Tag: Bizzarre

Full Circle

On September 2, 2019

Word Count: 5,407

It was early in the fall of 1989 as the first hint of the green of the trees transforming into their autumn colors became apparent, I set out on the long, arduous trek between South Carolina and Texas. My ex-wife and I shared joint custody of our only son, but I rarely got the chance to see him. The distance made any sort of regular visits impossible. The plan was for me to drive to Texas, and then my son and I were to fly back to South Carolina. At the end of our two-month visit, I would fly him back, pick up my truck, and drive back home to the east coast.

By trade I worked as a creative writer. Among the works I had published were mystery novels, fantasy novels, and horror short stories. In such a profession, I enjoyed the freedom to decide when I worked and when I did not. I sent off my last manuscript a few days before my trip, and my next one was not due for several months.

I cleared more time on my schedule than the length of my visit with my son. I wanted to take a scenic drive through the secluded roads of the forested country. I planned to take a drive through the Appalachian Mountains until I reached Alabama. From there I intended to cross West through the Southern states. During all of my past visits with my boy, I took the interstate highways the entire way to San Antonio. I thought this time a pleasant drive through the mountains would do me some good.

The sun rose fresh and bright as I set off on my way. Because the orange light blazed so intensely, I turned my rearview mirror toward the ceiling to deflect the blinding glare from my face. Once the dazzlingly bright sun rose above the rear windshield window, I returned the mirror to its proper place allowing me to glance safely back to the traffic behind me.

The morning air was rather chilly, probably no more than 50 degrees, but I preferred to leave the heater off as I drove. The air outside would warm up soon enough and the crisp, cold morning invigorated me. I wore a thick flannel hunting shirt, which I could remove in a few hours when the heat of the day arrived.

Breakfast came in the form of two crumbling biscuit and greasy sausage sandwiches and paper cup full of bitter coffee from a fast-food joint. I did not stop to eat; I ate as I drove. My hope was to find a good place to stop to bed down before nighttime fell. Before long, I found the mountain road for which I was watching that I needed to take to get to the scenic highway. For a state highway, the road was exceedingly narrow, and there was virtually no shoulder on either side. One lane ran against the nearly vertical mountain face while the side of the rode on which I drove bordered an 80 degree angle drop through a forest of pine trees.

By my calculations, if I followed along this highway, I should reach the Southern tip of the Appalachians in Northern Alabama in a matter of four to five days. I really looked forward to this drive for some time, but thanks to the windy roads, I stopped to relieve my bladder quite frequently. The large cup of coffee I picked up the last time I stopped to refill the gas tank probably did not help, but it did keep me focused and awake.

The meandering drive provided an outstandingly splendid scenic view. I spent the first two nights of my trip camping out in my tent. Being an avid outdoorsman, I always kept camping gear in the toolbox of my truck. In spending a fair amount of my time secluded with nature; I found a lot of inspiration for my stories in the wilderness and the imagined mysteries it contained. I imagined how much my boy would enjoy this. He liked the outdoors almost as much as I did. Perhaps we would do some camping during his visit.

On the third night I drove late into the evening. I wanted to try to make good time, so I drove until I began to doze. Setting up my tent quickly, I climbed swiftly in and went to sleep. I drove longer than I should have. It was not safe to be driving these windy mountain roads while I was so sleepy. Only minutes after crawling into my sleeping bag, I was sound asleep.

I woke up an hour before the sun would rise above the horizon. Something woke me up. It sounded like loud whispering, but it was nothing but garble. I figured it must be some sort of insect or bird. Just to be safe, I climbed out of my tent and took a look around. The whispering continued, but it became very faint. I knew it was some kind of animal but did not know what, so I went to my truck and took my pistol out of the glove box. Climbing back into my tent, I set my pistol next to my pillow and drifted back into my dreams.

When I finally rose for the day, it was about three hours past dawn. I packed up quickly and got back on the road. I could not get the sound of that whispering out of my head. I rationalized it as a nocturnal animal, but something deep inside me told me different. I wanted to get as far from this area as quickly as I could.

I took pleasure in the secluded drive. Many years passed since the last time I spent time in the mountains. I forgot how magnificent everything looked from this altitude. I drove a while after the sun went away for the night. I decided I would find an inn and stay there until morning. I needed a place to shower and shave. Two nights in the wilderness left me quite dirty.

I let myself get in too much of a hurry. If I was driving the speed limit, I may have avoided the tragic events that were about to unfold before me. A man in torn and filthy clothes staggered out from nowhere and limped right out in front of my truck. I was not paying clear attention; I did not have time to react. I had nowhere to turn or move out of the man’s way. If I swerved I would either hit one side of the nearly vertical mountain face to my left or go careening over the other side of the mountain. With my right foot, I pressed down on the breaks with every bit of strength I could conjure. Unfortunately, that was not enough to prevent the events I was about to set into motion. My breaks locked and the oversized truck began to skid straight ahead. For a fraction of a second I saw into the man’s eyes, and I saw my own impending demise in there. Somehow in his eyes I seemed to feel my own death. I clipped the fellow hard with the right front fender of my large pick-up truck.

My heart stopped as dazzling sparks of light overtook my vision. I jerked the parking brake and hastily ran back to help the man I hit, if he could be helped. Vertigo nearly overtook me when I realized I just pushed the man off the side of the cliff. My head spun an I nearly lost my balance and plummeted down after him. I wanted to vomit. I looked around for an hour, calling out for the man. I got no reply. I realized my only option was to run. The man was dead, and there was no point in me spending years in prison for it.

Jumping back in my truck, I got out of there like a bolt of lightning. I could not believe what I just did. I killed a man, and now I was running. There was nothing I could do though. He stepped right out in front of me. It was either him or me, and I had a son in San Antonio waiting for his father to go get him.

