by CW Hawes
He continued. “If I could undo the past, I would. But I can’t. What I did was wrong. I suppose I wanted to hurt you like you hurt me. But two wrongs don’t make a right. Don’t give up. Please. Let’s try to fix things.”
I looked at him. All I saw was a face barely illuminated by the flashlight beam. From the tone of his voice, he seemed sincere.
I let out a sigh. “Okay, Garth. Let’s go in.”
We walked back to the tent. The flashlight beams forming moving pools of light, which glinted off the little puddles of water on the floor.
“We can wash the dishes in the morning, when there’s some natural light,” I said.
“Good idea.”
We entered the tent. I took off my boots and crawled into my sleeping bag.
“So they never found the Land Cruiser or the driver?” Garth asked.
“No. Speculation by the locals was that it was somebody driving through town. No one local or from the surrounding area. Just some stranger. Or maybe strangers. I think there had to be at least one other. Don’t think one guy could’ve offed two strapping young men.”
“How would the killers have known about this place?”
“Good question. I don’t think they could’ve. Which makes me think, now that you mention it, maybe the young local fellas were looking for a joy ride or some, back then, illicit fun.”
“The whole thing seems odd. Doesn’t it?”
“It does. Although, to me, the oddest part is killing someone.”
“You’ve never wanted to kill someone?”
“No.”
“Not even me?”
“No, Garth, not even you.” I paused, waiting for him to say something, and, when he didn’t, I continued, “It’s just, I don’t know. A stranger picks up two other strangers. They have sex, willingly or unwillingly, and then the person kills them. It just makes no sense.”
“We’re sinners, Ron. I know you don’t believe in sin, but that’s what it is. Cain killed Abel. That made no sense either.”
I ignored his comment. No sense getting sucked into a fruitless religious discussion. Instead, I said, “We are a funny species. We value life and yet we destroy the very thing we value. Makes no sense. We, as a species, make no sense.”
“We were made in God’s image. It’s sin that’s ruined everything.”
All I could think was if we were made in God’s image, then He too made no sense. Instead of saying that and getting Garth to mount his evangelical high horse, I circled back around to the beginning of our discussion.
“No, they never found the Studebaker or who did it.” I paused and then added, why, I don’t know, “A black car. It was like a black cat. It was those young men’s black cat.”
“That’s an odd thing to say.”
“Yeah, it is. The image just popped into my head. Funny how the mind associates things. I think I’m going to get some sleep, Garth. I’m tired.”
“Sure thing, Ron.”
I turned over and went to sleep, although it seemed I’d no sooner closed my eyes when Garth was shaking me awake.
“Ron! Ron! I saw it. The Studebaker! I saw it!”
“What?”
“The Studebaker, Ron. It’s here.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Garth?”
“I saw it. I went to take a leak and I saw it.”
“If it was here, they’d have found it years ago. Check your bag and make sure you didn’t pee it. You were dreaming.”
“That was mean, Ron. You really don’t want this to work, do you?”
I sat up. “Fine. Let’s go take a look at the goddamn Studebaker. Maybe then I can get some sleep.” I slipped on my boots, grabbed my flashlight, and, as best I could, stomped out of the tent. I slipped on my poncho.
Garth was right behind me. I stepped aside and waved him on. “After you, Little Brother.”
I followed him outside. He turned to the left and walked along the side of the building. About halfway down he stopped and pointed towards the trees.
“I went over there to take a leak. I looked towards the back of the building — and there it was!”
“It’s dark as pitch. How did you see it? The car itself was black. Remember?” I couldn’t see his face and he wasn’t saying anything. I pressed on. “Well, let’s go to the back of the building. It’s either there or it isn’t.”
We walked to the back of the building. Following the little pools of light our flashlights made. Behind the building there was nothing other than weeds and grass and trees. No tire prints. No footprints. Nothing. I cast the light in his direction. He looked puzzled.
“There!” He pointed. “The weeds look flattened there!”
“Garth. Are you serious? With all the rain we’ve had you expect them to be standing tall?”
I saw him deflate. “It looked so real, Ron. I swear I could have touched it.”
“Well, there’s nothing here. Let’s go back inside.”
No words passed between us on the walk back. All I could think of was Garth and I as kids. We entered the dining hall.
“What the hell?” I blurted out.
Our tent was tipped over and it was dark inside. A breeze was blowing from somewhere and the air was chill.
“Must’ve busted the lantern bulb,” Garth said. “I think I have a spare.”
“Where the hell is that breeze coming from?”
We played our flashlights around.
“There!” Garth’s flashlight beam illuminated a window. It was broken and glass was lying on the floor.
I walked over to the window and played my flashlight beam outside. “How the hell did this happen? I don’t see anything out there that could have broken it.”
“Probably a branch.”
“Yeah. Probably a branch.” I directed the beam around again outside the window. A branch. Except there was no branch and there had been no wind just minutes before when we were outside. No branch broke the window. So if no branch broke it, what did? I panned the beam back and forth across the floor and saw nothing other than glass.
“Come on, Ron, let’s right the tent and I’ll see if I have that replacement bulb.”
