Route 156

Patrick Reynolds was tired. Dead tired. It had been two nights since he had any sleep at all, at least a week since his last undisturbed slumber. He had felt fine all day, but with the coming of nightfall, fatigue was catching up with him. He was yawning incessantly as he gathered his briefcase, adorned his overcoat, and made his way to the door. It was yet another late night at the office, another nine to nine workday. The hours and the stress were talking their toll.

The night air was wrought with the cool, crisp scents of autumn that Patrick loved so. Scents that temporarily revived him as he invited the air deep into his lungs. He took a moment to stare into the cloudless sky above. A three-quarters moon and countless stars stared back, basking both he and all about him in a miraculous, silvery glow. It was an early November New England night. In a geological area that changes climatologically from moment to moment, this was an evening to bottle and save. Chilly, but not cold, dry, silent, and not a hint of wind. This is what people came to New England hoping to find. This was a fringe benefit that Patrick gladly accepted.

The parking lot of Ameritech was empty except for Patrick’s forest green Jeep Cherokee and the cleaning crew’s van. This was becoming an all too familiar sight to Patrick. Making his way to his car alone, long after everyone else was home digesting a warm meal was not how he had envisioned life working out. But, such was the life of a gifted, young software engineer with dreams of corporate ownership. Someday his sacrifices would surely pay off tenfold. Until then, he lived by the motto of; "do your time and don’t complain."

Ameritech was relatively new to the world of multinational conglomerates. However, shrewd management coupled with bold and uninhibited product design had set the company skyrocketing towards early success. Its home base was located on an inconspicuous plot of land in the New England woods. Close enough to major traffic arteries to be considered convenient, far enough from city bureaucracy to be considered cost efficient.

Ameritech was constructed in record time along the banks of route 156, a road which held the title of "scenic," but which seemed unworthy of any title at all. Route 156 was the epitome of a lazy, winding, back country road. With the exception of the three-story Ameritech monolith and corresponding parking, nothing of note existed to catch one’s eye. While sparse pockets of humanity had set up camp in modest housing along the way, 156 mostly carved its way through dense, unending woodland. One of those modest homes belonged to Patrick Reynolds. And it was this lonely stretch of route 156 that faced him every evening. At times, the sense of desolation seemed almost overwhelming to Patrick. Tonight however, he was far too tired for such thoughts.

When arriving home tonight, Patrick would be greeted by darkened silence. Usually, Nancy would have been there, waiting for him. However, two nights ago, she had finally had enough. The arguments were by no means new or original, or even stronger in intensity. But they had been mounting, and the plateau had finally been reached. These past two nights were the first in over eighteen months that Patrick spent without her company. He did not like it. He couldn’t sleep, not in that bed, not with her aroma so encompassing. Instead, Sportscenter and infomercials occupied his time. She had left to stay with her parents, until they could find a way to work things out. Patrick decided that that had better be soon.

Patrick released a lung full of air and watched as the trail of mist rose and dispersed into the atmosphere. Then, drawing up the collar of his overcoat, he began the trek to his Cherokee parked on the far side of the lot. As he journeyed, a strange sensation began to overtake him, one he could not pinpoint or describe. He attempted to pass it off as exhaustion, but he suspected that it might be something more. Perhaps more than anything, it was the silence that unnerved him so. Sure, the New England woodlands tended to be on the quiet side on a mid November’s night, but this night’s silence went beyond even that. No sounds of traffic, humans or animals penetrated the stifling silence. There wasn’t even a breeze blowing through the nearly exfoliated trees. About the only detectable sound was the low, monotone humming of the parking lot lights. But even they seemed to be operating at a lower decibel.

The silence was not the only disturbing trait, however. Patrick was also experiencing an eerie feeling that he was being observed. Considering the time and place, he was surely alone. Yet, that inexplicable sensation was being triggered within him much like an alarm. He took a moment to scan his surroundings as he walked, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. When he reached his car, he slowly unlocked the door, still checking in every direction in paranoid fashion. Finally, convinced of his own foolishness, he addressed himself; "Maybe we need to catch a few Z’s tonight, ya think?" He then climbed inside and shut the door. A second later, the engine roared to life.

As the Cherokee exited the parking lot and began its course down 156, Patrick began to experience mixed feelings. The ride usually took no more than 20 minutes. Tonight however, he was in no hurry to get home. The emptiness there would be suffocating. On the other hand, he was so damn tired that he doubted his ability to remain awake for the entire ride. The brief high he had gained from the fresh, night air disappeared once the artificial conditions of the Cherokee took over. In an effort to combat the fatigue, Patrick rolled down his window and flipped on the radio. As usual, he turned to the local AM news station. Although he was a current events buff, Patrick preferred talk radio more for the companionship. The feeling that someone else was there with him, for him. A feeling he would surely not have once he arrived home.