No one would ever find the body there. That man would decompose and be eaten by wild animals long before anyone found him. That was my hope. As long as he was not a local, I should be in the clear. Who would even think to look for the body of a drifter?

I passed a few scenic parkways, but I did not want to stop until I was back to an interstate highway and far from here. Almost two hours passed, but I still did not find a major highway. I passed several scenic parkways, but it was not until now I felt a bit safer. I finally pulled over so I could assess the damage to my truck. What little blood there was on my truck spattered along the side. I easily washed that away with a few bottles of water. The denting was minimal. I expected more structural damage than this. Apparently, I did not hit the man very hard. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I continued driving, looking for a way to get out of the mountains and to a major highway. After hours of driving, I wondered if any such exit existed. Eventually I found a small mountain hotel and pulled over for the night. I was exhausted from the stress and anxiety, and I reached the point of struggling not to fall asleep. I simply could not continue any further.

A nice gentleman, probably in his mid-fifty’s, checked me in and gave me the room key. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I adjourned to a small bar right next to the motel. I hoped a drink or a few would help soothe my frazzled nerves.

It was a rugged little tavern with a cozy atmosphere. The lighting was fairly dim and soft which helped put me at ease a bit. I was rather surprised when I saw the hotel manager was the bartender as well. I shared a few kind words with the man, trying to hide the guilt and paranoia plaguing my thoughts. I was on my second drink when a few other people entered the bar. Two scruffy men with long hair and beards walked in with a rather attractive woman. She had a natural beauty all the make-up in the world could not improve. I caught myself staring at her. I turned back around to the bartender and hoped I did not offend the men.

After my fourth shot of bourbon, I decided to head back to my room to attempt to ge some sleep. I walked in, closed the door, and shed all of my clothes. Right then I heard three gunshots ring out in the night. Grabbing the sheet off of the bed, I covered my lower self and ran outside.

The two men and the beautiful woman ran out of the bar and jumped into an old navy-blue sedan. In their hurry, the tires spun and pelted the front wall of the bar with chunks of gravel. I threw my pants back on and ran to the bar. I yelled the whole way hoping some other patrons could help me. I ran through the front door of the small pub to find the bartender lying over the bar dead. Blood covered the countertop and dripped on one of the bar stools with an audible tap. The cash register was pulled from the counter and smashed on the ground. All of the money was apparently gone. The three even searched the dead man’s pocket for valuables.

No one else was checked into the hotel. The bartender was the only employee there. I needed to make a quick decision. I already tried to cover up one murder, now I was considering ignoring a second. If the authorities arrived, they may notice the damage to my front fender and put two-and-two together. I could not take that chance. I quickly gathered my clothes, jumped in my truck, and got the hell out of there.

I cursed myself because I did not pay attention to which direction the sedan went as they hastily exited the scene. I obviously wanted to go the opposite direction, but I did not know which direction that was. I took a chance and continued on my way South. All I wanted was a peaceful, serene drive. Instead, this trip was turning into my worst nightmare. God knows who I hit. I was a murderer who fled the scene of another murder.

Panic pressured me to drive as hastily as I could. I had to calm myself and keep the speedometer at a safe level. My heart tried to pound its way out of my chest, and there was not much I could tell myself to help me calm down. Anxiety and fear filled every nerve from head to toe. I desperately wanted to get out of these mountains and out of this state.

I tried not to think of what would happen if I got caught. I would surely spend the rest of my life in an Alabama backwoods prison. I could not let my boy grow up without his father. It was an accident. The man staggered right out in front of me, and I did not have time to react. I even stopped to check on him, to try to help him. There was nothing I could do. If the impact with my car did not kill him, the fall definitely did.

Absorbed in my thoughts, I barely noticed the dark blue sedan parked at one of the scenic views. My heart leapt into my throat when I recognized the car as the one I saw fleeing the hotel. When I passed, I could not see if there was anyone inside or not. I prayed they abandoned their vehicle for another or set off on foot into the mountain forest.

I drove several more miles and thought I was in the clear. Only a few minutes later I saw headlights quickly winding along the road behind me. I hoped it was only another late night traveler, but my gut told me otherwise. I knew it was the murdering thieves from the bar.

I increased my pace, but I was unfamiliar with the windy road. I knew if I drove too fast, I could easily run off the side of the mountain. Despite my haste, I saw the headlights of that dark blue getaway car closing in on me. Within five minutes, the heavy steel vehicle was upon me.

The sedan approached closer and closer until it was only a few feet distant from my rear bumper. I already set into a panic even before the horn began to blow. Over and over the driver of the sedan honked the horn instilling within me dread and fear for my own life. I was probably the only person who could identify the murders, and they wanted to kill me before I could do so.

They did not know I was a murderer as well. I had no more of a desire to encounter the authorities than did they. I desperately wanted to get away. I could not report them for fear of being found out as well. I wished I could make them understand this, but I was sure they wanted me dead. They did not care about my own troubles. With me dead, there were no other witnesses to their violent crime.

The road began to straighten. I pressed harder on the gas pedal increasing my speed as much as I could. I was terrified of running off the narrow mountain road, but I feared the trio following me even more. With us now on a straight way, the car behind me began to ram my rear bumper. I did not know if they were trying to stop me, kill me, or simply run me off the side of the road.

Up ahead of me, I saw a fork in the road. I had no idea which way to go and no time to think about it. Reacting without thinking, I continued straight. This led me onto the left fork in the road. To my relief, my pursuers did not react quickly enough and ended up on the right fork.

My heart filled with despair when the paved road ended and a gravel road took its place. Obviously I was no longer on the main road. The rough road bumped and bounced my truck. I could hear the rocks hitting the side panels. The paint job on my new truck was destroyed, but that was the least of my worries.

