
HauntedMTL Original – Flat Tire – Scott Boss
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Published
6 years agoon
By
Jim PhoenixWhen asked about the story my editor said, ‘Yes. It’s very good. I was completely engaged throughout, excellent storytelling and style. Great horror, great flow, some humour too. It felt like watching a short film…’ – Jim (and I have to agree!)
Flat Tire
Hybrids are great. I was barely three weeks into owning mine by the time I’d pissed off everyone I knew with my endless gas-mileage bragging. One of the methods (besides the giant battery) for saving gas is keeping the vehicle’s weight low. This involves lots of smart methods and one stupid one.
The stupid one is how I got to where I am today. You see, to keep the weight down, they leave out a spare tire. It’s bad enough that half of the population today doesn’t know how to change a spare tire, now we don’t even have one. Not trying to sound old here. I’m only in my thirties with a big beard, a receding hairline and box of my ex-girlfriend’s stuff riding in the back of my hybrid that I’ve been meaning to drop off for the last week. Think of the gas mileage I could’ve saved…
Sometimes after a breakup you have to take some time to find yourself, to evaluate what went wrong and who you want to be going forward for the next eventual breakup. Some people go to the gym, some learn to play an instrument or to paint. All of those things take more effort than I’m willing to give. I decided hiking would be my outlet. I already had the beard, all I needed was an old backpack. I stocked it full of granola bars so they could crumble to pieces as I hiked and off I went. There are a couple national forests near my house in North Carolina. I had a plethora of trails to choose from and was ticking them off, one by one, working my way up to the longer ones. It was getting later into the fall and colder each time I went. After a nice late summer breakup, I’d had perfect hiking weather to find myself.
It wasn’t until that day that I found something.
Late November. I’d had Thanksgiving with the family and no shortage of questions about Liz. How much they liked her and to not worry because she’d come to her senses. Yeah, I knew that wasn’t going to happen but try convincing my mother.
I decided to try a trail I hadn’t before. It was further off, a little more obscure. When you hit all the favorites in the middle of fall, it’s crowded. If I was really going to find myself, it would be with nobody else around.
This trail was part of a longer one that would take you all the way into Virginia if you wanted. I wasn’t that gung-ho yet but I figured I could do a couple miles in and a couple back out. It was cold enough now that the crowds had died down. After I took the road towards the John Tinsley trail, I didn’t see another car. I was already ten miles from the entrance of the forest and had another four to go.
I rounded the tight turns in the forest with ease. My hybrid handled them well until I came around a particularly sharp one and there was a downed log in the road. It was on the other side and I swerved just in time to avoid it. This was when I saw the broken pavement on my side of the road. The front tire on my passenger side hit it hard, just as I was turning back to avoid it. There was a slamming and immediate hissing sound. My dashboard lit up with the low tire pressure warning. It showed me all four tires, three holding strong around thirty-five pounds of pressure and the other rapidly declining into the lower twenties. I exclaimed various combinations of curses, including threats about the road’s mother.
There were no good places on the curves and even though the road had been clear, I didn’t dare to pull over until I could be completely off it. I limped my poor car along, likely damaging the rim, something my dad would tell me never to do and explain how stupid of a choice it had been. Finally I spotted a small clearing across the road, it was between two trees but would get me off the street. I tucked my poor damaged hybrid, that got zero miles to the gallon when it was incapable of moving, between the trees and killed the engine.
I finished my curses at the world, the log and having to find myself. Then I checked out the tire. It looked okay from the outside, but when I ducked my head under the frame I could see the tear on the inner side. More curses, then I headed to the hatchback. You see, I wasn’t yet aware of the “no spare tire” rule. I was too excited about getting fifty miles to the gallon and having built in GPS when I’d bought it. Again, all great features when you had tires that could hold air.
I ripped apart the back, finding nothing but storage slots, and a fix-a-flat kit, which would be useless in this situation. When I realized I had no spare and double checked the manual to make sure they hadn’t hidden it in the glove compartment or something, I threw out some more words for the mockingbirds to learn. If there were any out there, I didn’t know. If they could learn curse words, I didn’t know either, all I knew is once you were a half mile into the national forest, you lost phone signal. I held it up anyway, remembering one of my hikes I’d actually gotten signal when I was about a thousand feet up. There were zero bars staring back at me. I watched the road. There really hadn’t been anyone, not since three miles back on the main road. It was cold too. I wrapped my light jacket tighter. I had a coat as well, something I always kept in the back of whatever car I owned, in case of emergencies. I’d tossed it over the seat while I was looking for a spare.
I stood at the edge of the road, now wrapped in every piece of clothing I had with me, backpack on my back with crumbled granola bars and a bottle of water. I’d be okay, I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn’t hurt and it was likely that I was still going to get a good hike in considering I couldn’t ride the rim thirteen miles out.
It was over an hour later when I decided to take to the road. I’d only seen one person and he was on a motorcycle. He’d stopped to make sure I was okay but didn’t have room to drive me out. I’d asked him to stop by the ranger station and send someone up but who knows if he bothered? Either way, nobody had come. I’d given them time and I was getting antsy just standing.