Nancy and Patrick had been an item for three years. When Patrick took the job at Ameritech, she made the move with him to the quaint cottage on route 156. Nancy knew him to be man controlled by logic and rationale. At times, he could even seem to be cold and uncaring to the outside observer. But she understood that he rarely made a move without thoughtfully analyzing every angle first. That’s why she was so taken aback by his offer of cohabitation. This sudden move towards commitment was completely out of character. It led her to believe that further proposals were only a matter of time. The two of them had often talked about the prospects of marriage. And Patrick had assured her time and time again that once he became a major player in the company, their holy union would soon follow. But as time passed, Patrick began to spend more time at work instead of less, leaving her only scraps of his attention. While animated and motivated on the job, he would often return home tired and irritable. And more often than not, Nancy was forced to withstand the brunt of his moody temperament. Still, she stood by his side, hoping and waiting, and waiting.

As for Patrick, he truly loved Nancy, whether he knew it or not. While the idea of marriage was not one he fully embraced, he could not begin to picture his life without Nancy in it. She had an air about her, a childlike innocence that made it practically impossible to be angry with her. On many occasions, Patrick witnessed in amazement as some of his foulest moods melted away with just one glance into her pristine blue eyes. Whether it was with her playful smile, or her perfectly executed pout, she had a way to make him want to grab her and hold her for hours. To feel her breathe on his cheek, her hair on his shoulders, the beating of her heart against his own. She made him want to be her lover, her provider and her protector, without even trying.

When she left two nights ago, he didn’t cry, nor had he since. In fact, he had hardly done anything. And what he had managed to accomplish, he could not say. He was on auto pilot, a constant state of emotional cryogenics. Maybe he had eaten. He really wasn’t sure. He did know however, that he had not slept. God he was tired.

At times, route 156 seemed to take on a life of it’s own. Plotting it’s own course, changing direction, playing cat and mouse with drivers. Onward it twisted, veering sharply side to side with little or no warning. Zigging when you guessed zag, laughing at your confusion. There were no lights to aid weary night time travelers through it’s maze. And unless the moon hung directly overhead, the panacea of trees would blot out all traces of natural illumination. "Why the hell can’t they make these damn roads straight?" Patrick often wondered after first moving into town. Indeed, route 156 differed very little from the rest of the roads in the area. But like most things in life, adaptation occurred over time. Now, Patrick felt he could navigate the course home in his sleep. And on this night, he practically was.

"Lows tonight in the mid forties, with pockets of high thirties in some areas…" The radio droned on, repeating headlines, scores and weather conditions ad neaseum. The monotone voice of the overnight anchor did little to aid Patrick in his battle against exhaustion. "Where do they get these guys?" he wondered aloud.

As the radio replayed it’s same old song, route 156 did much the same. Trees, blackness and asphalt, nothing more. Patrick’s world became limited to the brief field of vision provided by the Cherokee’s headlights. The clear, star filled sky seemed to be swallowed whole by the canopy of trees that surrounded him. And aside from the sounds of the engine and the radio, nothing else could be detected. There seemed to be no signs of life anywhere.

Yet Patrick still could not shake the feeling of being watched. Although the sensation had lessened since he departed Ameritech, he could not completely rid himself of it. Under normal conditions, he would have devoted a great deal of time worrying about this. But tonight, it only rose to the surface when he was coherent enough to form a thought. And with every twist that route 156 threw his way, those moments were becoming increasingly rarer.

His mind drifted back to a scene at his home two nights ago. If he closed his eyes, he could be transported back to the exact moment. The moment he walked through the door, well after dark, only to find Nancy waiting for him. She was sitting on the sofa, facing the door with her jacket on and an overnight bag resting in her lap. A small table lamp provided the only light. But even in the dimness, he could see the red, puffy eyes that had become all too familiar. The sparkle that had brought them to life had been doused long ago. Only sadness remained. Infinite sadness. She was alone except for Patrick, in a new town, far from her home and family. Far from everything. Alone in a wilderness that turned a deaf ear to her cries, much like Patrick had done. She had given up all she knew for that one shot at true love. And now that love that she had so desired had ended in her mind.

Warm stinging tears formed in Patrick’s eyes. He struggled to keep control of the Cherokee as he wiped away the moisture. A sudden chill reverberated down his spine, causing him to roll up the window and turn on the heat. He also found that he could no longer tolerate the voice on the radio. It interfered with the recollection of Nancy that he was busy tormenting himself with, so off it went. The heavy silence from the outside seeped into the truck, and weighed the air like mid summer humidity. Again, he closed his eyes and focused on Nancy.

