yellowed with age, showing the burned out hulk of the gas station I’d been to. Along with a very familiar photograph of a smiling man next to it. I still am a horror writer. The horror I saw that night didn’t stop me from writing. My second novel is due out this year. But now, whenever I sit down at my computer and begin to write a truly scary scene, I feel the chills of fear from my own creation jolt up my spine. Because I know true horrors lie in this world. And I hope I never come across them again.
I’m posting this here, not only to tell the truth finally about what I experienced, but also as a warning. To anyone who will listen. If you’re ever in the Pacific Northwest, on a lonely two lane road in the middle of nowhere, and you happen to come across an old looking gas station, lit up with a faded green Brontosaurus logo spinning in the night? Just keep your foot hard down and keep going. Because you may not be as lucky as I was.
“SHIT!”
I wrenched the steering wheel over to the right, causing the tires to scream in protest. A deep horn blared loudly, almost rupturing my eardrums, and the interior was momentarily illuminated by harsh white headlights. For a split second, my life flashed in front of my eyes, and then I felt the bumpiness of the grassy edge of the road jostle me around. The eighteen wheeler which had veered into my lane missed me by less than a foot, blasting by in a blur at what had to be seventy miles an hour or more. After a split second of catching my breath, I jabbed the driver’s window switch down and stuck my head out into the pouring rain.
“Asshole!” I screamed at the retreating logging truck, though I knew the driver wouldn’t be able to hear me. A moment later, an outraged woman’s voice tumbled from the speakers of my rented Chrysler 300. “I beg your damn pardon?!” Regaining my senses and remembering I’d been in the middle of a phone call, I sat back down in the seat. “Not you, Erin” I said apologetically, “If you didn’t hear the commotion on my end of the line, I almost got splattered all over the front end of some moron’s Peterbilt who wandered over to my side of the road” There was a moment of silence from the speakers, and then my agent let out a small snort. “Well, isn’t that just grand? You’ve gotta love idiots on the roads these days” It took a softer tone. “I’m glad you didn’t get into an accident, Al. I don’t feel like losing my best client *and* close friend in one go” I laughed. “Helps me relax to know you care” I admitted, then, after a moment getting the tension out of my muscles, I pulled the car back on the road and continued on.
It was the winter of 2022, and I was on my way to a book signing in Seattle from where I lived in Gold Beach, Oregon. I was a writer who’d just broken the New York Times Bestseller list with my debut novel, and as such, I was on the start of my book signing tour which would take me around the country. Obviously, as many people would quickly realize who I am if I used my real name, I have changed it, along with others. Erin, my literary agent, had suggested I fly to Seattle from the airport in North Bend, but I’m someone who’s had a major anxiety over flying ever since the September 11th attacks in 2001. So, instead, knowing I hadn’t purchased a new car to replace my rather shabby and broken down one yet, she’d arranged me a rental, and I’d begun the almost seven and a half hour drive north.
“I wouldn’t have had to deal with those dingbats if Interstate 5 hadn’t jammed up with that accident” I muttered. “Well, you *were* the one who wanted to drive, Al” Erin’s chiding voice came through the speakers. “Do you have any idea where you are?” I glanced at the GPS map for what had to be the hundredth time. The screen almost seemed to glitch, jumping as the antenna on top of the car attempted to communicate with an orbiting satellite above. *Piece of shit*. “No, this stupid navigation system is apparently on the fritz” I snorted. “So much for Enterprise being a good car rental company” I looked back up just in time to see a sign with the gas symbol flash past. *Thank you, God, for small favors*, I thought. “Hey, there’s a gas station coming up soon. I’m a bit low anyways; I’ll stop there, get directions and then call you when I’m on my way, okay?” There was a sigh on the speakers. “Okay, just, please, try not to be too long. The publishing house won’t like it if you show up to your very first book signing late tomorrow” she said.
“I’ll be as quick as I can” I said reassuringly, then pressed the red disconnect button on the steering wheel, ending the call. I let out a sigh of relief; Erin was my saving grace and had been the one to orchestrate my contract, including a very nice advance, but after a while, it became exhausting to deal with her. I stared out the windshield at the two lane road in front of me, relishing the silence, save for the rain pelting the car’s windshield, the windshield wipers flicking it off, and the tires on the wet pavement. For a few more minutes, all I saw was nothing but endless trees pushing in close to the road, almost seeming as if they were jostling to see who drove up and down past them. Then, almost as if my thoughts had summoned it, I saw the bright lights appear ahead on the right like a lighthouse beacon.