I was happy I took to my heels, as it turned out, the John Tinsley trail was only a half mile up the road. There were no cars in the pull off which led me to plan B, or C, or maybe D at that point of the day if you counted the missing spare and the biker. I would hike it, just as planned, and when I got up high enough, I might get a signal. A thousand (or so) foot climb sure beat fourteen miles back to cell service.
The trail was beautiful, despite fall killing off most of the colors in the trees, there were still the views. The blue ridge mountains stood before me, inviting me to let go of my worries and find myself. Instead I grumbled through my hike. It was supposed to be a stress free time but I couldn’t stop thinking about the car and how long it would take to get someone out to my part of the forest.
I went over creeks, logs and rocks with a purpose. I wasn’t taking in the sights, I was plowing my way through it, just to get it done. It was something Liz hated about me. She was more of a ‘stop and smell the roses’ kind of girl and to be honest, that’s what I disliked about her.
It didn’t matter now because she wasn’t here and there were no roses to smell. After about a half hour of strenuous climbing, I stopped on a big, flat rock by the edge and did take in the view. It was more because my legs were burning and feeling wobbly but for a second, I was just enjoying it, breathing the fresh, cool air and reminding myself all would be well. I was banking on good vibes at that point and used the good moment to pull out my phone. I had two bars, more than enough to call the dealership, get the number to the towing company included with my purchase and give them directions to where I was in the forest.
After I hung up with the towing company, I looked out one last time. They’d given me a forty-five minute ETA. Across the ridge I sat on was another mountain. There wasn’t a clear path to it but it was likely closer to my car. It was covered in sickly looking trees mixed in with evergreens that made the mountain look like giant with a patchy beard. There was a flash of light near the top. I could barely make it out in the daylight but it looked red with a streak or tail behind it, then it was gone. I couldn’t figure what kind of natural occurrence it could be but then I saw it again, the red flash that streaked like a tail. I wanted to stay and examine it further but I could feel the car pulling me. If I missed the tow truck, how long would they wait? I didn’t need to find out.
I hightailed it down the mountain, jumping the logs I climbed earlier, slipping on the wet stones as I tiptoed across the creeks. Some of the cold water splashed in one of my boots and I sloshed the rest of the way. As I jogged down the side of the road, I could hear the clunk of one boot, the squish of the other and nothing else. The forest was silent. It didn’t stop me from looking back for cars that I knew weren’t coming.
When I got to my car, I was breathing hard, leaning on it for support but not daring to sit down in case the truck came. I really hoped I didn’t miss it but there was no way for me to find that out without climbing another mountain.
It was a half hour before I heard the rumbling of the tow truck. A warm wave of relief washed over me when I saw the monster, flatbed slowing down. A decrepit looking man hung his head out the window with a pocked face and spotty white beard.
“This you?” he asked, as if he’d seen fifty cars on the way in and wanted to be sure he got the right one.
“Yes sir,” I yelled over his engine. He was stopped dead in the road next to my car and I was getting nervous again, though I knew nobody was coming. I could see he was trying to decide how to turn the flatbed around on the tight curves of the forest. I looked up the road. “There’s a better spot about half a mile up.”
He looked ahead, squinting as if he could see it, then back to me.
“Well, hop in and we’ll make it happen.”
I ran around to the passenger side, directly in the middle of the road and climbed to the cab, looking around nervously for him to get us moving. He patted his shirt pocket and pulled out a smashed pack of Camels, shook one halfway out and grabbed it with his lips. When it was lit and he finished his first drag, he rolled down his window, then finally put the truck into gear and slowly got us up the hill.
“Pretty far out here,” he said. “I never been this far. I usually stick to the fishin’ river up front.”
“Yeah,” I said, not excited about small talk.
He switched hands so he could flick some ashes out the window and pointed with his cigarette hand. “My cousin used to—” His words cut out as he gave a groan and pounded his chest. “Woo, bit of heartburn there.” He kept driving without finishing his sentence.
The turnaround was a challenge even with the parking area to help him out. He was miserably slow at it too, but eventually we were heading back to my car and my great hiking adventure would end at the dealership that was hopefully still open at six on Saturday.
The tow truck driver pulled, the best he could, in front of my car. He was still half on the road as he lowered his ramp. I had to show him how to work the push-button start and then assure him the car was running, though you couldn’t hear the engine, yet another great feature of my hybrid. He seemed more pissed off than impressed, but managed to drive it up onto the truck.
When he was wrapping the supports around the tires, I looked off into the dusky forest. Despite all the delays and the unhelpful motorcyclist, I’d made it before dark. The day wasn’t a total wash. Maybe the dealership would kick in a free replacement tire since they hadn’t given me a spare. I wasn’t holding my breath on that one.
“Alright,” said the old man, patting one of my tires.
I got in the cab much quicker than him, ready to get out before it hit freezing. I saw a skinny, spotty arm grab the wheel, then his body pop up as he grunted his way into the seat.
“They should make ladders for these things, huh?” I said.
He just nodded, gripping the wheel as sweat dripped down his brow. He managed to light himself another cigarette before he threw the truck into gear and we started on. I watched us pick up speed around the curves, wanting to turn around to check on my car but not wanting to openly question the man’s driving. He hit the brakes hard on the next turn, as if reading my mind and we evened out.
