Small Town USA #23

Did I ever tell you about the time I saw the face of evil? Okay, so I can’t prove beyond a doubt that it was evil, but if not evil, then what was it? I’ll let you decide.

I remember this particular night in late spring of 1995 — an unusually dark and stormy May evening. I don’t recall the exact date, but it was near the end of the month, and the rain was coming down in sheets. The roads were slick, visibility was poor, and the streets were clear of other motorists. We couldn’t have picked a better night to go out and do something stupid and immature, like “mailbox bashing.”

I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I actually convinced other people to participate in such a reckless and pointless activity. I grew up in a small town where there wasn’t much to do outside of sports. I didn’t drink or do drugs, but somehow, I still managed to make dumb decisions. Once I got an idea in my head, I had a way of making sure it happened. My best friend, Ed, and my girlfriend, Joey, often got pulled into my antics, whether they wanted to or not. Looking back, I don’t know how much Ed truly enjoyed these outings or if he just stuck around out of loyalty. Joey, though — deep down, she loved the adventure just as much as I did.

That night, they both hesitated because of the weather, but I convinced them that the storm made it the perfect night to avoid getting caught. Cringe-worthy logic, I know. But let’s be honest — without bad decisions, there wouldn’t be great stories like this one.

We left from our usual hangout: Joey’s basement room in her parents’ house. She was a 4.0 student at the University but still lived at home to save money. Her mom was already in bed, and her dad, an Air Force officer, was deployed overseas. That left us free to sneak out. We grabbed sweatshirts, some cans of soda from the garage, and an old baseball bat already dented from previous misadventures. Joey drove a little blue Dodge Ram 50 — a single-bench-seater truck that barely deserved to be called a truck, but it got us where we needed to go. We packed ourselves in tight, with Ed and I crammed next to Joey as she shifted gears. The truck smelled like her — vanilla and spice, scents I will forever associate with her. Eventually I would talk her in to marrying me.

The night felt especially exhilarating with the pounding rain and near-total darkness. We set out past the “Welcome to Medicine Lake” sign, and as the last streetlight slipped away in the rearview mirror, we were swallowed by the darkness of night. The road ran along the back perimeter of the air force base, lined with scattered homes and fields. As we neared the base runway, the sky flashed with brilliant bursts of light, guiding aircraft through the storm. Even now, those lights give me an eerie feeling when visibility is low.

The further we got from town, the darker it became. The rain never let up, soaking everything. As we passed the base’s back gate, we spotted something — or someone — walking along the roadside. Dressed entirely in black, this figure moved with a swift, deliberate pace. No one in their right mind should have been out in that storm. Joey, always an alert driver, slowed down before Ed or I even noticed him.

As we passed, I got a clearer look. He was tall and slender, wearing a black suit and a flat-brimmed hat — something straight out of a 1930s gangster movie. He carried a black briefcase, swinging it in perfect rhythm with his stride. Despite the rain-soaked ground, he never faltered. His face was pale, almost chiseled, but he never turned to acknowledge us. We exchanged uneasy glances but laughed it off, assuming he was some airman sneaking off base for a late-night rendezvous.

We continued on to our mission: a backroad loop lined with mailboxes. It was a full nine innings of mailbox bashing, but that night, we encountered something unexpected — a mailbox booby-trap. Some fed-up homeowner had rigged a mailbox on a pivot system with a counterweight of small boulders. It looked like an easy target, but when we swung, the contraption swung back — slamming the truck’s rear end with a force we weren’t expecting. That mailbox gauntlet would come back to haunt us years later, but that’s another story, for another time.

We finished our loop and decided to take a large black mailbox as a souvenir. Again, I can’t tell you what we were thinking. We turned onto the highway and started heading back when we saw him again — the man in black. He was now further down the road, moving at an alarming pace. Looking back, the distance he had covered in such a short time, on foot, in the rain, should have set off alarms in our heads. Instead, we came up with the dumbest idea of the night: scaring him with our stolen mailbox.

Joey pulled into a small parking lot at the top of Deep Creek Hill and turned the truck around. I jumped into the truck bed, clutching the cold metal mailbox, crouched against the back of the cab. There he was again, pressing ahead with focused intent. Joey slowed to 35 mph — still fast enough to be reckless and get away. As we closed in, Ed shouted, “NOW!” and I hurled the mailbox straight at him.

I regretted it the second it left my hands.

The mailbox soared through the rain, heading straight for his head. But just as it should have hit him, he jumped — kicking the mailbox out of midair with a force that sent it spinning into the ditch. Then he turned toward us.

His eyes were not eyes at all — just dark, hollow voids. He let out a ferocious, unearthly hiss and started walking toward us, fast but never running. Joey hit the brakes for a split second, startled by the sound of metal against the pavement, before realizing what was happening. That pause was long enough for us to get a good look at him. His face was unnatural, his breath nonexistent despite the cold air. He raised his hands as if in some kind of ritualistic gesture, daring us to come closer.

We didn’t.

Joey punched the gas, and I flattened myself in the truck bed as we sped away. At the next crossroads, I scrambled back into the cab, drenched and shaken. None of us spoke for several minutes. Then, finally, we asked each other if we had all seen the same thing. We had.

We never spoke of that night again for years. And that was the last time we ever threw a mailbox from a moving vehicle.

There would be more reckless adventures, but that night, we encountered something we couldn’t explain — something dark, something beyond this world. And to this day, I have never forgotten the face of evil.