It was clearly one which had been here a very long time; the overall appearance gave the impression it had been around since at least the 1950s, if not earlier. I grunted with surprise as I saw the lit up station logo swinging around in a lazy circle on its pole. The faded green outline of a Brontosaurus and similarly weathered red letters spelling out *Sinclair* were ones I thought I would never see in person, seeing as how the company had gone defunct back in March. *Guess nobody told the owner of this one that*. I pulled into the station, my tires driving over a small black wire which caused a classic bell to ding loudly twice, somewhere out of sight. Pulling up next to the green pump, I shut the engine off and relaxed back into the comfortable leather, listening to the *tick* of the engine cooling down. As I closed my eyes, I could only hear the loud buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead, and the rain pelting the metal awning over the pumps.
I opened my eyes as I heard the rain peter out and looked around, glancing at the analog clock on the dash, illuminated by the overhead lights. *7:30PM*. Ten minutes had passed. I sighed. “Come on, man” I muttered, then quickly tapped the horn. The blaring sound of it almost seemed to shatter the stillness like a baseball through a plate glass window. Still nobody. “Damn it” I whispered, then unbuckled my seatbelt and pulled on the handle, using my foot to kick open the door. A bitingly cold wind smashed into my face as I stepped out onto the cracked concrete, causing me to flip up the collar of my coat in response. I glanced around, only hearing the sounds of the wind whipping through the trees, crickets chirping, and what had to be the hoots of an owl somewhere off in the forest beyond. The garage bays were open, and in the faded yellowed light of what had to be old incandescent bulbs, I could see what looked like a 50s Cadillac and a 70s International Scout up on the lifts, but no mechanic in sight. Leaning back into the car, I leaned on the horn, longer this time. Again, the sound reverberated off the trees and station. For some reason, I shivered at the noise. *It almost feels sacrilegious to disturb the silence out here*. I shook my head. Where the hell had *that* thought come from.
I shook it away and waited another minute or so. There was still no sign of life. *Maybe the station IS actually closed*. The thought was worrying; I hadn’t seen another sign of civilization, aside from the dumbass logging truck, in two and a half hours. I didn’t know how far it was until the next town or gas station, and as good as the Chrysler had been on gas, I didn’t want to try driving further on only a quarter tank. I decided to find out for myself, slamming the driver’s door closed with a loud *thunk*. Stepping around the front of the car, I walked across to the open bays, the sound of my footfalls echoing back at me. I glanced around, noticing the spilled oil on the ground, and mismatched tools, bottles and hoses heaved unceremoniously on the bench in the back. But still saw no one. *Great*, I thought, looking up to see the bright moon begin to appear from behind the clouds.
I had begun to turn and stride towards what had to be an office or convenience store when the figure burst out of the door, nearly causing me to jump out of my skin. “Gah!” I involuntarily let out, receiving a good natured laugh in return. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to startle you, let alone make you wait so long!” I caught my breath, then let out a strained chuckle and looked up at the man. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, dressed in a green Sinclair jumpsuit adorned with the same green dinosaur on the front patch; the patch on the other side proclaimed the man’s name to be Harold. The remaining hair on his head was slicked back, and he flashed me a smile with, surprisingly, bright white teeth. I held up my hand, giving it a little wobble and gave a laugh of relief. “Don’t worry about it, man. For a second, I thought this place was permanently closed or something” I said, the steadiness returning to my voice. “No sir, just the fact it’s only little old me working the night shifts!” he declared, jokingly wiping his brow. I snorted and smiled. The man clearly had a decent sense of humor.
“I’m guessing you need gas?” he asked, changing the subject to business and gesturing to my car. I nodded. “Yes, please, if you could fill her up with regular” He nodded, then began towards it as I jogged back around, opening the driver’s door and pressing the button to pop the gas cap. Harold let out a low whistle as he pulled the pump from its cradle. “*Very* nice car, sir!” he exclaimed, looking it over. “It looks expensive” I shrugged my shoulders. “It *is* a nice car, a Chrysler 300S, but, unfortunately, it’s not mine” He looked up at me and cocked an eyebrow as he slid the nozzle in and pulled on the handle. “It’s a rental” I added quickly, realizing it sounded like I’d jacked it or something. He seemed to relax. “Ah, that makes sense” he said jovially, “It’s nicer and newer than anything we normally see out here usually” I jerked my thumb at the open bays. “I’d say you have people with good taste around here, seeing as how that’s a 55 Coupe Deville back there” I said. He laughed, nodding approvingly. “I see you know your cars” he said with an impressed tone, glancing at the readout on the pump. “I do, love ‘em” I replied.