I saw the patchy mountain from earlier out the driver’s side window. The old man did too, raising his cigarette hand as if to make a comment, but instead, his head leaned in until it hit the half-rolled-down window. His right arm, dragged across the wheel as he did.
“Hey!” I yelled, and saw us heading right for the trees on the side of the road and the cliff behind them. I grabbed the wheel, yanking it back to the right but the weight of the flatbed and my car dragged us off the road. A branch smashed his window as we plowed down the trunk it was attached to. Then we were rolling over. My seatbelt held tight, smashing my chest as my body tried to fly out the window. After two rolls, I felt my stomach fighting me. I’d hit my head on my window before it exploded against another tree. I felt glass shards stinging my arms as I slammed against the door. Then the truck was facing downhill and nothing was stopping it. We built up momentum again and left the ground as we hit another drop off, before gravity took hold and we were finished off on a row of big, pine trees. We’d stopped near the bottom of a valley between two mountains. There was blood on the windshield. My head ached and the driver looked worse. I couldn’t hear him breathing. I tried to assess my own damages first. The glass in my arm was minimal, I didn’t think I had a concussion but who could tell right then? Everything felt upside-down. My right knee throbbed but there was no visible damage. I managed to get off my seatbelt and check on the old man. I wasn’t feeling a pulse and he wasn’t breathing. I was in a wrecked truck at the bottom of a valley as the temperature plummeted. Next to me was a corpse. I looked to the forest around me as night fell.
I didn’t even bother with curse words this time. Compared to the tow truck driver, I was in good shape. I was no medical examiner but I assumed he either had a heart attack or stroke from the exertion of getting my car loaded or maybe he’d just picked the worst time to take a nap. It didn’t matter now.
I patted my pocket for my cell phone and found it empty. I thought back, had it been in my hand? Did I have it ready so I could call the dealership again and let them know I was on the way? I honestly couldn’t remember and I couldn’t find it anywhere in the truck. Maybe I did have a mild concussion. I shook it off and searched the old man for his phone. It was of the flip variety, clipped to his belt with a tobacco staind, leather case. I pulled it free and flipped it open. There were bold black letters on the screen saying, “No Service.” It wasn’t a surprise to me. The battery was at twenty percent which would be good enough. “Searching for towers” it read as I closed it and tucked it in my pocket. My knee screamed at me as I did. I found the dome light and clicked it on, surprised it was still working. I pulled up my pant-leg and struggled to get it over my swelling knee. I must have banged it hard during one of the rolls. Stretching it out felt awful, but each time I did it, it hurt a little less.
I flicked off the dome light, sitting in the dark, letting the weight of my situation wash over me. There were trees all around and a trickle of moonlight between them. I couldn’t find a flashlight in the truck. Surely he had one but maybe it had been tossed with my phone. I tried the truck’s headlights with no luck. I would have to make do.
The cab door fought me but popped open with a loud creak. I stayed on my good leg, using the door and the seat cushion to help lower me down. I looked up to say goodbye to the driver but couldn’t find the words. I didn’t know him well enough to by mad at him or even all that sad for him.
I landed on a pile of fallen leaves on both legs and crumpled to a heap. My knee was not ready for that much pressure. I could feel the swelling pushing on every joint. It took a minute full of whimpering before I was back up. I looked at the path we’d plowed on our way down. My poor car was, somehow, still connected to the flatbed, though it had been crushed by the journey down. A new tire wasn’t going to do it anymore. If I got another hybrid, I’d be sure to see if it came with a spare this time.
The way we came was steep, obviously not meant as a way down but it was my way back to the road. The problem was then I’d have to hope somebody was driving by in the dark when so far, nobody had been all afternoon. Plus, there was no cell service at the road level. I looked back the other way. It would be another good mountain climb on a bum knee this go-round.
Then I saw the red flash. It pierced the dark about halfway up the mountain, then tailed off. I couldn’t tell exactly where I was but I pictured the patchy, bearded mountain from earlier. Could I get service up there? Would they send a helicopter at this point? Who or what was making the red light?
I didn’t have the answers, only the will to survive. The mountain seemed like my best option. Even if I made it to the road, I couldn’t do thirteen miles on my knee.
We’d almost made it to the bottom of the valley before we stopped. There was a little creek running there and I realized how thirsty I was. I took a drink from the bottle in my backpack. It had survived the fall and I grabbed one of the crumbled granola bars while I was at it. They were broken down to the kind of granola you put on your yogurt but I needed the energy for the climb up. I shook the crumbs into my mouth as I went. The going was slow. I found a good stick to use to support my knee and was beginning to look like a real hiker. The beard, the backpack, the rugged look and now a walking stick. I could be on the cover of an outdoor magazine at this point.
I groaned with every step. I didn’t see the red light again and I was desperate for something to focus on in the dark. The woods were creepy, cold, and quiet. It felt awful going further away from the road on a bad knee with a dead guy’s cell phone but I was using the best logic I had.