"I can’t take this anymore" she blurted out, much like a confession. With her exclamation came a flow of tears that she had valiantly attempted to stave off. Without uttering a word, Patrick took a seat in a chair opposite her and stared at the floor.

"It’s not fair" she continued. "I’m always here for you. Always. No matter what, I’m here. And I know that you work hard, and I know that your job is important to you, and I really don’t mind placing second every now and then. But lately, I don’t even place at all." She paused momentarily to control the flow of tears. Patrick continued to focus his gaze downward, unable to bear witness to the pain for which he was responsible.

"Even when you’re here, you’re not really here. You never talk, you never listen. We don’t even have sex anymore." She drew in a deep breath, and sent it trembling back into the air. "Remember when we first met? We didn’t even need the sex. Sure, we did it, and it was great. But we used to spend hours just talking and holding hands. You used to rub my shoulders, brush my hair, stroke my cheek, whatever. Now, it’s like the thought of touching me repulses you."

"It’s not like that." He tried to reassure her.

"Maybe not," she replied, "but that’s how it always seems to work out. Just give it some time you say. Soon we’ll have everything we want. Well, I’ve given it time, and I don’t think we want the same thing anymore Pat. You want a career, a name, a fucking legacy. All I want is you. All I’ve ever wanted is you. Now I guess you need to see that you’ve lost me."

Patrick’s head shot up to meet Nancy’s eyes for the first time. "What are you saying?" He asked frantically.

"I’m saying I’m leaving you." She replied somberly.

"Wait a minute babe," he pleaded, "we can talk this over…"

"No, we can’t! You can’t talk at all anymore. I’ve tried talking to you forever, and you just push me further away. There’s nowhere left to push me Pat. I’m as far away from you now as you are from me."

With that, she rose to her feet and slowly walked to the door. "I’m going home now Pat, I have to."

Patrick watched as she opened the door. " I love you Nancy, I really do."

"It’s too bad you couldn’t have said that when I needed to hear it." Nancy then stepped out and closed the door behind her. A moment later, her one-year-old Ford Taurus pulled out of the driveway and sped away down route 156. The car was a Christmas gift from Patrick. Its personalized pink license read "My Gal." Now it appeared that she no longer was. That night, for the first time, Patrick realized how lonely his house truly was.

This was the first time that he allowed himself to relive that night in its entirety. Only now did he realize the level of sadness that he had been supressing. The pain and suffering which he tried to deny could no longer be silenced. The weight of his emotions crashed down upon him like the walls of a great palace. He found that he could no longer focus on the world around him. Nor did he want to. All he desired was an escape, even a brief one. All he wanted was sleep. So as 156 stretched out before him, Patrick lost control of his eyes. They began to close, partially at first, but entirely soon after. And he could not seem to reopen them.

His departure was a brief one. A wave of cold sweat washed over him as his eyes sprung open wide. It was definitely a thud, or a least he thought so. Actually, he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was dreaming. He pounced on the brakes like a bird of prey swooping down on a field mouse. The Cherokee sat motionless in the road, it’s headlights beaming into nothing. There was no sound aside from the battering ram inside Patrick’s chest.

He glanced frantically at every mirror and out every window. There was nothing moving, nothing to see through the blackness. Had he hit something? Had he fallen asleep at the wheel? If he had, it couldn’t have been for too long. His car still sat in the center of his lane. And unless the Cherokee was now equipped with auto pilot, he must have maintained some level of control. Surely that could not have been done through closed eyes.

But what had brought him back to awareness so suddenly? "I know I heard something." He assured himself. "Probably just a damn possum."

He tried to pretend that he was unfazed by the turn of events, but he found his hands shaking uncontrollably as he opened the car door. He meticulously unfastened his seatbelt, removed himself from the Cherokee, and stood in the center of the road looking back into a wall of blackness. The eerie sense of being watched was stronger than ever, and the silence intolerable.

He took a moment to inspect the road around and behind him, yet detected nothing out of the ordinary. Satisfied that his mind was playing yet another trick on him, he cleared his throat and returned to his vehicle. "There’s nothing out here." He declared. "I don’t think there’s another form of life in this whole friggin state." He said, noting the uneasy stillness. "We’re out of here!"

Patrick climbed back into the Cherokee and slammed the door as if he were being chased by a pack of rabid wolves. He flipped on the interior light and glanced at himself in the rear view mirror. The contrast between him and the surrounding blackness was astounding, almost surreal. He was drenched in sweat. The moisture combined with the chilly night air caused his body to quake like the epicenter of a massive earthquake. He turned off the light and blasted the heater full power. For several moments he sat motionless staring at his mirrors, checking behind him. When finally warmed and reassured, he shifted into drive and continued his journey home.