He looked back up at me. “So, are you some kind of auto collector or race car driver, then?” he asked. I shook my head. “No, afraid not. I’m a writer” He jerked his head up, his green eyes seeming to twinkle in the fluorescent lights. “A writer? Well, blow me down, I never thought I’d get a God-to-honest writer in my station!” he exclaimed, smiling. I nodded, feeling a slight sense of uncomfortableness wash over me. I still hadn’t gotten used to the reaction people had when they learned of my profession. He pressed forward. “What kind of books do you write?” he asked excitedly. “I write in the horror genre, honestly” I admitted, causing him to smile widely at the news. “Horror is my favorite style of books to read!” he said. “I love everything from the old classics, to Stephen King!” He looked at me quizzically. “How many have you written so far?” I held up a single finger. “Just one published; I’m actually on the way up to a publicity signing right now” He nodded approvingly, then looked back at the pump before speaking again.
“So, have you ever seen anything truly scary?” I raised an eyebrow at his question. *That came completely out of left field*. “What’dya mean by that?” I asked in return. He still watched the pumps, but replied. “So many horror writers I’ve heard about talk about how they’ve had their own frightening experience, whether it’s a plain old scare, or even a supernatural experience. It’s what helps them write truly horrifying tales” Now, he looked back at me. His face held a smile which caused me to inwardly shudder a little bit. It almost seemed far too wide for a moment. Then, blinking, I realized it was just a regular grin, if not just a bit of an odd one. *The lights must’ve caused you to see things*. He finished. “So, I was just asking if you’d ever had a scary experience which got you into writing horror” For a moment, there was silence between us as I pondered his question, only broken by an owl’s screech somewhere in the gathering darkness. Then I shrugged.
“Honestly, I hate to disappoint you, but, no” I admitted. He gave me a slightly surprised expression. “Really?” I nodded, deciding to be honest with him. “Really. To be completely truthful with you, Harold, as much as I love horror, both writing it, and reading and watching it, I’ve stopped being scared of it a while ago” The surprised expression seemed to grow on his face. “Really?” he repeated, then looked down at the pump again. “That’s a shame” he said, his voice almost holding a trace of sadness in it. I nodded, having to agree with him. “It is. I used to love getting scared by a good horror film or book, but, as I got older, it just seemed to, you know, drift away. Now, I just write what I know others are afraid of, like I did with my first book here, but, honestly? When I write, I don’t feel that fear in me at all” I hated admitting it; even when I’d given my first online interview with a magazine about my novel, I’d lied about it, saying that my own work could scare the hell out of me. But, in a way, it felt good to finally admit the truth to someone, even just a stranger I’d likely never see again.
I looked up to find him giving me a rather intense, and honestly, extremely creepy stare. His green eyes almost seemed to glow in the lights, and his smile had completely disappeared. I took a step back at the abrupt change in his demeanor, but just as quickly, it too, was wiped away, replaced by the smile I’d known since he appeared. “Well, I’m sure if you search hard enough, you’ll find that feeling again” he said, his voice filled with what sounded like genuine empathy. I nodded, looking out at the woods. “I hope” I truthfully admitted, then heard the sound of the pump finally clicking off. “Ah, all done!” Harold said happily, pulling the pump out of the car and replacing it back in its cradle. He looked at the readout. “That’ll be $23.17!” I started slightly. *Under 24 bucks for three quarters of a tank?* I hadn’t heard of gas this cheap since I was at least a teenager, but, at the same time, I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I reached into my back pocket, pulling out my wallet, and from it, my credit card. “Do, you happen to accept credit?” I asked, half afraid he’d tell me he didn’t.
