Ill Intentions

Any time the thought of cold, soggy shoes enters my mind, I shudder. Although, after years of therapy, I can usually ward off the aftereffects with some deep belly breathing and whatever my mantra of choice might be.

But there are the nights, though, when the fear transcends my intentional breath and turns it into short, raggedy heaves, the kind where you feel like you're suffocating somehow without a physical cause. I remember the first time I tried using a visualization exercise in a meditation app, where I was told to use an image from my childhood to help me relax. I know I can't be the only person who's actually trying to escape the experience that pervades my childhood.

Growing up, my house was situated on what was technically the highest point in the county (which, in Wisconsin, doesn't really mean much in terms of elevation). In any given day during the summer, I could be hanging out in the trees in the cow pasture, listening to my echoeing voice in a culvert tunnel, walking the thin gravel field road that led to Louise's family farm. The road was rough and really just a way to keep machinery off the increasingly-busy main roads around our fields. From the time I was 10 my dad let me drive the farm truck, feet stretching to the pedals and holding on tight to keep the jostling pickup from sliding into one of the culverts or into a field. But despite all this freedom, it was boring without my friends. We said goodbye at the end of the school year, and there was a secret fear that they would forget about me. I would be stranded in the island of our house with miles of fields stretching in every direction.

But, I never really needed to worry. The landline rang regularly and I was reminded, repeatedly, to keep long distance calls short (5 cents a minute then). Louise was just a little ways down the road, and I saw her almost daily. At that age it was nothing to run down the miles to her house, and the private road kept our mothers' fears of an accident allayed. My best friends homes formed a perfect right triangle, with Louise and I on either end of a private field road between our houses and Monica just down from Louise.

My friend, Monica, was staying this night. This wasn't uncommon. Even though my parents weren't overly enthusiastic about friends staying over, or about Monica, to be honest. If anything, I stayed at Monica's house or we were at Louise's house. I don't remember why Louise wasn't invited this particular night.

Monica always brought a little chaotic energy. It grew as we lay on the futon, layered with blankets to take away the lumpiness despite the evening heat. And mine grew to match. It didn't help that it was an incredibly hot August night, windless and thick with humidity. If it rained, we might catch a little relief, but the sky was clear on the new moon night.

"Let's go," Monica proposed.

"Where?"

"Let's walk back to Louise's house, we'll jump in the window and scare her!" Louise's basement bedroom had two egress windows. Playing in the window well was strictly not allowed from her dad, but at nighttime? The temptation for a little mischief was too enticing.

We set out comically underdressed. Two twelve year olds in shorts and tank tops, shuffling down a gravel road with a single bouncing flashlight, kicking up dust with our flip flops. Even now, even in high temperatures, I shiver when I see it in my minds eye - nearing the road, the tall corn on either side - even though I walked that road a thousand times in my life before that night. But the ominous anonymity promised by the thick growth is all that I took with me.

It was well past midnight and we had maybe a quarter mile to go. Monica grabbed the flashlight from me.

"It's so gross!" Her hands landed in the gooey mess left from the peeling duct tape that held the batteries in place. The old plastic torch light had seen better days, yes, but it was the only one in the porch. The only available without risking going inside the house.

She pushed it back to me and jostled the batteries. The light dimmed for a moment then returned as we started down a gradual swell of white gravel.

The road to Louise's was full of swells and gradual hills. The largest hill stood before us, gradual enough in it's incline that it didn't look very intimidating on this moonless night.

The light flickered again and went out.

"Ugh," Monica disdained. "Why do you even keep this flashlight."

"You did it, you messed up the batteries," I fumbled with pulling the tape off to reinsert the batteries.

As I popped the last battery back in place, two things happened simultaneously. The light popped back on, and a big truck crested the small hill behind us.

"What the-" Monica pulled me off the side of the road. Calling it two lanes is generous, but at least we were far over on the side. There was hardly a ditch to dive into, with the corn only few feet away. I saw the driver's head swivel as they roared past us, and maybe another shadowy figure beside them.

"Speed kills, jerk," Monica shouted. She looked at me. "Who was that? Your brother?"

"No." I frowned. I didn't the know the truck. It wasn't anyone in my family's, not Louise's dad, or anyone who worked for us. There was no reason for anyone to be on this road. And that included us. "I think we should go back."

"What?!" Monica protested. "We're almost there, it took forever to get this far."

"I'm going home. I'm not following that truck, I don't know who they were or why they would be on this road."