I stopped at one of the clear patches on the side of the mountain. It loomed above me in the moonlight. I pulled out the phone, hoping for some insane luck that I’d already found reception and that was quickly quelled when it read “searching for service” again. Only now, the battery was down to ten percent. The constant searching was killing it before I could even get up the mountain. I held the power button and had a brief jolt of fear as I watched the screen go black. What if it required a password when I started it back up? Too late now. Though it was an old flip phone. The ones I had back in the day never had a password option, I doubted the tow truck driver had put one in place.
Then I spotted the red flash. It was off to my left and much higher up, but there it was. It was more clear to me now that the movements of the light were not automated but human. Some crazy group was out camping in this cold weather and they were about to save my life.
I pushed on with a new found energy. My knee screamed at me but the pain was getting dull as the excitement of rescue was filling my stomach. I got into a rhythmic stride, focussing on my breathing and finding solid footing for my bad leg. As I went, there were noises picking up in the trees. There were all kinds of animals out here. I mainly thought of bears, cougars and wolves. I was a sitting duck between the dark and my leg. I couldn’t outrun or fight off anything. I found myself looking over my shoulder at a particularly loud noise behind me and stepped sideways on a rock. I collapsed at the pain, dropping my stick and gripping my knee as it throbbed. I fought back the desire to scream and kept it to a muffled groan, realizing, as I lay there, how it probably made no difference. A predator would already be able to find me just by my trudging walk.
I listened between breaths. The forest was silent again. I located my stick and was back on my way in the direction of the light. I would see it flash here and there but it seemed like I wasn’t getting any closer, as if it were just part of the sky.
Finally, after ten minutes of painful darkness, I saw it, only twenty feet up or so. This time I saw more. The red glowed across a gray, stone building and I paused. What building would be out this far? Surely it couldn’t be a ranger station. Maybe an electrical relay? I didn’t know, only that I had to keep moving.
The light was out as I approached the building but the moonlight gave me enough clarity to see the stones, dirty and aged, with a brown roof barely intact and no door. There was no one around and no light.
“Hello?” I said to no reply.
I approached the empty, door frame. There was a small fire pit inside, there were black coals and soot around the floor but a tipi of fresh sticks atop them.
Then I saw movement in the corner of the small room. The red light lit up. It was like a miniature lightsaber from a Star Wars toy collection and it was pointed at me. On the other end was a boy, no more than five, bundled in mismatched clothing with a fixed, angry expression. He grunted and I have to admit I jumped back against the wall.
“Hi, I’m sorry if I scared you. I was in an accident, are you parents around?”
The boy tilted his head at me and pointed at my stick.
“Oh, sorry, just to help me walk,” I said. “See?” I held it out and the boy grabbed it. For a moment we wrestled for it. It felt silly but I needed it. It was my only defense out here. In the end, I was unprepared for his burst of strength and when I planted my bad leg, the pain shot up to my arms and I let go. He watched me curiously as I winced in pain.
“My leg,” I said, holding my knee with two hands, bent over. “I hurt it in the crash. If you could find your parents—” My sentence was cut off when he swung the stick into the side of my head. It struck me in the temple and I felt the world spin. I went down to my knees when I saw the second blow coming. I caught the stick just before he clocked me again. I pulled it away from him and he let it go, switching to swinging his fists instead. He hit me a couple times before I shoved him square in the chest, harder than I meant to and he smacked his back on the wall, falling down to the floor.
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you. Why are you—”
I heard an angry cry, louder and from directly behind me. The doorway darkened with the figure of a man, not much bigger than me but with crazed eyes, likely because I just hurt his child. I opened my mouth to explain myself but he was already lunging at me. His shoulder caught my chest and he drove me into the hard, dirt floor. I felt the breath shoot out of my lungs. I was gasping for air, raising my head as the man pulled back. Then I saw it, the tow truck driver was laying just a few feet from the door in the grass. Had this man dragged him all the way up? Was he trying to save him? Was he— A fist pounded me in the head and everything went black.
When I came to, I smelled smoke. I blinked a couple of times and tried to rub my face but my hands were tied, my arms spread out like I was asking for a hug. I was in the corner of the small building on an old chair. The fire was going, giving a nice warmth to the room on a cold night as the smoke billowed through holes in the roof. The man was tending to the fire as the boy was playing with his lightsaber again.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I was in a wreck down there.” I looked around to see the tow truck driver propped in the opposite corner, nearer to the fire. He was naked, his clothes piled under him. “What is…?” But I couldn’t finish my sentence. Something was very off about this father and son combo. I heard it now, the father’s muttering.
“Fresh meat, fresh meat, fresh meat,” he repeated. Then he moved an old, iron spit over the fire and reached for a rusty, handsaw.
“What are you…?” I watched in horror as he went to work on the driver’s leg like it was nothing more than a tree-limb. I slammed my eyes shut, turned my head but I couldn’t plug my ears. The squishing of saw through skin and muscle, quickly turned to scraping of bone and tendon. It was awful and the rusty saw didn’t make it a quick job. After a grueling minute, the saw hit the floor and I heard other clanking sounds accompanied by a sickly squelching. When I dared to look up, it was exactly as I pictured but much worse to see with my own eyes. The driver’s leg was turning on the spit like a roast chicken, foot and all. I looked away again, moaning with a sick feeling I couldn’t even describe at this point. I begged for him to stop, to let me go, all the usual stuff, how you won’t say anything to the police if they just don’t kill you but he just kept on as if I wasn’t even there. I called for the boy, hoping to reason with him as a five year old, or at least trick him but as he gave me his attention, his father grunted at him and he came away from me. I couldn’t watch them eat their meal but I had to hear them. All of my request to be let out, to use the bathroom, anything went unmet.
