What a wonderful day it had been—spending time with Janine, picnicking at the park, whispering timeless words in her ear, caressing each other, contemplating our next clandestine getaway. Drawing on her affinity for the emotionally wounded, Janine made me feel significant again, the way any decent, virile man should feel. Now, for reasons which I cannot determine, this deranged idiot comes along and spoils my brief reminiscence. All I want now is to get home and drop off to sleep, put the whole day behind me; return to normalcy—or some degree of it—and make amends.
I accelerate, the glowing needle rising fast. The driver, however, doesn’t yield. As headlights pierce my eyes with remarkable luminosity, my thoughts once again drift back to the afternoon. Unfortunately, though, feelings of guilt have supplanted reflections of pleasure. But my sojourn with Janine was more about talking than touching. I didn’t give in fully to temptation, nor had that been my intention. So why is my heart heavy, my conscience murky? What choice does one have when his spouse has repeatedly closed him off in every capacity, heaping all her love and affection and respect on the children? It’s as if except for my paycheck, I don’t exist—never have, never will.
The truck rams my bumper, a thunderous sound. My Dodge lurches forward, my head snaps back. This stretch of Interstate 24 is foreboding and deserted, especially at night, and I’m unwittingly trapped in a deadly battle.
Drafting me, prodding me, the truck persists. It’s too dark to see the bastard’s face. Trying to slow down would only increase the danger, and, even more terrifying, I fear a fatal crash. The truck, hulking over my rear end, has a monstrous push-bar that could easily demolish my car. I feel like a fly caught in a spider’s deadly web, watching long, furry legs crawling toward it; closer...closer, the fly realizing death is fast approaching, soon to be stung, gormandized, ingested.
Get off my ass, you madman! No one can hear me on this desolate highway.
Suddenly my cab becomes flooded by blinding light, fog lights—powerful halogens make it impossible for me to discern the driver, or much of anything around me. The lights, moving back and forth, up and down, are stinging my eyes; flickering spots are all I see.
My car weaves across the yellow line and then back again, the tormenting truck staying close. With the four-cylinder motor roaring and the speedometer tacked at eighty-five, I realize that my car is on the verge of seizing. The front end trembles, feels loose, as if coming apart one rivet, one clamp, one panel at a time. The steering wheel has become near-impossible to control as it shimmies under my grip. Rolling around on the passenger-side floor, the empty wine bottle, the one Janine and I shared, bumps up against one of the seat legs and breaks, shards of glass littering the carpeted floor. Damn it! How do I remove that evidence before I get home? What difference does it make anyway? Who I am and all I do will never be sufficient, not in this life, not in any life.
Arriving at a fork in the road, I veer right, tires screeching, smoke plumes seeping through the windows. I’m unable to escape this psycho, whose howling truck engine has my heart pounding a ferocious beat.
An interior light illuminates the cab of the truck. A man, broad-shouldered and imposing, has a shotgun in his hand, the other hand steering the truck. Who is he? I can’t make out anything more than...
Oh my god! He’s wearing a mask, he’s pointing the gun at me—he might pull the trigger. I’m not going to make it home alive. Up ahead, a side street, a fleeing chance to possibly escape. Yanking the steering wheel, I make a hairpin turn. The right side of my Dodge comes off the ground. As soon as the car levels, I press down on the brakes, the car skidding to a stop on the rundown pavement.
Finally, the truck has driven off, though I’m struggling to dispel the terror. I take a few deep breaths, hoping to calm my throbbing heart. My hands, cold and clammy, are spasmodic. I’m alone, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by deep, dark sprawling woods. I spot a sign in the vicinity: Dead End. Smoke from my tires crawls over the hood of the car, through my dashboard, through every crevice it finds, the odor stale, pungent, noxious.
A crunching sound—leaves being squashed by footfalls, or maybe twigs snapping under pressure. I look off in that general direction, where I notice tree branches swaying. Someone’s watching me, stalking me, about to unleash evil. Wasting no time, I drive away, unnerved by this nightmarish scene, anxious to get home and lock myself in; tell Karen and the kids about this horrific ordeal and then call the police. God forbid something was to happen to them. Though I’m practically nonexistent in their lives, they’re everything I live for. I’ve just got to fight harder to win their love, loyalty, and admiration.
WEIRD RHODY is a short story collection featuring five strange tales all set in Rhode Island and written by five Rhode Island authors. The anthology is a tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, the Ocean State's famed author of pulp horror.
Pray for the light. Pray that you last that long. The Long Hour Before Light is a classic collection of Horror tales, re-mastered by Champagne Book Group