I let the irregular road lead me deeper into the mountains. I was afraid of getting lost, but I was more afraid my pursuers would return. I drove for thirty minutes through the jagged mountain path before I finally stopped. I had no idea where I was. I did not know if this road would dead end deep in the wooded mountains or return me to a paved drive.

Turning off the truck, I climbed down to the floorboard and removed the fuses for my break lights and tail lights. If the trio did follow me, I would not give them tail lights to use as a beacon. The headlights had to stay on; the night was too dark for me to navigate without them. The further I proceeded, the more I was sure that I was heading toward a dead end. The road grew progressively narrower and the overhanging foliage grew ever denser.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I came to an intersecting road. This road was gravel as well, but it looked more worn and heavily used. The sense of reassurance faded quickly as I realized I had no idea which way to turn. The windy gravel road made so many twists and turns. I did not know what direction I was going. I stopped to try to regain my bearings.

Turning off the headlights, I turned off the truck and grabbed the flashlight from under the seat. I took my pistol out of the glove box along with a small box of bullets. My head spun with fear, confusion, and anxiety. I prayed that the three murder-thieves did not know this area. I hoped beyond all hope they were from out of town and not locals. As far as I knew, they could be just about anywhere.

I knew some of the constellations like Orion and Scorpio. If I could find these, I might just figure out where to go. The walls of the mountain, not to mention the heavily congested trees, made it almost impossible to determine North from South. My fear of becoming lost in this rocky wilderness intensified. I nearly jumped out of my own skin when a voice greeted me from behind.

“You lost?” the voice asked politely.

I snapped around to find myself face to face with a large man. His facial features, hair and eyes did not betray the origin of his heritage. He easily stood eight inches taller than me. The peculiar man was getting on in years, but he still looked healthy and strong. He dressed in jeans and a denim jacket. Feathers and beads were woven into his slightly graying hair. A large, aged deerskin bag hung from his shoulder; the large satchel hung down to his hip.

“Y-yes I am as a matter of fact,” I replied when I finally stopped gawking at the man. “I turned off on this road by accident. Now I can’t figure out what to do.”

“You cannot go back,” he said. It was as if he knew more than he possibly could. “There are too many paths behind you. It is too easy to get lost that way.”

I sensed a creepy aura about the man. He did not look at me; he looked through me. My soul cowered in guilt and shame.

“Which way should I go?” I asked the tall stranger.

“Which way calls to you?” he replied cryptically.

I did not have the patients for this one with nature crap. I wanted to get back to a main road, preferably one heading in the opposite direction of that sedan. I knew I would get no help if I became belligerent. Taking a few deep breaths, I tried to calm myself.

Several minutes passed without either of us saying anything. There was an eerie stillness to the air. No breeze blew across my sweaty face or tickled my short hair. I saw no clouds in the sky. It was like the air suddenly decided to take a break.

When I began to speak, the man silenced me by pressing one strong finger to my lips. He cupped his other hand around his ear. A few more awkward minutes passed, and then I noticed something very unnatural. To my left, I heard the crickets, frogs, and nocturnal birds creating a hypnotic song. To my right, I heard nothing. In front of me, the growth became increasingly thicker. There was no way going forward was an option.

I did not know what to say, and I stepped backward toward my car. The aging man smiled, and I could not help but think he somehow manipulated the animals of the night. He made me very uncomfortable, and I began to climb back into the truck. The man spoke to me again.

“Every action a man takes affects every action he takes in the future,” he said. It was almost like he was delivering some sort of prophecy.

I desperately wanted to leave, to put as much distance between the sedan and me as quickly as possible. Still, something made me stand there. I felt like the man had more to say to me.

“If a man does not determine his destiny, it will be determined for him,” he said in a monotone voice. “Is a man truly lost if he does not wish to be found?”

“All things come full circle,” he finished. With that statement, the man turned to walk away.

“What do I do?” I asked as if the man was a fortune teller.

“Yin and Yang my friend. What comes around goes around,” he called loudly as he continued to walk into the dense forest. “However you sow, thus shall you reap.”

A few steps after he disappeared from view he yelled out one last thing. “Go; follow the path you have chosen.

The man never appeared or acted aggressive. I did not think I had to fear any danger from him. Even so, there was something about his mere presence that terrified me until my bones grew cold. It was as if a cloud of doom hung around the man.

I found myself full of doubt. Did the nocturnal sounds beacon me or warn me away? Initially I was sure I should go to the left, but now I wondered if the silence meant safety. I wished I never encountered that man. I felt one way meant safety while the other meant death.

I was parked there for a while. If that sedan did backtrack, they could be on me soon. I decided to go with my first instinct. Turning on my parking lights, I turned to the left. So long as I drove slowly enough, the dim light of the parking lights were sufficient. Turning on my headlights was the last thing I wanted to do.

I crept along that backwoods road for miles. Several times I saw other trails, possibly other roads. I ignored all of these and continued to follow the road I chose. I was in a deep valley when my truck ran out of gas. The engine sputtered, clanked and finally stalled. I took my flashlight and pistol, along with my first aid and roadside kits, and then set off on foot.

With the full moon hidden behind the mountains, it was intensely dark in the deep valley. It was a long way to the top of the road. I could barely see the road beneath my feet, and I stumbled on rocks, roots or other foliage and nearly fell several times. Regardless, I walked without the use of my flashlight. I was too afraid of drawing the wrong attention.

By the time I reached the top of the road, my legs burned with cramps. The steep walk took my breath and caused a sharp pain in my side. The climb exhausted me. I wished I took better care of myself. I did not think I could make it much further on foot. I had to find some means of transportation.