Later, as I was slipping in and out of consciousness, my eyes snapped open at a thought. I was watching them bed down, still not acknowledging me when I realized that they didn’t see me as human. I was just like a chicken or squealing pig. My time would come, just as the poor old man’s had. Thankfully he’d been dead when it all happened. Then I had a worse thought, maybe they didn’t see themselves as human.
I was drifting off again, watching them sleep so peacefully after the horrific acts they’d just performed. I wondered what had made them that way. I wondered how long they’d wait before they started in on me and if they’d have the decency to kill me first.
I woke, aching from the pull of the ropes. I was at least propped in the corner so I could rest my knee. I felt dehydrated and my lungs burned from the smoke the night before. I’d drifted in and out of horrible nightmares, shaking myself awake many times throughout the night, but each time I awoke, I realized I’d rather be back in the nightmares.
The sun was lighting up the mountain but I was shivering bad, exposed even with my coat, the room had dropped down to whatever temperature it was outside. I guessed not much above forty. The boy was rubbing his arms, a small sign that he was part human at least, and mumbling something to his father. As much as I could make out of their incoherent conversation was that he was cold and wanted to start the fire and his father told him to go get more sticks while he stayed behind. The boy grabbed his lightsaber, tucked the little loop of rope on the end of it around his wrist and was out the door.
The father caught my eyes for a second and I could see there was no human left in him. He grunted at me and turned to find his saw. I couldn’t tell if he was happy I was still alive or wished I’d passed in the night. All I knew was he was about to cut a hunk of his breakfast off of the guy who was supposed to drive me to safety last night. I looked away and caught a glimpse of a group of random objects across from me. There were clothes, a couple backpacks, various water canteens and in the little, closed-off windowsill was a small, golden figure. It glimmered like real gold and I wondered what other victim he’d pulled that off of. If it was really gold, I couldn’t even guess how much it was worth. Then I heard the saw hit flesh and I tried my best to find a happy place in my head that didn’t exist anymore.
It was about ten minutes later when the boy returned with an armful of sticks. He started piling them on the firepit and his dad set down the spit he’d impaled the driver’s arm on. Apparently it was leg for dinner and arm for breakfast, I really didn’t want to know what was for lunch.
The man started grunting at the boy. I finally heard a few real words, the first time since he’d said “fresh meat.” These words most resembled “Wet” and “Wrong” and he repeated them over and over at the boy who seemed to protest just a little too much as the father struck him across the face with one of the sticks. The boy fell, reaching to his cheek and coming away with a handful of blood. He didn’t cry and that hurt the most. He was so hardened to whatever this world was that he lived in that he didn’t even cry anymore, if he ever had. The father made a restless noise, went over and grabbed a piece of the driver’s clothing and tossed it to the boy. He held it to his cheek to stop the bleeding. There was an awkward silence before the father grunted and went out the door, presumably to get some sticks that weren’t wet with morning dew.
I looked at the boy, who’d push himself under the closed-off window in front of me. His head rested on his knees and I knew this might be my only chance.
“He shouldn’t have hit you,” I said, quietly.
The boy didn’t look up.
“I like the toy, the light thing you have. Do you like toys?” I asked, and now I had his attention. He looked up with big, green eyes and I continued, “I have a toy kinda like that. It’s in this pocket.” I motioned to the bulge of the cell phone in my pants.
He looked a me curiously.
“Yeah, right there, if you can get it, I can show you how to use it.”
He looked at my legs and frowned.
“I swear, I’m not trying to hurt you. I just thought you’d like a new toy.”
The boy approached, slowly at first, then began digging in my pocket. I had the thought for just half a second to clutch him in my legs and squeeze the life out of him, but I’d still be tied up. Who knows what his father would do if he came back and saw that scene?
The boy held up the flip phone, turning it over in his hands, then he looked at me.
“You gotta open it,” I said. “If you untie me…” But he figured it out. The screen was dark but he seemed to recognize it was supposed to do something. He held it up to me.
“Hold down the red button,” I said and he did. After a few seconds, the screen came to life. He was marveling over it, hitting buttons as it loaded. The electronic beeps made him smile and he looked up again, happily playing with his new toy. I knew I needed to focus him.
“Try pushing that nine in the corner.”
He looked confused and I opened my hand, waving for him to hand it to me. He was reluctant, and hit a few more buttons, flipped it closed and open again then hit the send button and got a beeping in the receiver. His eyes went wide and I motioned for him to hand it over. He agreed this time and I made a pathetic effort to stretch my head to see the screen within my tied off hand.
“Can you…? Please, just so I can show you how it works?”