For the remainder of the trip, Patrick devoted every ounce of energy to fighting off the fatigue. He was still extremely tired despite the scare, yet there was no way he was going to let himself drift off again. Forcing his eyes to open wider, Patrick took on the appearance of a predatory animal with a hobbled victim in his sights. His pale, white face was clammy due to the immense heat being thrown off by the Cherokee. Yet he dared not tone the heat down, as he knew the crippling chill was not far behind. Although his heart had returned to its normal rhythm, it would still spike slightly with every approaching turn in the road.

The thought of Nancy attempted to weave its way into his mind from time to time, only to be cast aside without hesitation. He could not allow his attention to be diverted for any reason, especially for her. There would be plenty of time to wallow in his quagmire of sadness once he reached the safety of his house. The lonely confines of his home were calling, and answering that call was his only objective at this moment.

Patrick’s over-emphasized alertness had as much to due with what lied ahead of him, as what lied behind. Though 156 challenged drivers with every passing mile, its most intimidating feature rested mere yards from Patrick’s own house. A blind, near 90-degree hairpin turn that Patrick dubbed "The Curve of Death" in only a half-joking manner. He could not believe that anyone would design a road in such a fashion, except as a sick, practical joke. The curve presented itself without warning, at the end of the longest stretch of straightaway that route 156 had to offer. In the time that he had resided at his current address, Patrick had witnessed more than one car end up off road thanks to "The Curve of Death."

Immediately following the turn, the unsuspecting driver would be met with the end of Patrick’s driveway. No "Blind Drive" sign was posted as a warning. Whenever he left home, Patrick did so with a silent prayer. Oncoming traffic was impossible to see until it was nearly upon you. Luckily, he had spent the entire year and a half next to "The Curve of Death" without incident. And considering what he had already been through tonight, he was anxious to keep that record intact.

Most of the time, he worried more for Nancy’s safety. Tonight however, all such fear was reserved for himself. As he approached the curve, he guided the Cherokee to a near stop. Then, like a mischievous child on the lookout for an unwitting parent, he fearfully peered around the corner as he edged ever slowly forward. His luck held. The road was barren, as it had been all night. Nothing moved. Patrick pulled the Cherokee up the driveway until it was parallel with his front door. He then quickly slammed it into park, shut off the ignition, and removed the keys. Then, closing his eyes, he arched his head towards the skies and released a heavy sigh. "Thank you." he whispered, then wearily stepped out of the car.

The haunting stillness hung in the air like an impending storm. It was the same here as it was in the Ameritech parking lot. Everything was dark, everything silent and pensive, as if the night itself were a coiled spring ready to unleash some bizarre secret. Patrick could not ignore what he was sensing, but he could not give into the curiosity either. He was home now. He had arrived a little shaken, but none the worse for wear. What he needed to do now was forget. Forget the silence. Forget the frightening ride home. Forget the eerie chill that hung in the air. But mostly, he needed to forget Nancy. He needed to forget it all, clear his mind, and sleep. Sweet, beautiful, tempting sleep. It was a yearning the likes of which he had never known.

As he unlocked the front door and made his way inside, Patrick noticed a slight change in the atmosphere. Like the outside, his home was dark and silent. But the feeling was completely different. Whereas the outside world seemed poised, on edge and ready to pounce, the space inside was stagnant and dead. It was as if a hole to some unknown dimension had opened up and swallowed everything of value. Not just possessions, but feelings and emotions, hopes and memories as well. Patrick walked in darkness from room to room like an adventurous soul on a midnight dare dancing from plot to plot in a forgotten cemetery.

There was nothing present to indicate that this house was indeed inhabited. Sure, it was furnished, applianced and decorated. But there were no detectable human touches so necessary in any place worthy of the title "home." Patrick and Nancy had planned on their stay here to be temporary. Once he achieved further success in the company, they would then find a more permanent, warmer place to live. This house was nothing more than storage shed with cable television. There were no photographs of cherished memories adorning the tables or walls. There were no knickknacks, trinkets or baubles to be found. Only the essentials were on display, much like a showroom floor. It was efficient, antiseptic and entirely impersonal.

This was something that Patrick never took time to notice, or let himself care about before. Now suddenly, it horrified him. He had to double check to make sure he was in the right house. This place could belong to anyone. It was a depressing sight, on that he was entirely unprepared for. There was no evidence to be found that could prove that Nancy once lived there. It seemed like she had been gone for years. Patrick felt the need to prove to himself that she was, in fact, real. He had intended to clear his mind of her completely tonight. Now, more than anything, he just needed to hear her voice.

He fumbled in the darkness until reaching a light switch that would illuminate the kitchen/dining room. In the far corner stood a well polished, wood finished desk. Patrick took a seat at the desk, and began rummaging through the contents in the top right hand drawer.