At the top of the road, I again had the benefit of the bright light of the moon. The mountain leveled here, and I could see a fair distance in front of me. The road was virtually devoid of growth, but no tracks were visible to indicate regular use.

My whole body was on fire. Fatigue overtook me and I had to rest. I finally resigned to the fact I could go no further and wandered off the road. I walked about two hundred feet through the heavy undergrowth and found a small clearing. I collapsed. I could not stay awake. Absolute fatigue forced me into a deep sleep.

When I awoke, I did not have any sense of passed time. It was still dark, but the moon’s orbit removed it from the night sky.

Through the woods, leading away from the road, I saw what looked like the light of a window. I walked in that direction, but because of the absent moon, I had no choice but to use my flashlight. The undergrowth separating me from the house was quite dense. I was very hungry and wished I had something to eat. My body was weak because I had not eaten in almost two days.

I thought it an unfortunate turn of luck when the underbrush became thick with thorns. The sharp talons tore at my skin and clothing, but I was not going to let that stop me from reaching that house. I suddenly realized the thorns tearing at me were wild blackberries. The thorny plants were a mixed blessing.

I stopped and picked every berry I could find. They were tart, but satiated my hunger and soothed my parched throat. I did not continue on until I ate several handfuls of the dark berries. Feeling somewhat better, I continued to push my way through the brush and to the house. I briefly forgot about the torturous pain wracking my body.

I spotted a white pick-up truck parked beside the house. I did not see any other vehicles, especially not a dark blue sedan. I hoped the owner of the house might give me a ride, or better yet give me some gasoline for my own truck. I finally emerged from the unforgiving shrubbery and came out about fifty yards from the house. A light on the opposite side produced a halo like effect making me comfortably feel I finally found safety.

Approaching the house, I alerted a chained dog which instantly began barking. The shock filled my eyes with sparks, and I nearly fell to my back. A light over the back porch of the house turned on and a man stepped out. Confusion overtook me when I saw the man’s face. It was, without a doubt, the bartender and hotel manager. That was impossible; I saw the man lying dead only hours earlier.

“Oh thank God,” I cried. “You-you’ve got to help me. They’re going to kill us both.”

A shot blasted in the silence of the night. Initially I thought the trio in the sedan caught me, but then I realized the bartender stood in the door aiming a rifle at me.

“Get out of here you damn thief,” he yelled only seconds before another shot cracked the night air.

The bullet hit the ground only a few feet in front of me. Dirt and fragments pelted my body adding to my agony.

“You don’t understand,” I tried to reason with the bartender.

“Understand this,” he said as he let a third shot fly.

The shock set my ear to ringing with a piercing shriek. The bullet passed only inches from my head. This was no warning shot. The bartender tried to shoot me but missed. He was not going to give me a chance to explain, so I ran.

I could not go back the way I came. A floodlight now illuminated the area, and I could not pass through the thorn bushes with any speed. My best option was to run to the side of the house. As he fumbled to reload his firearm, I shot my revolver twice as I frantically dove into the white truck. I saw keys hanging in the ignition and thought I finally caught a break.

I cranked the engine and floored the gas. Several more shots rang out behind me. I heard one hit the truck and another shattered the side view mirror.

I frantically tore down the road as fast as the truck would go. I heard the gravel pelting the underside and inner fenders of the truck like an angry hail. Soon the gravel road gave way to pavement, and I felt like I was home free. In my zeal, I did not realize I was driving in the dead center of the road. I did not see the oncoming car soon enough. I tried to move to the side, but I clipped it hard on the driver’s side.

I hit the brakes, which set me into a spin. The force threw me out of the truck to slam down onto the hard pavement. I welcomed the new pain when I watched the truck spin off the road and roll down the slope of the steep mountain.

I looked back to the other car and saw it teetering on the edge. The front of the car pointed directly at me, and the headlights blinded me. I stepped toward the vehicle and felt a crippling pain in my belly. Looking down, I saw the bartender did not miss. The shot I heard hit the truck passed through and got me as well. I was losing blood fast. If I did not get help now, I was going to die.

I forced myself forward. I had to help the people in that car, and hopefully they could help me. I dropped my first aid kit, flashlight, and roadside kit when I ran from the bartender. I was almost on the vehicle before I could see it without the headlights glaring me in the face, and I recognized it instantly. I stood there swaying from the loss of blood. I looked at the dark blue sedan with its three passengers.

They tried to get out, but any small movement they made slid the car ever-so-slightly over the edge. They pleaded with me to help, to do something to weigh down the car so they could escape. My body was growing numb. I lost a lot of blood and I knew I was about to die.

“Sure,” I said as I placed my foot on the grill of the car. “Have you ever heard of yin-yang?” I asked. I never got an answer, because I used what energy I had to give that sedan the little help in needed to go over the side. All I could hear were their death screams as the sedan rolled down the mountain.

Reveling in my revenge, I did not see the shiny black pick-up truck round the sharp curve. I glanced up and, only for a brief moment, I saw myself behind the wheel of my undamaged truck.

The last thing I heard was screeching tires as the breaks of the vehicle suddenly locked. I felt something, but I became so disoriented, I could not say what happened. I felt the rush of cold air for a moment before I came to a stop when I became impaled on a tree trunk. I saw a face up above me looking down the hill. Eventually the headlights drove out of view.

“Don’t worry,” I said as darkness overtook me. “Everything comes full circle.”

Photo by Pexels from Freerange Stock

Down That Road

By Mychal Wilson

On September 1, 2019

In Aetet 1, Second Triad

Word Count: 5,184

Over my long years with the firm, I accumulated such a vast amount of vacation time I was going to lose two and a half weeks if I did not take it now. Things were not well at the office, the current economy taking its toll on everyone, so I insisted I stay on until a better date. When my supervisor told me to use it or lose it, I decided to take my pick-up truck to do some driving across the country.