The boy frowned at me and grabbed my walking stick, brandishing it towards me. I widened my hand not holding the phone and said, “I swear, I just want you to see how fun this thing is.” He didn’t seem convinced but he started biting at the ties around my wrist. I silently urged him to hurry, not knowing how long dear-old-dad would be searching for wood. He got the phone hand free and I raised it to my face. My heart leapt to see one bar of signal. It was down to five percent battery but it should be enough if I could just dial it. I punched nine-one-one and hit send. The boy was already impatient.
“Just one second, this part is really cool,” I assured him.
A voice came on the other end that brought me back to reality, back to hope, “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
The boy’s eyes widened at the voice on the other end and I knew I had to hurry.
“Please help. I’m trapped in a building on the side of—”
The boy ripped the phone out of my hand and put it to his ear. The person on the other end was talking and his eyebrows moved each time he heard them. Then he flipped the phone shut and went back to turning it over in his hands. He’d hung up my call. He flipped it open again and looked up at me just in time to catch a boot to the face. He flew back against the wall, hitting the window frame and collapsing to the floor on the pile of clothing and items they’d collected. The golden figure tipped off the sill and rolled down the boy’s limp body.
I didn’t have time to feel like the biggest piece of shit on Earth for distracting a five-year-old boy and then kicking him in the face. I had to free my other hand and get the hell out before I became lunch. I took the kid’s method and used my teeth, biting at the rope like a wild animal. It didn’t take long and I was on my feet, feeling how swollen my knee had become overnight as I put my weight on it again. The phone lay next to the golden figure. I grabbed them both, tucking one in each pocket before collecting my walking stick. I leaned on it hard as I got to the door. I gave one last glance at the mangled driver, it was an image I’d never forget, then to the poor boy. I should’ve checked his body, made sure he was okay, but I was a few minutes from being eaten by his dad. There would be no explaining anything if he came back.
I went out to the woods, crunching on the leaves and heading in the direction of the ranger station, fourteen miles away. When I gave a look back, I saw the man standing at the doorway with a load of sticks in his arms. I knew he saw me, but he went into the building instead. Once he saw his son…
*****
“Now hold on,” said Park Ranger Gifford, sitting across his desk from a wild looking, bearded man who was rubbing his thumb over a small, golden object in his hand as they sat in the little ranger station near the entrance to the national park.
“You’re saying there’s a crazy man and his son out there eating people?” said the ranger.
The bearded man just nodded. He looked like he’d seen a ghost and become friends with it in the process.
“What in the world. Why didn’t you call the police yet?” He reached for the phone on his desk and the man slapped it out of his hand, tugging the cord from the wall. The ranger leaned back in his chair in surprise.
The bearded man stood and started mumbling as he stuck the golden figure in his pocket. “Fresh meat, fresh meat, fresh meat,” he said as he jumped over the desk onto the ranger.
A man came stumbling to the door, holding a young boy in his arms. He was heaving breaths out, barely able to hold the boy. The boy had a broken nose but let out a scream as they saw the bearded man slamming the skull of the ranger on the floor. “Daddy,” he said. “Look.”
The dad covered his boy’s face and they ran off to the parking lot.

Scott Boss is an author and musician from western North Carolina.
He started writing around eight-years-old with his comic series, “Hammerhead Worm.”
Thankfully, the public has been spared it’s release.
Scott is a fan of things that are a little off and likes to write anything from horror, to dark humor, to sci-fi.
In his spare time, Scott records heavy music in his home studio under the name EL CARO.
Real skull. Don't ask. You wouldn't believe it if I told you.

Original Creations
Goodbye for Now, a Short Story by Jennifer Weigel
Published
2 days agoon
March 30, 2025What if ours weren’t the only reality? What if the past paths converged, if those moments that led to our current circumstances got tangled together with their alternates and we found ourselves caught up in the threads?
Marla returned home after the funeral and wake. She drew the key in the lock and opened the door slowly, the looming dread of coming back to an empty house finally sinking in. Everyone else had gone home with their loved ones. They had all said, “goodbye,” and moved along.
Her daughter Misty and son-in-law Joel had caught a flight to Springfield so he could be at work the next day for the big meeting. Her brother Darcy was on his way back to Montreal. Emmett and Ruth were at home next door, probably washing dishes from the big meal they had helped to provide afterward, seeing as their kitchen light was on. Marla remembered there being food but couldn’t recall what exactly as she hadn’t felt like eating. Sandwiches probably… she’d have to thank them later.
Marla had felt supported up until she turned the key in the lock after the services, but then the realization sank deep in her throat like acid reflux, hanging heavy on her heart – everyone else had other lives to return to except for her. She sighed and stepped through the threshold onto the outdated beige linoleum tile and the braided rag rug that stretched across it. She closed the door behind herself and sighed again. She wiped her shoes reflexively on the mat before just kicking them off to land in a haphazard heap in the entryway.
The still silence of the house enveloped her, its oppressive emptiness palpable – she could feel it on her skin, taste it on her tongue. It was bitter. She sighed and walked purposefully to the living room, the large rust-orange sofa waiting to greet her. She flopped into its empty embrace, dropping her purse at her side as she did so.
A familiar, husky voice greeted her from deeper within the large, empty house. “Where have you been?”
Marla looked up and glanced around. Her husband Frank was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, drying a bowl. Marla gasped, her hand shooting to her mouth. Her clutched appendage took on a life of its own, slowly relinquishing itself of her gaping jaw and extending a first finger to point at the specter.