But he plucked the card, happily, out of my hand. “Of course we do, Mr.-“ he looked down the name on my card, “Mr. DeMascus! The credit card reader, however, is back inside the main building” He gestured back towards the door he’d exited from. “Would you mind if I took it back there and ran it?” I shook my head. “No, by all means, go right ahead” I said, and he turned away and strode back across towards the building. “I’ll be back out with your receipt quicker than you can say, Bob’s your uncle!” he called. I let out another laugh at the phrase I hadn’t heard in years when I noticed something. I hadn’t seen the man’s back since he’d appeared, and this was my first time. The back of his jumpsuit was the same stained green as the front, with a red oil rag peeking out of the back pocket, but my eyes were drawn to one thing. What looked like a large tear in it, just below the large logo patch adorning the back, almost as if he’d been slashed. I could see an equally stained white shirt underneath it.
“Uh, hey!” I called out to him. He stopped and turned back to me, still smiling. “Yes?” he asked. I pointed to my own back. “Your, uh, your jumpsuit has a huge tear in the back of it. Just wanted to tell you, in case you didn’t know!” For a moment, the same funny look came over his face, and then he waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, I know; I haven’t had a chance to mend it yet!” he said, then, holding up a finger, pulled open the door, causing a bell hung from the inside handle to jingle, and stepped inside. I was left alone again, with only the buzzing sound of the lights almost causing my ears to ring in the sudden silence. Not wanting to seem rude by waiting back in the car, I instead walked to the front and leaned against the hood, staring out into the night. My eyes absentmindedly drifted off into the gloom as I waited for Harold to return.
That’s when my eyes finally glanced over at the large sign directly ahead of me. It was the one which advertised the price for gas by the gallon, and as I’d pulled in from the other way, not to mention getting too caught up talking, I hadn’t even looked at it. You could easily tell it had fallen into a bit of disrepair, as the light inside which allowed you to see the prices at night flickered on and off, precariously seeming as though it would burn out at any second. You could even hear it flickering loudly in the silence. That wasn’t what drew my eye, though. No, what drew my eye was the prices displayed on that flickering sign. “There’s absolutely *no* freakin’ way” I whispered to myself. I scanned down, but kept looking at the top two figures. *Eighty-eight cents a gallon for regular?* I felt a small wave of confusion fall over me. No matter how out in the middle of nowhere this station was, there was no way that it would charge *that* little for gas. Not to mention, it showed prices for both unleaded *and* leaded gasoline, something that had been banned since at least the mid 90s.
As my mind attempted to process this, something else finally sunk in. The entire forest around the station had fallen silent. And I’m not talking a normal silence, either. The crickets, the owl, the rustling of what I’d thought were deer or elk in the trees, had vanished. Even the wind had seemed to stop. It was an almost unearthly stillness, as if the entire forest were holding its breath. It was beyond unnerving and eerie, to say the least, and it caused a shiver to shoot up my spine. The only sound I could hear was the almost maddeningly loud buzz of the overhead lights, which seemed to drone like that of a growling creature. I realized every muscle in my body had tensed up, though I couldn’t understand why. *Sure, the silence is eerie, but, it’s nothing to be truly afraid of*, I thought. As much as I repeated that thought to myself, I couldn’t help but feel increasingly on edge in the stillness. “Okay, fuck this” I said finally, the sound of even my own echoing voice sounding just…*off* to me, pushing myself off my hood and beginning for the door Harold had gone through. As I walked, I looked at the watch on my wrist, seeing another fifteen minutes had passed since he’d left. *Where the hell is he?* Letting out a sigh, both of frustration, and to try and relieve some of the odd sensation forming in my gut, I finally reached the door and reached out, gripping the handle.
It felt almost shockingly cold in my hand, and I quickly twisted it, opening the door and causing the bell to jingle, sounding too loud in the quiet. I stepped inside and allowed it to swing shut behind me, the bell giving another jingle, this time muted in the building’s interior. I looked around. Aside from an old Coca-Cola machine in one corner of the room, there were no food or drinks in here. Instead, the two or three aisles taking up most of the space were filled with what looked like older style cans of motor oil and other assorted automotive bits and bobs, all adorned with the dinosaur logo. I drew in a breath, then coughed a little. It felt more than a little musty in here, as if it hadn’t been aired out in a long time. Looking directly ahead, I saw the counter that Harold must usually be stationed at. An older style cash register sat atop it, and behind it lay an open door marked *Employees only*. Beyond was a long, tiled hallway which stretched out for a while before disappearing around a corner.