The next morning, I loaded my cooler, made sure I had what I needed in my toolbox, and packed up a suitcase full of clothes and toiletries. I really had no idea where I would go, but since I lived so close to the east coast, I decided to drive west.

In a few hours I passed through Atlanta and got on interstate highway 20. That was more or less a straight shot through Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. I never before traveled through any of the states in the Deep South, and I was rather excited to see it.

I made some stops to enjoy the unfamiliar scenery and take in the local culture. There were vast amounts of pine trees from the west side of Alabama, which created a rather dense forest, and almost all of the way through Mississippi.

Crossing over the Great River from Mississippi, I entered the vast, monotonous landscape of the steamy state of Louisiana. A long highway stretched in front of me; a straight lengthy path expanding off far into the horizon. Miles upon miles of vibrant green crops surround both sides of the highway for as far as the eye could see.

I assumed the endless rows of crops must be cotton. I had no idea what a cotton plant looked like; I only ever saw it in ball or swab form. The large steel grated rail cars covered in white puffs are what clued me in. I knew of no other type of crop that produced such a thing.

It felt like I was driving forever without seeing any sign of another car on the road. I knew I should have stuck with the interstate highway, but I thought the smaller state highways could provide me with some nice scenery. I was sorely wrong about that.

Two hours after crossing the border, the rows of cotton plants ended and gave way to massive flats packed with countless small ponds. Each pond could not be more than one or two hundred square feet in area. They were filled with some sort of grass and packed edge to edge going on for as far as I could see.

It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but the heat pounded down upon my black truck without mercy. The air conditioner was cranked up as far as it would go. Normally the thing had me freezing my ass off at that setting, but in this heavy Louisiana heat with the sun beating down on my black truck, it was just enough to keep the cab at a bearable temperature.

A large obscuring haze formed from the steadily increasing humidity. The heat rose up from the concrete roadway in obviously visible waves, pulling the moisture along the highway back up into the air. Because of those thousand upon thousands of grassy ponds, the air became so thick with humidity there appeared to be a fog from a distance.

That ungodly long tar-patched stretched in front of me, relatively free from the haze, taunting me with hopes I would find something more than farmland. Turning around became a consideration, but I thought I could see a gas station off one of the small side roads. As the building drew closer, I was relieved it was not some sort of mirage generated by the tortuous heat.

It took me much longer to get there than I thought. Without even realizing it, I was driving over ninety miles per hour; the ponds alongside me flew by with a blur. Twenty minutes elapsed before I reached the turnoff to the road on which the station sat.

It looked like it was once a large truck stop, but now it was in serious ill repair. Cracked, crumbled black top and densely choked weeds replaced what was once a smoothly paved surface. The old parking lot looked like an overused minefield. To call it a parking lot would be generous. It was really more of a bunch of dirt-filled potholes surrounded by the occasional patch of asphalt.

I climbed out of the truck as a large cloud of dry red dirt my truck stirred up rolled over me. I made the mistake of breathing in while the cloud still engulfed me. The fine dust choked my lungs and stung my throat. The red-orange cloud quickly blew past me, but I coughed and my nose ran for a minute or so afterward.

Withdrawing my wallet, I stepped around the truck to the pump. To my dismay, the pumps did not have a credit card slot. I was not even sure the pumps worked. These were of the sort installed in the 1970’s. The grimy white paint curled and chipped off the rusty metal gas dispensers.

The building did not look much better than the parking lot. It appeared to be an old diner turned into a garage. Paint covered the windows from the inside and one was covered from the outside with sheets of plywood. A stack of car hoods taller than me stood amongst a litter of other parts scattered around. I knew this was very cliché, but I actually heard banjo music coming from the one open door.

Were it not for the fact my truck was almost completely out of gas, I would climb back in the cab and leave this unnerving place. A young man, of what age I could not tell, stepped out from the door and onto a small porch-like area at the entrance.

Something in his demeanor and his stereotype Louisiana redneck appearance made me extremely uncomfortable. He was dirty, dressed only in jeans, an old rock and roll t-shirt, and a faded John Deer hat.

“Sumpin I cun do fer ya mista,” the boy said with an incredibly thick accent. I assumed he must be eighteen or nineteen judging by his voice. Because of his sunbaked skin and his wiry black scruff on his face he appeared to be much older.

“Ay, mista,” he called out louder than before. He sounded either agitated or rude. It was difficult to determine the underlying tone of his voice with it camouflaged under that heavy accent.

I realized I was standing there like a fool, gawking at the unfamiliar scene. I thought places like this only existed in movies. I apologized to the young man, who wore no socks or shoes. His feet were covered in dry dirt. His T-shirt was sleeveless and his jeans were worn with holes. I did not think I could come up with a better stereotype than this. I took my credit card out of my wallet and informed the grungy country boy I needed some gasoline.

“If yu cun pu at thar plastic back’n yer wallet’n pull ‘at sum cash, I sell ya some,” he replied with a snarky sarcasm.

I fumbled with my wallet, nearly dropping it to the ground. A vague sense of relief passed through me when I saw I had sixty dollars in it. I so rarely use paper money anymore, I was not really sure if I had any in my possession.

“Yea, uh, yea,” I stammered. The boy rolled his head and used the momentum to roll his back off of the wall and then walked inside. Reluctantly, I followed.

Inside a radio played bluegrass music, which explained the banjo music I heard. I gave the filthy young man the cash from my wallet and told him to put it on premium.