“Frank?” she spoke hesitantly.
“Yeah,” the man replied, holding the now-dry bowl nestled in the faded blue-and-white-checkered kitchen towel in both hands. “Who else would you expect?”
“But you’re dead,” Marla spat, the words falling limply from her mouth of their own accord.
The 66-year old man looked around confusedly and turned to face Marla, his silver hair sparkling in the light from the kitchen, illuminated from behind like a halo. “What are you talking about? I’m just here washing up after lunch. You were gone so I made myself some soup. Where have you been?”
“No, I just got home from your funeral,” Marla spoke quietly. “You are dead. After the boating accident… You drowned. I went along to the hospital – they pronounced you dead on arrival.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank said. “What boating accident?”
“The sailboat… You were going to take me out,” Marla coughed, her brown eyes glossed over with tears.
“We don’t own a sailboat,” Frank said bluntly. “Sure, I’d thought about it – it seems like a cool retirement hobby – but it’s just too expensive. We’ve talked about this, we can’t afford it.”
Marla glanced out the bay window towards the driveway where the small sailboat sat on its trailer, its orange hull reminiscent of the Florida citrus industry, and also of the life jacket Frank should have been wearing when he’d been pulled under. Marla cringed and turned back toward the kitchen. She sighed and spoke again, “But the boat’s out front. The guys at the marina helped to bring it back… after you… drowned.”
Frank had retreated to the kitchen to put away the bowl. Marla followed. She stood in the doorway and studied the man intently. He was unmistakably her husband, there was no denying it even despite her having just witnessed his waxen lifeless body in the coffin at the wake before the burial, though this Frank was a slight bit more overweight than she remembered.
“Well, that’s not possible. Because I’m still here,” Frank grumbled. He turned to face her, his blue eyes edged with worry. “There now, it was probably just a dream. You knew I wanted a boat and your anxiety just formulated the worst-case scenario…”
“See for yourself,” Marla said, her voice lilting with every syllable.
Frank strode into the living room and stared out the bay window. The driveway was vacant save for some bits of Spanish moss strewn over the concrete from the neighboring live oak tree. He turned towards his wife.
“But there’s no boat,” he sighed. “You must have had a bad dream. Did you fall asleep in the car in the garage again?” Concern was written all over his face, deepening every crease and wrinkle. “Is that where you were? The garage?”
Marla glanced again at the boat, plain as day, and turned to face Frank. Her voice grew stubborn. “It’s right here. How can you miss it?” she said, pointing at the orange behemoth.
“Honey, there’s nothing there,” Frank exclaimed, exasperation creeping into his voice.
Marla huffed and strode to the entryway, gathering her shoes from where they waited in their haphazard heap alongside the braided rag run on the worn linoleum floor. She marched out the door as Frank took vigil in its open frame, still staring at her. She stomped out to the boat and slapped her hand on the fiberglass surface with a resounding smack. The boat was warm to the touch, having baked in the Florida sun. She turned back towards the front door.
“See!” she bellowed.
The door stood open, empty. No one was there, watching. Marla sighed again and walked back inside. The vacant house once again enveloped her in its oppressive emptiness. Frank was nowhere to be found.
So I guess it’s goodbye for now. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Today on Nightmarish Nature we’re gonna revisit The Blob and jiggle our way to terror. Why? ‘Cause we’re just jellies – looking at those gelatinous denizens of the deep, as well as some snot-like land-bound monstrosities, and wishing we could ooze on down for some snoozy booze schmoozing action. Or something.
Honestly, I don’t know what exactly it is that jellyfish and slime molds do but whatever it is they do it well, which is why they’re still around despite being among the more ancient organism templates still in common use.
Jellyfish are on the rise.
Yeah, yeah, some species like moon jellies will hang out in huge blooms near the surface feeding, but that’s not what I meant. Jellyfish populations are up. They’re honing in on the open over-fished ocean and making themselves at home. Again.
And, although this makes the sea turtles happy since jellies are a favorite food staple of theirs, not much else is excited about the development. Except for those fish that like to hide out inside of their bells, assuming they don’t accidentally get eaten hanging out in there. But that’s a risk you gotta take when you’re trying to escape predation by surrounding yourself in a bubble of danger that itself wants to eat you. Be eaten or be eaten. Oh, wait…
So what makes jellies so scary?
Jellyfish pack some mighty venom. Despite obvious differences in mobility, they are related to anemones and corals. But not the Man o’ War which looks similar but is actually a community of microorganisms that function together as a whole, not one creature. Not that it matters when you’re on the wrong end of a nematocyst, really. Because regardless what it’s attached to, that stings.
Box jellies are among the most venomous creatures in the world and can move of their own accord rather than just drifting about like many smaller jellyfish do. And even if they aren’t deadly, the venom from many jellyfish species will cause blisters and lesions that can take a long time to heal. So even if they do resemble free-floating plastic grocery bags, you’d do best to steer clear. Because those are some dangerous curves.
But what does this have to do with slime molds?