Monica scoffed. "Fine. Go back. But I get the flashlight then." She made a grab for the light and it went again. "OH MY GOD KEEP THAT SHITTY LIGHT!" She laughed and turned. Grabbed my arm. "Look."

The truck was turning around on the top of the hill in front of us. I could just make out the silhouette. I realized that the lights were off, as it slowly, almost silently started rolling back down the hill toward us. I knew it had to be crunching gravel, but the sound of the grasshoppers and other night sounds drowned it out.

I pulled Monica off the road and into the corn. We crouched down, awkwardly waddling and trying to keep the stalks silent. Maybe, if we just went in a few feet, we wouldn't lose our sense of direction--

The flashlight turned back on.

Monica gasped and whimpered. The light shot out across the road. I ripped the tape off and jiggled the batteries out. They had to have seen it, had to have noted which direction it was coming from. We needed to get to the other side of the road.

At the valley of the hill a culvert ran under the road. It ran heavy in the spring, but now there's shouldn't be more than bit of standing water, if even. We had to be so fast to get there before the truck.

I grabbed Monica's hand and pulled. The flashlight fell and I scampered with her, risking a little sound and motion through the corn to get the culvert. We crawled inside, Monica first and I followed. Our flipflops were immediately saturated with the little bit of water we found. Just before we got to the other side, and we had to decide whether to stay put or run for the corn, we heard the truck gently squeal to a stop above us.

Scenarios ran through my head, then immediately stopped when a door clicked open. Boots walking slowly on the gravel. Pushing through the corn.

I didn't know if we should risk going or staying. I couldn't think about it. All my mental bandwidth was focused on praying, wishing, hoping they wouldn't see the culvert, wouldn't look inside, would get back in and go. Monica, crouched next to me, grasped my leg. We leaned into each other.

Boots walking on the gravel again. The truck kicked into gear, and I saw the headlights span across the field through literal tunnel vision. They must be turning around, I thought. I chanced taking a look.

Creeping to the end of the tunnel, I leaned out the side. I saw tail lights moving up the hill, toward Louise's house. Their lights were on, engine running, it was time to go.

I pulled Monica up and we ran. I thought I saw the flashlight flicker on the opposite side of the road, but didn't care. We ran, the corn stalks whipping us as we avoided the road. I kicked off my flip flops and ran in the increasingly dewy grass, my feet already clammy and wrinkled from the culvert. Monica stumbled in front of me, and for a moment I considered leaving her behind.

We made it back to the house, leaping through the porch door and I locked it with the flimsy latch. We burrowed under the blankets. Monica's cold feet found mine.

"What... who was that?"

I shook my head, staring up at the paneled ceiling. We lay silent until the sky lightened and I heard my dad puttering around inside, getting ready for chores.

"I want to go home." Monica swung herself off the futon. "Can you ask your dad to bring me home? I'll get my stuff."

"Oh. Okay."

Dad was surprised. Usually we weren't up until almost noon, and Monica didn't go home until mid-afternoon most sleepovers. "Everything ok?" He eyed me for a moment.

"Yeah, I think so. She just wants to go home."

Monica lived a few miles away, past Louise's farm. Dad already had his barn clothes on, so we took the farm truck. I slid in the middle of the bench seat, and Monica next to me by the door. We didn't say much, but I felt her tense next to me as we turned onto the farm road. I had the same reaction.

I kept my eyes focused on the left side of the road, looking for my flip flops. I didn't realize where we were until Monica gasped.

"What in the world..." my Dad looked confused. I looked ahead.

In the middle of the road, our flashlight lay in pieces. The red plastic shifted in the breeze. I saw my shoes, mangled with the thong pulled out of both of them.

Our secret didn't stay secret for long. My dad called around and pressed us for details about the truck, the drivers. But we didn't know much. It was an older truck, maybe a diesel, maybe a manual transmission. We didn't even know for sure if it was male or female driving. All anyone knew was that there wasn't any reason for anyone to be on the road at night. And that included us.

Eventually, people stopped asking us about it, or worrying about strangers chasing down little girls. People forgot, mine and Louise's dad installed heavy gates at either end of the road, and that tidied things up in their heads.

My feet feel like they've never warmed up from that summer night, they're the first part of me to react when I see an older model truck idling at the gas station or when a light flickers. I still run scenarios through my head. Why they were on the road in the first place. Were they worried about the two young girls alone in the middle of the night, or is that what enticed them. What if we tried to lead them into the corn, what if they looked in the culvert tunnel. In some ways, the not knowing - the endless speculation - is worse than the reality.