“Mista’, we got two kina gas. We got gas ‘n we aint got gas. Whichun’ you wawnt?” I had to admit, I was somewhat taken aback by the young man’s boldness. Possibly normal in this region, his demeanor made me feel extremely uncomfortable. His matted blond hair showed in patches from underneath his worn ball-cap. A chunk of tobacco bulged behind his left cheek and he continuously rolled a wooden toothpick from one corner of his lips to the other. His eyes looked sunken and dark. The dark brown of his eyes seemed to convey a sense of infinite depth. I could not explain it, but he scared the hell out of me.

I inquired as to the nature of the endless acres of small ponds.

“Dem’z rice paddies,” he said.

“Rice pattys?” I asked rather stupidly. I never heard of a rice patty.

“Ya know, fer grown rice in,” he said with a patronizing sarcasm.

I thanked him in words but not in tone. Walking back out to the pump, I put my sixty dollars of gas in the tank and began to leave. I wanted out of there as fast as I could. It may only be culture shock, but there was something about this whole place that gave me the shudders. Despite the incredible heat, chill bumps ran down my arms.

As I pumped the gas, I stayed facing my truck. Even so, I could feel the boy’s sharp stare boring into the back of my head. When I turned around to put away the nozzle, I found him leaning against the same wall as before with his back and one foot propped against the mostly exposed wood. It felt like he was looking at me like he was sizing up a game animal.

“Hey, you uh, you know how I can get back to the interstate?” I asked the dirt coated boy with discernible apprehension.

A long pause and an eerie, uncomfortable silence followed. It was as if the boy acted like he was trying to decide if he was going to help me or not. It did not take me long before I grew weary of the blatantly rude wait. I was about to ask him again when he finally spoke.

“Get back on at dared’n go right,” he began. I saw a dark brown stain on the matchstick in his mouth caused by the mass of tobacco squirreled in his cheek. “Ater jes tirty miles yer gonna turn right on da dirt road marked ‘leven sitty fow. At’ll take ya to highway twenne.”

Again I thanked the unnerving young man. Just before I climbed back into the cab of my truck the boy called out more.

“You gonna pass a white-top a’fore ya git to da dirt highway. You aint gonna wanna go dat way,” he instructed me. “It’ll take ya to I-20 z’well, but ‘member, you aint gonna wanna go down dat road.”

I nodded my head and shut the door. I was so eager to get off that long state highway, but now I found it a welcoming sight. The long, lonely stretch was a welcomed relief from that unnerving young man. I drove a little over seven miles and saw a sign for I-20. The boy told me not to go this way, but I believed he was only giving me a hard time. I saw no reason in driving another twenty something miles to get to a dirt road that may not exist when this one would take me where I was going.

It was an oddly paved road. It had a blacktop base, but it was covered with white marble rocks embedded in the black tar. I did think it awfully strange the rocks managed to stay so chalky white. It seemed like they would be dark and scuffed with tar and rubber. I dismissed the boy’s instructions and turned to the right. I did not see why I should drive to a dirt road when I could take a paved one. That boy probably saw me as a target for enjoyment and thought it was funny trying to get me lost.

Immediately after my turn onto the snow-white street, I saw a sign saying I-20 was only thirty miles away. That kid wanted me to drive twenty miles to get to a dirt road, a dirt road that might not even exist. Right after the reflective green direction sign was another much older sign. Two tall stone obelisks covered in moss and lichens held between them an aged wooden sign. The paint was peeling away, and I could barely make out the words “Moon Lake.”

Not too far ahead I saw a mass of trees comprising the edge of a dense forest. When I entered the shade of the trees, it was a great relief from the direct sun of the farmlands. My air conditioner instantly began cooling the cab of my truck.

It was not like any kind of forest with which I was accustomed. The floor of the cypress forest was no more than a shallow lake of water, and cypress knees of various sizes surrounded each tree. Fallen logs lay scattered about making convenient gathering spots for congregations of hundreds of turtles. Some appeared stacked to six and seven high atop each other.

Spanish moss choked the tops of the trees to the point very little light made its way to the road. Every now and then I saw a spot of land pass me on one side or the other, but for the most part there was nothing but water and vegetation.

The rapidly passing trees scattered with patches of Spanish moss produced a mild mesmerizing effect. I was momentarily captivated by this unfamiliar scenery, and when I pulled my gaze back to the road, I found myself quickly approaching a large alligator lying stretched across my path. The reptile stretched from one shoulder of the road to the other. It was twenty feet in length if it was a foot. In a panic, I hit the brakes with all of my strength. The wheels of my heavy-duty truck locked and I went into a sideways slide. I jerked my steering wheel the other way in a desperate attempt to straighten my progression, which only served to send me into an uncontrolable spin. I drove right over the narrow shoulder of the levee road and into the dark, murky water.

I cannot say how long I was out, but when I came to, the sun was gone. A roar of noise – crickets, frogs, birds and other nocturnal creatures – flooded my ears. Suddenly I became aware of sharp, stabbing pains coursing through my head.

My truck rested at a forty-five-degree angle, and the grill wrapped half way around a cypress tree. I tried to rub my eyes, but an intense burst of pain from a broken nose filled my eyes with sparks. It took me several minutes before I could again open my eyes. I realized my left eye was almost swollen shut and I could feel blood dripping out of my nose. I suppose I was fortunate the crash did not kill me.

Opening the driver’s side door, I tried to climb out of the truck and back to that ghostly road. I almost passed out from the pain. My right leg was broken in at least one place.

Judging by the pain in my chest, I must have cracked several ribs. I screamed in pain as loud as my injuries let me scream, which was not much at all. At first I thought I heard my voice echoing off of the water, but then I realized someone was calling out.

“Ey, inney un in dare,” the voice shouted.

All I could manage was one loud ‘yes.’ A few seconds later I could hear the splashing of oars in the water. The man calling to me was in a boat. I would prefer he came from the road, but I would take any help I could get.