"C’mon, I know you’re in here!" he stated impatiently. "Bingo!" A small black address book was the reward for his search. Inside, he would find the number for Nancy’s parent’s house. It was there, only an hour’s drive away, that she now called home.

Patrick shakily rose to his feet and ambled towards the wall phone across the room. He was now actually thankful for his fatigue. If alert, he would most likely torture himself over the decision to call or not. He would weigh the pros and cons, and would more than likely decide the risks were too great to follow through. He would end up feeling like a wimp and cursing his lack of cahones, but at least his pride would remain intact. Tonight however, there would be no hesitation. That would take far too much energy.

Acting on pure impulse, he grabbed the receiver and began to dial. Propping himself against the wall with his left hand, he drew in a deep breath.

She answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Thank God you answered," he said.

"Pardon me? Patrick, is that you?" she questioned concernedly.

"Yeah, I was afraid I’d wake your parents."

"Pat, is there something wrong?" she asked, cutting to the chase.

"No babe, I…I just thought I’d call. I just wanted to see how you were doing, that’s all."

"Are you sure you’re alright Pat? You don’t sound good."

"I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all. How are things with your folks?"

"We’re doing fine Pat, just trying to remember what it’s like being around each other all the time again."

"Good, I’m glad to hear everything’s working out well." He stated robotically.

"Look Pat, I know you. You don’t just call to shoot the breeze. What’s going on?"

"I don’t know Nance." He paused a second the clear his throat. "Everything’s all…I don’t know, different. Weird. I mean, I don’t know where I am. I’m home. I know that. But I just don’t seem to recognize any of it."

"What are you talking about Pat?" she sternly queried.

"What’s it all mean Nance? One day, you have it all. Everything you ever dreamed of. And that’s cool, you know. I mean hell, it’s what you expected all along. And then the next day, without warning or anything, it just goes to shit. But you’re too busy thinking there’s nothing you can’t handle to realize that you’re not handling anything at all. Then where are you? I’ll tell ya. Then you’re here. Only you have no idea where the hell here is."

Nancy was quiet for a moment, confused by Patrick’s cryptic rambling.

"Have you been drinking, Pat?"

"No ma’am. That’s too easy. Besides, when you do that, you only wake up worse off than you were before."

"You’re scaring me Patty. What’s going on with you?" she was no longer able to hide her concern.

"No, no, don’t do that. I just wanted to hear you babe. Prove that I just didn’t make you up."

"Pat, do you need to me to come over there?"

"No, don’t worry about anything. It’s late, you should get some sleep. I know I should."

"You call me up in the middle of the night, start rambling like a lunatic, and tell me not to worry? What the hell did you think I would do?" she demanded.

"I’m sorry babe. That’s not what I meant to happen. I just needed to hear you. That’s all. I gotta go now. Take care."

"Patty?"

By the time Patrick hung up the phone, he had already forgotten what he had said. But that hardly mattered. He had heard her voice, and that was all he cared about. He felt a sense of relief, a sort of freedom. He’d found the courage to call her, to tell her what he was feeling. But more than anything, he was able to reconnect ever so slightly with reality. That line separating fact from fantasy was no longer quite so skewed. Suddenly, it was alright that the last 48 hours of his life had been lost in an indecipherable fog. Details could be worked out later. He had found his base. Now all he needed was sleep.

Patrick wandered into is living room and nestled comfortably into his favorite recliner. Reaching for the remote, he flipped on his television and searched for acceptable programming. He had no intentions of remaining awake long enough to become engrossed in anything. He was just searching for sound, other voices that would continue to remind him that he was not alone. He eventually stumbled upon a cheap "B" movie on HBO that he had seen a half dozen times before. Satisfied with his choice, Patrick laid the remote on his lap and folded his arms across his chest. Then, taking one last deep breath, he allowed his eyes to close.

The disturbance came in the form of an unidentified vehicle speeding precariously around "The Curve of Death." With no apparent concern for his own well being, the driver guided his car through the turn at blinding speed, tires squealing the entire way. Somehow, he was able to maintain control, and pick up even more speed as he disappeared into the blackness.

Patrick honestly didn’t mind the interruption. This was the first sign of life he had witnessed all evening. It provided a welcomed break to the paralyzing stillness that was so pervasive. Looking up at the television, he noticed that the same movie was still playing on the screen. He couldn’t have been out for very long.

As comfortable as he was, Patrick found that he was even more thirsty. Grudgingly, he lifted himself from his chair and ventured into the kitchen. There was a gallon of water in the refrigerator that he grabbed and gulped straight from the bottle. Before shutting the door, he searched inside for traces of food. What he found barely fit the requirements. Nancy usually took care of those matters. With her departure came a certain amount of starvation.