I stared at the cash register. *Haven’t seen one of these old jobs since I was a kid in the 90s*, I thought, a few nostalgic emotions breaking through my other emotions and tugging at my heartstrings. But it was just as quickly shooed away by the uneasy feeling that was settling over me like a cloud of dust. This whole thing, this whole place just seemed…*wrong*. I couldn’t tell why, but it was making my arms and legs feel as though insects were inching along under my skin. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened my mouth. “Uh, hey, Harold?” I called, my voice seeming muted just like the bell had. I waited. No answer. “Hey, Harold, are you back there?” I called again. Still nothing. Feeling increasingly on edge as the fluorescent lights in here sounded like they were also buzzing too loud, I craned my neck to look down the corridor. Just barely at the corner, I saw the bright blue sign indicating a restroom. I made my decision, calling out again.
“Look, if you can hear me, Harold, I’m coming over the counter to use the restroom, okay? I can’t hold it until I get to the next town!” It was a lie; I hadn’t eaten or drank anything in the last two hours to make me have to go, but, just in case he came around the corner, I didn’t want to get into trouble, as odd as I felt. I still didn’t want to piss the man off. Taking a deep breath, I hopped the counter and stepped into the corridor. Unlike the main room, this was lit by three or four incandescent light bulbs, dangling down from the ceiling. It gave the hall a slightly dimmer look than behind me, and I hesitated for a moment before starting down it, taking care not to have my footsteps echo too much. The hall seemed to go on forever, but eventually, I reached the corner. Wanting to keep up appearances, I turned the knob for the bathroom and opened it. After looking into it for a split second, I shut it quickly, suppressing a cough and a gag. It had looked disgusting, as though it hadn’t been cleaned in years, if not decades. Turning back, I noticed a brighter light down at the end of the next stretch of hallway. I debated for a moment, then began down it. All I wanted was to be out of here.
I passed another open door; glancing through it, I saw the two garage bays and the view outside. The blast of cold, fresh air relieved me somewhat, and I continued on. As I reached the doorway, I looked around, seeing that it was an office. Two desks stood inside, each with nameplates on the edge of them. I spied Harold’s name on the far one. I also saw my credit card sitting in the middle of the table; the bright blue stood out among the dark wood and white papers. Letting out a relieved sigh, I crossed to it quickly and picked it up. I decided I’d just leave a twenty and a ten in cash on the desk instead and get the hell out of here. I didn’t know where the man had gone to, and every fiber of my being was telling me to leave. As I reached for my wallet, my eyes caught a plaque on the wall behind the desk, the faux gold glinting in the low light. I stared at it. The photograph was clearly Harold’s, looking almost the same as I’d seen him, just a lot cleaner. Below that was a declaration etched into the fake gold. *Employee of the Month, Harold Jankowski*. I couldn’t help but smile a little at how hard he must’ve worked for it. Less than a second later, though, the smile dropped from my face as I read the inscription underneath it.
*August, 1976*. I shook my head, hoping that I was just seeing things in the low light, hoping that it would change to 2006, or hell, even 1996. But, no. It remained the same.”What the fuck?” I breathed out, feeling another shiver go down my spine. There was absolutely no way that, if he’d looked to be in his forties or fifties in the mid-seventies, that he would s*till* look the same forty-six years later. He’d at least be in his eighties or nineties now, and would very much not still be working here. “What the hell is going on…” I whispered again. Feeling like tendrils of dread were reaching out of the gloom and jamming themselves in me, I turned to book it out of the room, and out of the station entirely. But I froze, as I saw Harold.
He sat in an old style black swivel chair, his back to me in the next room. I couldn’t tell what the room was, as it was lit only by a single, very dim bulb directly over him, but the room was giving me off truly creepy vibes. For the first time in years, I felt the first inklings of fear. Before I had a chance to move or say anything, he spoke. “Well, Mr. DeMascus” he said, his voice almost inflectionless. I began to speak. “Look, I’m sorry I barged back in here, it’s just-“ I was cut off as he continued. “Well, Mr. DeMascus, how do you feel?” My shoulders slumped as I felt a wave of confusion envelop me. “Ex-excuse me?” I managed out. “How do you feel?” he repeated, then continued, his voice finally seeming to gain some cadence to it. “Do you feel…*afraid*? Do you feel…*fear*?” He let out a low chuckle, one that almost seemed different from the happy one I’d heard outside. I didn’t know how to respond. Finally, he spoke again. “It’s okay; you don’t have to tell me. I know, I can *feel* it” He let out another chuckle, and I felt multiple shivers shoot up my spine.