“Old on air,” the voice echoed through the swamp. “Gonna be dare innamunnut.”

The truck budged just a little as the aluminum boat bumped against it with an audible metallic scraping sending shivers coursing through my spine. It was fortunate this man happened to be around when I needed him. My hopes were dashed a bit when the aged, deeply tanned man looked in through my shattered windshield. I could not tell the man’s race. He must have a sorted mix of ancestry, as he carried an unusual mix of facial features.

There was something in his eyes that frightened me. It would be better to say there was something not in his eyes frightening me. His hazel-brown eyes gave me the impression of a voodoo zombie. The kerosene lamp in his hand cast a shadow over his face, making him look like he wore a Halloween costume.

“Haw ya goin’n git yawself aw turnt up round dis heya tree?” the old man asked me with a tone of concern. Judging by the look on his face, I did not think he really cared anything about me at all. His mouth said one thing, but his facial and body expressions said something else.

Moths and other insects of all sizes swarmed around his old kerosene lamp, many of the creatures falling into the shattered windows of my truck. I felt the pests crawling on my face and arms, some gnawing and biting my fresh wounds. I built up the strength and asked the old man to move the lantern away from me. I was in enough pain without insects feasting on me.

The old swamp man hung the lantern on something; I assumed it was a tree branch. The direct light was out of my eyes, but the insects continued to fall into and fluttered about the cab. The lantern now cast a shadow, giving the man a strange ominous look. He removed his torn hat, revealing a head of greasy gray-black hair, and hung it on my side view mirror. I shuddered over the thought of him touching me, but what other option did I have?

“Es git ya atta dare,” he said, his voice betraying his wrinkly old body. He sounded like a healthy young man in his prime.

I went numb when he put his cold hands under my arms. Sparks filled my vision as darkness overtook me and I again lost consciousness. When I came to I was resting on the bottom of the aluminum boat. Underneath me I could feel the cushioning of what I hoped were life jackets.

The lantern hung from a pole at the front of his boat. Each time the man paddled the boat, the lantern swung side to side. The shadows of the trees moved with each sway, creating the illusion of creatures dancing in the forested darkness.

I rose my head up as much as I could in an attempt to try and get a good look at my rescuer. He was standing in the back of the boat. Rather than using an oar to slowly propel the boat, he was using a long wooden staff to push along the bottom of the swamp water. The cypress trees crowded the water, making it effectively impossible to work with a set of paddles.

“Don ya be worrin naw,” the old man said as he stood over me. “We gonna git ya all took care’v.”

I could feel a stinging sensation all over my body. It felt like someone sticking me with pins. I tried to wipe away the bugs piercing into my flesh, feasting on my blood, but every time I did they only moved somewhere else.

“Dem skeeters eatin ya up?” he said with a cackle. “Day shaw do like at sidde blood. Ole Justin been living out here so long, skeeters done stopped feastin on me no moe. Day lookin foe’a fresh meal.”

Mosquitos? I’ve never felt such painful bites from mosquitos before. These things must have been huge. With the light of the lantern shining in my eyes, I could not see the individual insects biting me. Swarms of insects circled around the lantern, most of them probably being mosquitos. I almost lost my bowels when something large swooped down at me, took a sharp turn, and darted in another direction.

“Careful dare,” the old man, who introduced himself as Justin, warned me.”Dem bat aint wont you nun. Day her fur dem bugs. Don worry yer body nun. Naw. Dem bats hep keepin da skeeters down. Show is plenty nuff for dem ta eat, no?”

I turned my head to the side so I was able to look over the water. A light fog settled over the surface, and it seemed to emit a faint green glow from within. ‘Swamp gas,’ I thought. I heard of swamp gas creating its own light, but I thought that was only a tale. I did not think it was something that happened outside of movies and television.

Three lanterns broke through the fog up ahead. As we drew closer, it became much easier to make out a small shack. It was built among the trees about four feet above the water. Underneath the crude structure were several dozen oil drums keeping the home a constant height above the water.

Two lanterns hung from the corners of the shanty, and the other one dangled from a tree. As we got closer, I could see an old woman. She was fishing off her deck using a bamboo cane pole. Bugs gathered around the lantern on the tree, many of them falling into the water. I could hear the fish feasting on the insects. With her bamboo cane pole, the aged lady yanked one fish out of the water after another. With amazing proficiency, the woman removed the fish from the hook, dropped it into a bucket, and re-baited her line. She paid us no attention. She never made any attempt at a greeting, not even to my rescuer.

We passed alongside the crude but sturdy structure, and I saw two other individuals standing on that porch floor above the water. One of them was a man and the other a woman, so I assumed they must be a couple. Their own boat bumping gently against the pier jutting out from the house, the man and woman appeared to take a great interest in us. The woman was probably an attractive person, but her hair was unkempt and her clothes worn and dirty.

After we passed this shanty, several more of the swamp homes came into view. I looked around the boat as much as I could and saw what appeared to be a whole town built among the trees. The fog retreated from the groups of dwellings. I could still see the haze, emitting its strange green glow, outside this perimeter, but it stayed away from the buildings.

I became aware the soft splashing of Justin’s pole sounded strange. Initially, I thought it must be an echo of his staff in the water. My stomach churned with fear when I realized there were a multitude of other boats, pushing their way through the tightly compacted trees.

It appeared these trees, cypress knees and fallen logs made some form of a natural maze. Anyone not familiar with the area could get lost here for weeks.

“Why are they following us?” I managed to ask, despite the pain in my face and my dry, parched throat.

“Day’s cumin t Pawpaw’s wid es,” the sunken eyed man said very casually. I tried to ask why, but my dry throat and swelling tongue would not allow it.