Absolutely nothing. I honestly don’t know enough about jellyfish or slime molds to devote the whole of a Nightmarish Nature segment to either, so they had to share. Essentially, this bit is what happened when I decided to toast a bagel before coming up with something to write about and spent a tad too much time in contemplation of my breakfast. I guess we’re lucky I didn’t have any cream cheese or clotted cream…
Oh, and also thinking about gelatinous cubes and oozes in the role-playing game sense – because those sort of seem like a weird hybrid between jellies and slime molds, as does The Blob. Any of those amoeba influenced creatures are horrific by their very nature – they don’t even need to be souped up, just ask anyone who’s had dysentery.
And one of the most interesting thing about slime molds is that they can take the shortest path to food even when confronted with very complex barriers. They are maze masterminds and would give the Minotaur more than a run for his money, especially if he had or was food. They have even proven capable of determining the most efficient paths for water lines or railways in metropolitan regions, which is kind of crazy when you really think about it. Check it out in Scientific American here. So, if we assume that this is essentially the model upon which The Blob was built, then it’s kind of a miracle anything got away. And slime molds are coming under closer scrutiny and study as alternative means of creating computer components are being explored.
Jellies are the Wave of the Future.
We are learning that there may be a myriad of uses for jellyfish from foodstuffs to cosmetic products as we rethink how we interact with them. They are even proving useful in cleaning up plastic pollution. I don’t know how I feel about the foodstuff angle for all that they’ve been a part of various recipes for a long time. From what I’ve seen of the jellyfish cookbook recipes, they just don’t look that appealing. But then again I hate boba with a passion, so I’m probably not the best candidate to consider the possibility.
So it seems that jellies are kind of the wave of the future as we find that they can help solve our problems. That’s pretty impressive for some brainless millions of years old critter condiments. Past – present – perpetuity! Who knows what else we’d have found if evolution hadn’t cleaned out the fridge every so often?
Feel free to check out more Nightmarish Nature here.
Original Series
Lucky Lucky Wolfwere Saga Part 4 from Jennifer Weigel
Published
2 weeks agoon
March 17, 2025Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous St. Patrick’s Days… though technically he’s more of a wolfwere but wolfwhatever. Anyway, here are Part 1 from 2022, Part 2 from 2023 and Part 3 from 2024 if you want to catch up.
Yeah I don’t know how you managed to find me after all this time. We haven’t been the easiest to track down, Monty and I, and we like it that way. Though actually, you’ve managed to find me every St. Patrick’s Day since 2022 despite me being someplace else every single time. It’s a little disconcerting, like I’m starting to wonder if I was microchipped way back in the day in 2021 when I was out lollygagging around and blacked out behind that taco hut…
Anyway as I’d mentioned before, that Scratchers was a winner. And I’d already moved in with Monty come last St. Patrick’s Day. Hell, he’d already begun the process of cashing in the Scratchers, and what a process that was. It made my head spin, like too many squirrels chirping at you from three different trees at once. We did get the money eventually though.
Since I saw you last, we were kicked out of Monty’s crap apartment and had gone to live with his parents while we sorted things out. Thank goodness that was short-lived; his mother is a nosy one for sure, and Monty didn’t want to let on he was sitting on a gold mine as he knew they’d want a cut even though they had it made already. She did make a mean brisket though, and it sure beat living with Sal. Just sayin.
Anyway, we finally got a better beater car and headed west. I was livin’ the dream. We were seeing the country, driving out along old Route 66, for the most part. At least until our car broke down just outside of Roswell near the mountains and we decided to just shack it up there. (Boy, Monty sure can pick ‘em. It’s like he has radar for bad cars. Calling them lemons would be generous. At least it’s not high maintenance women who won’t toss you table scraps or let you up on the sofa.)
We found ourselves the perfect little cabin in the woods. And it turns out we were in the heart of Bigfoot Country, depending on who you ask. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one. But it seems that Monty was all into all of those supernatural things: aliens, Bigfoot, even werewolves. And finding out his instincts on me were legit only added fuel to that fire. So now he sees himself as some sort of paranormal investigator.
Whatever. I keep telling him this werewolf gig isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and it doesn’t work like in the movies. I wasn’t bitten, and I generally don’t bite unless provoked. He says technically I’m a wolfwere, to which I just reply “Where?” and smile. Whatever. It’s the little things I guess. I just wish everything didn’t come out as a bark most of the time, though Monty’s gotten pretty good at interpreting… As long as he doesn’t get the government involved, and considering his take on the government himself that would seem to be a long stretch. We both prefer the down low.
So here we are, still livin’ the dream. There aren’t all that many rabbits out here but it’s quiet and the locals don’t seem to notice me all that much. And Monty can run around and make like he’s gonna have some kind of sighting of Bigfoot or aliens or the like. As long as the pantry’s stocked it’s no hair off my back. Sure, there are scads of tourists, but they can be fun to mess around with, especially at that time of the month if I happen to catch them out and about.
Speaking of tourists, I even ran into that misspent youth from way back in 2021 at the convenience store; I spotted him at the Quickie Mart along the highway here. I guess he and his girlfriend were apparently on walkabout (or car-about) perhaps making their way to California or something. He even bought me another cookie. Small world. But we all knew that already…
If you enjoyed this werewolf wolfwere wolfwhatever saga, feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.