We got the thing back to its upright position. Sorted our stuff and got that back to where it was supposed to be. I made sure my revolver was handy. Garth found a bulb, replaced the broken one with it, and turned the lantern on. I shucked off my boots and crawled back into my sleeping bag. However, I was wide awake. Garth apparently was too. He wanted to talk.
“Ron, do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“You don’t believe people have spirits that might get trapped here?”
“No.”
“I do.”
“How does that square with your religion?”
He didn’t say anything for a few moments. “I guess, strictly speaking, it doesn’t.”
“Thought so. Why do you believe in ghosts?”
“Circumstantial evidence. Lots of people have seen ghosts or felt a presence.”
“Do cars have spirits?”
“Of course not.”
“Yet, you saw a car. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is it looked as real as those trees out there. And there were two people in it.”
“Oh, there were, were there?”
“Fine. Make fun. That’s what you’ve always done. I know what I saw.”
“What you think you saw. People want to believe there’s life after death and their minds come up with all manner of things to reinforce the belief. Ghosts are the product of wishful thinking and bad dreams.” I looked at my watch. “It’s ten after three. I’m going to try to get some sleep.” I turned over and closed my eyes. Hopefully, I could get back to sleep.
I didn’t tell Garth, mostly because I didn’t want to believe it myself, but I did have an experience once. At least maybe I had one. Amy and I were looking at a house we were thinking of buying. I’d wandered off by myself into o
ne of the rooms. Suddenly the air around me became cold and I felt something icy, like a finger, trace a line down my cheek. I got out of there in a hurry. Needless to say, we didn’t buy that house. Never told Amy the real reason I’d lost interest. At the time, after I’d thought about it, I chalked it up to my re-reading Frank Edwards’ Stranger Than Science. Still do, for the most part. Yet that experience has never left me. I can’t shake it.
Curiosity did get the better of me, though. A year later, I spent some time researching the house and the area and found out a former owner of the house had murdered his wife in that very room I’d felt the icy finger. I wish I’d left it alone. Do I believe in ghosts? No. But I also know what I felt. Or at least thought I felt.
I must’ve fallen asleep because suddenly I was in that big, empty, dark space and in the distance, once again, was that shape. And again, it advanced upon me. Its mouth spread wider. And wider. I yelled, “No!” And it stopped. It closed its mouth, smiled, turned sideways, and pointed. I looked to where it pointed and saw Garth sleeping peacefully.
The shape advanced upon my brother and in a moment it was upon him. This time I could move and I jumped on the shape. I didn’t know ghosts, if this was a ghost, had substance. But I wasn’t thinking. I had to save him. I had to save my brother. Had to do what I didn’t as a kid.
I grabbed hold of the thing and tore it off him. It spread its mouth open and began sucking me in. I grabbed its throat and squeezed and squeezed until its mouth closed and its eyes bugged out. Then it vanished. It was gone. Only a fading laughter remained.
I opened my eyes. I was in a cold sweat and not in my sleeping bag. I was sitting on top of Garth. His tongue protruded out of his mouth. His eyes were open and did not blink. I screamed his name and there was no response. Out of the tent I stumbled and ran to the door of the dining hall. I threw it open. In the fading twilight, I watched a black 1949 Studebaker Land Cruiser drive away.
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More Books by CW Hawes
I love a good horror story. Especially if the terror is psychological. If you do too, I think you’ll enjoy my other tales of the macabre and arabesque:
Do One Thing For Me
Metamorphosis
What the Next Day Brings
And you can read them for free if you’re an Amazon Prime member!
Perhaps you enjoy a good mystery with a memorable private detective. If so, open one of Justinia Wright’s casefiles and settle back for a puzzling good time.
Festival of Death
Trio in Death-Sharp Minor
But Jesus Never Wept
The Conspiracy Game
Jack in the Box
Minneapolis’ Finest
Sauerkraut Days
If post-apocalyptic stories like Earth Abides or The Day of the Triffids are on your reading list, then join Bill Arthur and his journey to reclaim freedom and the technology that elevated humanity above the level of the beasts, with the hope that his fellows will use their second chance at life to become better people.
The Rocheport Saga chronicles a steam-powered post-apocalyptic future that begins in the little town of Rocheport, Missouri. It is part family saga, post-apocalyptic survival story, philosophy, and libertarian thought.
The Morning Star (Book 1)
The Shining City (Book 2)
Love is Little (Book 3)
The Troubled City (Book 4)
By Leaps and Bounds (Book 5)
Freedom’s Freehold (Book 6)
Maybe Dieselpunk Alternative History is your cup of tea. If so, then join Lady Dru and her companions for some rollicking high adventure:
The Moscow Affair
The Golden Fleece Affair
Or join Rand Hart as he finds himself embroiled in the middle of a revolution in Brazil:
Rand Hart and the Pajama Putsch
About the Author
CW Hawes, born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio, has lived in suburban Minneapolis, Minnesota for the past forty-five years, with occasional sojourns here and there. His interests range far and wide, but he doesn’t do windows and isn’t a good dancer. He does like to cook, though, and is especially fascinated by steam power, sailing ships, airships, streamlined locomotives and automobiles, and all things streamline moderne.
You can visit him at www.cwhawes.com .