“And, frankly, Mr. DeMascus, I’m happy about that” he said, standing up, but still keeping his back to me. “Because, you all taste so much *better* when you’re afraid” This time I did manage to say something. “…The fuck…” It wasn’t the most eloquent response, but apparently Harold found it funny, as he let out another low, creepy chuckle. He finally turned towards me, and I jumped backwards, slamming into his desk and causing his nameplate to fall to the ground. The man still smiled at me, his smile now holding a very definite wideness to it, holding an almost pants pissing wickedness in it. But, he didn’t seem…*alive*. His previously sparkling green eyes now seemed glassy and unseeing. To put it bluntly, he almost more resembled a ventriloquist’s dummy, a *puppet*, than anything. He almost seemed to lean towards me. And finally, he spoke. “I’ll make it sporting, though. You have twenty seconds to run” he said. Swallowing hard, I looked around and saw a tire iron on his desk. I snatched it up, ready to club the man over the head if he made a move towards me.
That’s when he simply dropped forward onto his face. He fell halfway forward into the room and didn’t move. I looked down at him, and gasped as I realized what I was seeing. The man looked nothing more than like a deflated beach ball, as though all the organs and blood in him had been sucked out. I saw the tear in the back of his jumpsuit again, this time much more pronounced. Behind it, his dirty white shirt had been torn as well, and it revealed…*oh, fuck me sideways*…a hole in his actual back. I could see the white of his spine clearly visible in the yellow light. As I stared down at him, I heard a voice. This one, though, was *not* Harold’s. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, much lower than I’d ever heard a human voice speak, and. It alone almost caused me to piss myself, because it held a truly evil, sadistic tone to it. *Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.* I looked up and into the darkened room Harold had fallen out of. And finally, for the first time in years, I screamed.
Hovering just in the darkness beyond the edge of the dim light’s gaze, were two enormous, *glowing* green eyes. They were larger than a human’s eyes ever could be, and in a very inhuman shape, looking like crescent moons. They held the most evil, sadistic glee I had ever seen in my life. At my scream, the voice stopped counting down, and…it fucking *laughed*. A great, booming laugh that sounded like nails on a chalkboard. And then it began counting down again, the malicious excitement in it audible. *Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen.* I didn’t wait any longer. I didn’t want to see what those eyes belonged to. I turned and I sprinted out of the office, running down the corridor, my footfalls and panicked breathing echoing back to me like a gunshot. The corridor seemed to go on forever, and I couldn’t understand why it was taking so long to reach the corner. Finally, though, I reached it. And froze.
I was *back* at the entrance to the office. *What the fuck?!* Behind me, I heard the voice reach ten, and I began sprinting again down the hallway. It seemed to take even longer to reach the corner, and this time, I reached out to grab the corner edge with me hand-only to grab the wooden edge of the office door. My eyes widened and I felt tears begin to fall from my eyes as I ran again. The voice continued as I dashed for down the ever increasing corridor. *Seven. Six. Five.* I let out a strangled sob as I grabbed for the tiled corner, pushing off the edge of the corridor to snatch at it. Instead, I smashed into the wall…next to the office door. I fell in a heap, trying to force myself up when I heard it finish.
*Three. Two. One. Ready or not, Mr. DeMascus. Here. I. Come.* As it finished uttering the last word, the voice dropped even lower, as if I were hearing the voice of the devil himself speak to me. I realized if I looked behind me now, I’d see it. Standing in the middle of the office, over its human puppet. I refused to look back; I knew it wanted me to. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks, mixing with the blood from my head where I’d slammed into the wall. Every horror movie death in movies and books flashed through my mind. And I knew all of them weren’t even remotely as horrible as what that…*thing* had planned for me. That’s when a thought, just a tiny glimmer of hope, flashed through my mind. Something I’d seen as I’d walked down the hall to the office. I felt adrenaline course through me. *I might die trying to do this, but I have to try*, I thought.