“Yun, Ole Justin aint even reconed ya’d be tirsty,” he said in a compassionate tone. Again, his face showed more contempt than compassion.

Justin laid his pole along the length of the boat. Kneeling down, he retrieved something resembling a thermos.

Handing the receptacle to me, he said, “Yeya, dis water’d be yo need naw.” I took the strange thermos from him and examined it for a minute or so. The metal was strange, appearing more like glass filled with flakes of gold and platinum, and covered in inscriptions that reminded me of hieroglyphs.

“Na aint be worring,” he explained to me. “Day be un’a dem coal filters ta make da wata fresh.”

Reluctantly I took a sip from the container. I expected the water to be very warm, but it was actually quite cold. I guess something like this came in very handy in the putrid swamp.

I expected the swamp to reek of the smell of death, but the aroma in the air was actually quite pleasant. The cypress reminded me of the scent of cedar, just a little. It was then I noticed there were not only more poles propelling boats through the water, it appeared each of them brandished a lantern of their own.

All of the individual lights hanging from poles, swaying with the movement of the boats gave the appearance of horrible creatures jumping from tree to tree. The green mist grew thicker and brighter, but seemed to leave a clear path for the boats.

“Where?” I asked through the pain causing my head to throb.

“We takin’ ya ta Pawpaw’s. He gonna git ya awl fixed up.” He said, never taking his eyes off our course.

“The others?” I choked.

“Day jes gat big noses. Mose’a dem ain’t never seent no city feller a’fore.”

That gave me very little solace. Apparently, I was a spectacle to these swamp folk. The fear I felt earlier now escalated into terror. We passed yet more of the swamp homes, and I began to feel as I would never leave, not on my own. Shortly after, I could hear even more boats adding to this sojourn.

I felt Justin pull the front of the boat onto land. I could not wait to get to land earlier, but now I wished we could go back into the water. Several dozen boats, the boats following us, also pulled themselves to shore. Two younger men approached Justin’s boat.

“C’mon, ets give Ole Justin sum ‘elp,” one of them said to him.

I thought they might be Justin’s children or grand-children. The two were both young and healthy and shared the same sort of odd facial traits as Justin. I thought I would pass out from the pain when the two men lifted me from the boat. The other people from the procession of aluminum boats carried lanterns and torches. The ones I could see also showed the strange, mixed racial faces, but none of them really looked like the others. I did not know how to explain it. The motley group of swamp-folk filled me with a chilling dismay.

The procession led in between two large, gently-sloping mounds. When the two men carried me past those mounds, I could see more of the mounds surrounding us. It looked like there were thirteen of them in total. Lanterns burned on hangers and torches burned on poles. Despite the multitude of small light sources, it looked like there was too much light. The green fog surrounding this area glowed brighter than ever.

The two men gently carried me to the center of the area. They carefully laid me on top of a stack of reed mats. I was surprised over how comfortable the crude mats were. The men stepped back when a rattle sounded. I lifted my head enough to see who was approaching.

I expected the approaching man to appear something like a Native American medicine man. For the most part he dressed normally, normally that is for one of these locals. The hair on his head grew in patches only, and the matted tufts were three feet in length. His face looked ancient. He easily looked a hundred years old.

Several aspects of his attire stood out in comparison to his filthy clothes and dirty skin. In his left hand he held a rattle, fashioned from a gourd. In the other hand he carried a lantern made from a human skull. The light shining through the empty eyes, mouth and nose hole gave me the impression of looking into hell. Woven snake skins covered the length of the rod atop which the skull rested.

Around his neck and at the bottom of a hemp string hung a strange amulet. It appeared to be forged from the same metal as the water dispenser Old Justin gave me. When he reached me, the shaman shook that horrid rattle and waved the ghastly candle holder over me. All the while, the man chanted in a language I did not recognize.

He jammed the shaft holding the skull into the ground, never ceasing his chanting. The others that followed Justin and I to this unholy place all began to chant in unison.

“Justin dun tol ya, Pawpaw gonna git ya took care of,” the man said in an ancient, scratchy voice.

I felt people grabbing me by the wrists and ankles, pulling my limbs tight. The pain was excruciating. My broken leg burned with intense agony and my broken ribs made it nearly impossible for me to breathe. I wished the pain would allow me to go unconscious, but as intense as it was, I was perfectly aware.

Yellowish smoke poured out of the mouth of the mounted skull, producing the putrid, stinging odor of burning sulfur. Something cold clasped around my ankles and wrists. It took me a moment to realize I was shackled to the ground.

Absolute panic and horror flowed through my body as the strange, pagan ceremony continued. More and more people crowded into the circle of mounds, chanting in sync with all the others.

The voodoo priest raised his hands and the chanting ended.

“Ole Justin bring us a freshen,” the patchy bald-headed man called out to the massive crowd. Justin, the man who rescued me from dying in my truck, stepped forward and joined Pawpaw.

“Da ona’s yo’s.” Pawpaw said as Justin knelt down beside me and smiled.

“Why did you save me?” I pleaded through my burning throat.

“Taint no need in wastin dat life dare’n dat truck. You gonna see dat Ole Justin not so ole anymo.”

With those words, my rescuer plunged his hand into my chest. He broke no bone nor tore any skin. His hand simply passed inside of me. I screamed in unholy agony as I felt Justin literally grab onto my soul. The feeling was indescribable. It transcended any earthly fear or pain.

Justin grew younger and took on facial features to resemble some of mine as he grabbed the very life inside me to give immortality to his own.

The man tugged at my soul and I saw the darkness coming. Before me lay no afterlife, I did not die, I was consumed. The heaven I was promised did not greet me, only the emptiness of oblivion.

Why didn’t I listen to that boy? I never should have gone down that road.