Patrick found his thoughts suddenly returning to her. He closed the refrigerator and walked to the phone. He studied it closely for a moment, as if some clue as to their earlier conversation was there to be discovered. He had called her, hadn’t he? He was certain that he had, but he still had no idea what the exchange consisted of. He only knew that he wished she were there. He needed to hold her, to feel the warmth of her skin, taste the nectar of her lips…"

"What the hell’s going on here?!"

Patrick glided quickly back into the living room and peered inquisitively out the window. This time, there were two cars racing around the curve, each traveling faster than the one moments before. The seemed to be moving in unison; turning, straightening and shifting like synchronized swimmers. Patrick watched until both sets of brake lights disappeared from view.

"Where’s the damn cops when you need them?"

Patrick returned to his recliner, and collapsed like a pile of unfolded laundry. While fumbling for the remote, he kicked off his shoes, a task he had neglected to undertake before. Growing weary of the images on his TV, he began surfing for a more favorable program to lose consciousness to.

He didn’t flip through more than five stations when his serenity was again disturbed. This time, the car barreling around the turn was blaring it’s horn without a pause. The speed at which it raced was death defying, yet it never strayed from the blacktop. It disappeared from sight faster than it appeared. Almost too fast. The straightaway beyond the curve should have held the glow of its lights for several seconds. Instead, it vanished as if it had never been there, taking with it that infernal horn.

Patrick muted the television and rubbed his eyes. Sitting up, he positioned himself to get a better look at the road through his window.

"Did I miss a friggin evacuation warning or something? He wondered aloud.

It was not long before his curiosity was peeked again. Another car soon approached. This one however, was traveling at a snail’s pace. It inched past Patrick’s driveway, but pulled to a stop before moving beyond the border of his property. It sat motionless for several seconds as Patrick stared concernedly from his window. Suddenly, as if cognizant that it was being inspected, the car turned ever so slowly towards the house, as if pivoting on its axis. It pulled slightly forward until coming to rest at the edge of Patrick’s lawn. Patrick was nearly blinded by the glare of it’s headlights, which were now pointed directly through the window at him. He shaded his eyes and tried to make sense of the surreal situation. As he studied the car, Patrick could not find the outline of a driver, although the oncoming light made it nearly impossible for him to see anything.

Suddenly, yet another car arrived from around the turn. This one was moving every bit as fast as the first few. It came to a miraculous halt next to the other idling vehicle. Without so much as a squeal from a single tire, this rocket ship managed a complete stop from a full out gallop within mere inches. It then swiveled, as did the previous car, and pulled ahead into Patrick’s yard. The two rested side by side, no more than two feet apart, both seemingly staring directly at Patrick.

"What the fuck is…"

He was unable to finish the question before a procession of cars made their way around the corner, turned, and pulled into his yard. Ten cars in military formation, sitting in his front yard with engines running, shooting white light directly at him. All were apparently the same make, model and size. All without discernable signs of an operator. As unreal as it seemed, there they were, engaging Patrick in some bizarre starring contest.

Patrick didn’t know if he was more afraid, confused or curious. This was a scene direct from "The Twilight Zone." He stood motionless as he witnessed the events unfolding in front of him. What could this possibly mean? Was he imagining the entire thing? After all, he was beyond exhausted. Perhaps he had concocted this all within the sleep-deprived confines of his mind. He took a second to inspect the room around him and noticed the brightly-lit conditions. If those cars weren’t really there, then what was illuminating his house to fervently?

Nothing moved outside. Each car remained in its chosen spot. No voices rang out. There were no doors opening or slamming shut. There was no movement within the cars themselves. No shifting, shadowy figures. Nothing. The cars just sat there, returning Patrick’s bewildered gaze. The humming of their running motors purred in harmony. Yet, much like the mechanical buzzing of the streetlights in the Ameritech parking lot, the sound was much quieter than it should have been. Their true sound smothered by the oppressive night air.

Patrick felt like a terrified actor caught on center stage. Bathed in overwhelming light in front of an anticipatory audience, he stood petrified, unable to recall his lines. He began to sweat, and tremble noticeably from the pounding of his heart. Physically, he started to feel much the same as he had at one point earlier in the evening. He couldn’t recall exactly what had brought on that previous anxiety attack. He only remembered its effects. A cold chill scampered down his spine.

Suddenly, the stifling silence was broken with the force of an erupting volcano. It was a thud, followed by another, and eventually a third, pounded out in a cryptic pattern on his front door. It was so strange, so eerily out of place that Patrick refused to believe he had heard it. His head had swung violently from the window to the door, while the rest of his body remained frozen. Clenched like a giant fist, he assumed the look of a granite statue about to crumble from a design flaw.