I heard the floor behind me rattle, and felt hot, stinking breath fall across the back of my neck. For a microsecond, I felt paralyzed with fear, and then I let out a strangled cry, exploding into motion. I heard a bellow of frustration behind me, followed by a laugh. It knew once I reached the end of the corridor, it’d use whatever power it had to bring me right back to it. It had power over this corridor. *But it doesn’t realize it left a weak spot open*. The thought still echoing in my mind, I ran, unable to keep myself from screaming this time as I dashed down the corridor. It seemed even longer than before, but as I reached the halfway point, I saw what I’d been hoping to spy. The door into the garages stood open, almost hidden out of sight behind a shelf of oil. I let out another cry; this one of determination. Behind me, I heard the creature stop laughing. Now, it let out a bellowing cry of rage, realizing what I intended to do. I felt it begin to thunder up the corridor after me, to snatch me up. The feeling of something sharp sliced across my back.
And then I was leaping for the doorway. And through it. I landed in a puddle of still sticky oil underneath the Cadillac, what I saw now was rusting away with decades of disrepair. Not wasting a second, I jumped to my feet and ran for the open bay doors. Behind me, I heard a louder bellow, but I didn’t look back. I burst out from inside the doors into the night, now laden with the sounds of the forest again. I dashed for my car, almost flying over the hood and ripped open the driver’s door. Crashing into the seat, I stabbed at the start button, for a moment terrified that, like the typical horror cliché, it wouldn’t start. But, to my surprise- and gratitude, it did, the roar of the V6 thundering out. As I grabbed the knob to jam into drive, I risked one glance up. And I couldn’t help but scream out again.
The entire gas station had gone dark. The inside, the overhead lights, everything. I could see the outline of the building, but that was it. And the eyes. The eyes glowered at me from inside the bays with absolute rage and hatred. Still screaming and staring at them, I slammed my foot down onto the accelerator. The tires screamed, and the car shot forward like a rocket, tearing out from under the awning and out onto the road. I refused to look in the rear view mirror. I knew I’d see those eyes one final time in them, and I didn’t want to. I just kept my eyes on the road in front of me, as far as my headlights reached, my knuckles white as I gripped the wheel and roared away from the hell behind me.
I just about never let up my foot from that gas pedal, taking the corners far too fast. Not until the warm lights of the next town finally came into view, one I can’t recall the name of. I felt myself beginning to cry, this time tears of happiness and relief. I drove straight through to the police station. I knew I could never tell them what had actually happened to me; they’d think I was utterly insane, or on something. But, I could tell them I’d been attacked by a crazed lunatic at an old gas station. And that’s exactly what I did. I burst in, begging to speak to someone. The officers at the desk calmed me down and took my statement, taking it all very seriously when I showed them my back, which, as it turned out, had three deep slashes in it. But when I told them where it happened, confused looks came over both their faces. As a paramedic rushed in from outside to check my wounds, one of the officers walked into the back, returning with the sergeant on duty, an older gentleman in his sixties. “Please tell me again, what happened to you” he asked gently. I did, and when I finished, he shook his head. “Son, it couldn’t possibly have happened at the Sinclair station ten or twelve miles back” he said softly. I stammered. “W-why not?” I demanded, struggling for my words. “Because” he began, “It closed in 1979, after a huge fire gutted it, killing everyone inside”
It’s been almost half a year since that incident now. I never made my book signing, which earned me a furious phone call from Erin. Her fury disappeared when she heard I’d been attacked. I told her it had been from someone I’d pulled over attempting to help on the side of the road. I didn’t want to repeat the same conversation I had with the police. They said they’d try and find whoever attacked me, but I know they never will. Not after they showed me a newspaper article, yellowed with age, showing the burned out hulk of the gas station I’d been to. Along with a very familiar photograph of a smiling man next to it. I still am a horror writer. The horror I saw that night didn’t stop me from writing. My second novel is due out this year. But now, whenever I sit down at my computer and begin to write a truly scary scene, I feel the chills of fear from my own creation jolt up my spine. Because I know true horrors lie in this world. And I hope I never come across them again.
I’m posting this here, not only to tell the truth finally about what I experienced, but also as a warning. To anyone who will listen. If you’re ever in the Pacific Northwest, on a lonely two lane road in the middle of nowhere, and you happen to come across an old looking gas station, lit up with a faded green Brontosaurus logo spinning in the night? Just keep your foot hard down and keep going. Because you may not be as lucky as I was.
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