His disbelief multiplied as the three knocks rang out again. Same rhythm, same beat. Patrick assumed an upright position and turned to completely face the door. Sweat poured from his body like salt water from the net of a fishing boat. His right foot rose slowly from a puddle of concrete, followed by the left as he ambled towards the source of the sound. He found himself unable to catch his breath, and unsure if he really wanted to. His body tensed even more as he braced himself for the shock of another round of thuds. None had come by the time he arrived at the door.

Patrick reached slowly for the knob. Streaks of gold radiated in every direction as the headlights from outside seemed to focus directly on the same doorknob Patrick was about to grasp. He wrapped his hand around the shining globe in meticulous fashion, as if looking for a comfortable grip on a five iron. Satisfied with his hold, he clenched as tightly as he could while forcing down the deepest breath he was able to swallow. Gritting his teeth, Patrick swung the door open as quickly and powerfully as he could.

Patrick sprung up in his chair as if forced by an electrical current. He gasped for air with the vigor of a drowning man, while clenching tightly to the arms of the recliner. He was covered from head to toe in a cold slimy residue that saturated his clothing. It was a dream. An all too frightening, too real dream. Now, even the sleep he so craved was conspiring against him.

He moved to the edge of the chair and rubbed his eyes vigorously. They could not close now, not even if he wanted them to. Looking up at the television, he saw an unfamiliar movie playing. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, dreaming. Rising to his feet, he moved to the window to inspect the world. Everything was as it should be, quiet and calm. He then moved to the front door, opening it with a deep breath. When he found himself greeted by nothing more than the cool night air, he could not help but chuckle under his breath.

The air felt fine. Even though he was drenched in his own sweat, the frosty night air was still a pleasant friend. He stepped outside and walked out to the center of his driveway. Looking up, he saw that the ocean of stars still swam in the heavens above. It was a reassuring sight, one that calmed his frazzled nerves ever so slightly. In front of him sat the Cherokee, acting as a reflecting pool for the star’s brilliant light show. He approached the vehicle to see if some of that spirited brightness could be transported on to him.


Patrick was no more than five feet from the Cherokee when he was stopped in his tracks. His heart, which had already undergone an intense workout, suddenly lodged in his throat, constricting his breathing. There was something stuck on the front of his car. The Hitchcockian night had played yet another trick on him.

Despite his reluctance and disbelief, Patrick was compelled to investigate. His feet glided without ever leaving the ground, controlled by an unearthly force. His eyes, which could no longer be trusted, were more open and alert than they had been in days. His mind was an altogether different story. He was uncertain if this was part of the same dream, an entirely new fantasy, or if indeed this was really happening.

When he reached the front of the Cherokee, Patrick felt a pool of acid spinning in his stomach. The sour taste of bile filled his mouth. There, jammed in the grill of his car, was a human hand connected to an arm that hung on a downward angle just above the driveway. A pool of blood had formed on the ground below, sending a small stream rolling downhill towards the road. The arm was swathed in a crimson stained shirtsleeve that was stuck to the skin with dried blood. The tip of an ivory white bone protruded from where the shoulder should be. Its end was perfectly rounded, as if it had been removed with surgical precision. The surrounding tissue was mangled and shredded like the lifeless victim of a pack of wolves.

Patrick found himself seated on the ground where he had fallen after identifying the mysterious object. He had formed all of these images in a split second, after which he was unable look at it again. His pragmatic mind, which had always been able to rescue him from any situation, was no longer functioning. Normally, he would have had an answer by this time. A plan, a course of action, a logical response. This time however, no answers were forthcoming. He couldn’t even convince himself to believe what he had just seen. He simply did not have the energy to comprehend. The only feeling he was able to conjure up was one of defeat. A feeling of terminal emptiness. A feeling that his future was as cold and dead as his past, as his present. A feeling of futility.

For the first time all night, a gust of wind streaked across Patrick’s face. It brought with it whiffs of a nauseating stench, an odor much like rotting flesh. It could have come from the arm. Or, it could have just been the scent of this night. An asphyxiating evening deprived of life, energy and merit. A night so desolate, so emaciated, so lacking in essential elements. It was as if this night were a demon’s brood hatched in a vacuum. A black void of sensory deprivation. The air of this night varied from an ethereal gift, to a levitating pool of infested mud. It oozed from place to place, covering the world like a lava flow, sucking the spirit from every soul it touched. It was an evil air that produced that breeze, an evil stench that offended Patrick so.

He began to feel dizzy, lightheaded. He attempted to stand, but it proved to be a challenge much greater than he had anticipated. His legs were jello, and his head spun like an alcoholic’s brain on a binge. Once upright, he looked for something to lean against, anything but the Cherokee. At the end of the driveway stood a large oak tree that acted as a border between his property and the empty tract of land next door. Patrick stumbled towards the tree, each step a terrifying adventure. When he reached the tree, Patrick leaned over and grabbed his knees. He watched his heavy breath turn to white mist and vanish from sight. He noticed that his body was shivering, although he didn’t feel cold.

"Oh my God." He finally uttered.

"What have I done? What in the name of Jesus have I done?"

His trembling became more violent. In an attempt to curb its effects, Patrick straightened up and folded his arms tightly against his chest.

"This has to be a dream. This whole night. All of it, a fucking dream."


It was nearly imperceptible at first. A strange, alien sound that Patrick could not identify. He imagined that he had heard it earlier, but passed it off as part of his delusion. Besides, there had been no other perceptible sounds all night, Why should there be one now? But with each passing second, it grew a little louder, a little nearer.

It was a scraping sound, and it emanated from the dark abyss on the other side of "The Curve of Death." Something was slowly approaching. It had no pattern or rhythm. It almost sounded as if someone were pulling or dragging a heavy object along the road.

Overtaken by curiosity, Patrick gingerly stepped towards the road. He peered as deeply into the blackness as he could, but was unable to detect anything. He prepared to call out, but caught himself before uttering a sound. Suddenly, he was once again feeling vulnerable. The sensation of being watched had returned. A thousand pair of eyes ogling his every move. Although he could not see them, he felt them, or at least he thought he did.

The noise was definitely becoming louder. And by all indications, it was heading straight for him. Patrick ventured further into the road before assuming a statuesque pose. He was only now beginning to feel the numbing chill of the night air against his damp skin. His teeth began to clatter like a machine gun as his trembling worsened. He could not go back inside now, however.

Eventually, he was able to detect movement. Slow and deliberate movement along the side of the road, near the grass. Whatever it was seemed to be slithering, although it was much too large to be a snake or rodent of any kind. It was no more than fifty yards away, just becoming visible from around the curve, and still moving towards Patrick. Reality seemed to fade to fantasy once again as he watched in anticipation of whatever approached. Events seemed to be playing out like a movie on a screen, with Patrick nothing more than a distant bystander.

Finally, after untold moments, the thing drew close enough for him to identify. With shock and terror the likes of which he had never known, Patrick realized that what he was looking at was a human being. A tattered and shattered human being. It appeared to be a man, although absolute identification was impossible considering his condition. He was face down, desperately dragging himself inch by agonizing inch. His entire body was soaked in a mixture of blood and dirt. His clothes were torn and shredded, stained beyond description. His long, stringy hair, saturated with dried blood, clung to the side of his face. Below the matted hair on his right side was an empty eye socket. Specs of white bone were visible where the flesh had been sheered away. His legs were useless as they dragged along behind him, twisting and contorting in ways God had never intended. A person in this condition could not possibly be alive, nevermind traversing land in such a fashion.

As the broken body plodded forward, Patrick stood motionless in the road, frozen in a near death stare. His worst fears proved to be true. As the thing came closer, Patrick saw that it was indeed missing an arm. A right arm to be exact. The right arm that was now wedged in the grill of his Cherokee.

Patrick’s mind raced like a comet plunging to earth. It revved so high that he could feel the burning inside of his skull. The smoldering embers of a promising future, decorated with money, love and happiness. He felt the inferno as all of his prior achievements were enveloped in flame. Colleges, grad school, job placement, overtime, toiling through all hours of every night, all for naught. His past no longer served a purpose. His future no longer existed, and his present was a torture chamber. In the span of this one evening, two lives were lost. The poor bastard dying in front of him, and the even more pathetic person known as Patrick Reynolds.

Patrick’s eyes filled with a teary remorse. Beyond the shock and horror, he found the placid pool of surrender. A black lake of calming stillness, tempting him to plunge in headfirst. He wanted badly to reach out his hand to the man lying in the street, the man who was Patrick’s victim. He wanted to grab this man, carry him to the lake, and bathe them both in its forgiving waters. He wanted to come clean entirely. Beg for absolution for all of his sins and misdeeds. For all of the broken promises, uncaring glances, hurtful comments and ignorance. For all of those he had left behind in the name of self and ambition. Patrick needed atonement, not only for the life he took tonight, but also for all of the pieces of other lives he had unwittingly stolen over the years.

Unbeknownst to him, Patrick had closed his eyes to the world. As they reopened, he found himself awash in bright light. Patrick had hoped this to be a sign of forgiveness. Instead, it was the headlights from an oncoming vehicle speeding madly through "The Curve of Death." Patrick’s feet were glued to the surface of the road, weighed down by the reality of all that he had dreamed and witnessed tonight. He was unable to move. The car was unable to stop. As Patrick’s body folded under the weight of the vehicle, he glimpsed the final sight that he would take from this world. It was a personalized license plate that read; "My Gal."