The Box

The drive was uneventful.

Exactly what you would expect from driving a highway that stretched from here to there. Long, lonely roads that lead everywhere and nowhere in particular. The road had a familiar dusty feel, which was odd considering I had grown up on the East Coast, and the farthest west I had been was Aunt Millie’s west of Dead Man’s lake, in my hometown.

“Crap, I need gas,” I muttered as I looked down at the gaslight that lit up the dashboard.

I knew that I should have stopped at that pit stop some miles back, but I thought there might be another one coming up. Plus, that creepy car that seemed to be following me since the last turnoff made me a little uneasy. I’m sure it was my imagination. I couldn’t help thinking about how in every movie, where a lonely person travelling across the country gets killed, there are always common themes. A beat-up old car–exhibit A; my old VW bug, deserted pit stops and a leering trucker, who turns out to be the psycho killer. Urban legends, perhaps, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, this was a major highway, and pitstops are a dime a dozen on roadways like this.

After the year I just had, dealing with a psycho would be the least of my worries.

I was running. Not from anyone in particular and definitely to nowhere planned. I guess you could say that I was running from ghosts. Now before you go getting your undies in a bunch, I’m not talking the white sheet, float through the air, haunting type ghosts, simply the ghosts of my past. Do you know the ones? The type of ghosts that haunt places and linger just at the edge of memories and moments.

My partner was a tool. He expected dinner on the table, promptly on entering the apartment, laundry was to be folded and neatly placed in the cabinets, and the floor had to be clean enough to eat off. I had been so sick of his crap that I went to see that medicine man my friend recommended. She swore that he fixed her marriage, and he could fix mine too. He had a lengthy waiver that I didn’t read, and I had to sign in red ink, but he did seem nice. Only, about a week after me asking him to deal with my husband, strange things started to happen. First, his hair started to thin and then fall out, his teeth began to rot in his mouth, and he had the smell of–well, let’s just say I went back to the medicine man and demanded a do-over.

“I don’t do, do-overs.”

“Please!” I begged; I just want him back the way he was.

The medicine man thought about it for what seemed like an eternity then said, “Okay, a do-over. To make your husband whole again, I will need a picture of you and him in happier times.”

“No problem.” I said, and I pulled out a picture of us from his work Christmas party a year earlier.

“Good, now go. All will be well. But I may be contacting you in the future.”

“Sure, dude, no problem, whatever you say.” “Weirdo.” I muttered under my breath as I left the dark apartment.

Well, my partner returned to precisely the way he was, except his mean streak got a whole hell of a lot meaner. He would come home from work, stick his hands down his pants, scratch whatever eternal itch he never seemed to satisfy and toss empty beer cans at my head.

I had enough, so the first chance I saw, I took. I planned my escape, jumped in a car I bought from the cheesy salesman Don at Larry’s used car lot and hit the open road. That was four days ago.

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“Yes, a turnoff with a gas station.” I sighed in relief. Exactly how far can you drive once the gaslight lit up? I wondered.

I veered to the right and took the exit that promised gas and “oddities.”

Oddities, now that was a weird way of describing a gas station and the items it contained. Keychains, postcards and travel-sized toothpaste aren’t considered odd. Well, maybe the postcards since not many people took the time to write about adventures taken anymore.

The long winding road wound its way to the base of the hill and a tiny gas station that looked like it was straight out of the movie Deliverance–right down to the old guy sitting in a rocking chair wearing overalls and whittling, emerged in front of me.

What the hell, I thought. If I weren’t desperate for gas, I would have driven straight back onto the highway. And to think I was apprehensive about the last place.

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I stopped my car, got out and walked right up to the old guy.

“Hi, fill it up.”

Silence. He didn’t flinch and continued to carve.

I walked in front of him and noticed the thick white cataracts covering his pupils. Creepy.

“Excuse me, Mister, do I need to fill myself up, or will you do it?”

Again silence.

“Hello?” I shouted.

It was as though I wasn’t there. Non-existent. I waved my hand in front of the man’s face, and his eyes didn’t move.

Poor guy, he must be deaf and blind.

I walked back to the car and popped the gas tank.

“Seriously, no debit,” I muttered.

I replaced the gas cap and walked toward the store. I could swear I could see a smile extend across the older man’s lips.

I reached down, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Now you can’t make this crap up, and I wish I could unsee what I saw. The gas station was a tribute to all things furry. Taxidermy animals had a shrine, and you could purchase your very own animal for only $9.99. Hats with equally embalmed furry friends advertised as one size fits all, and recipe books featuring Gourmet Roadkill Cuisine promised to be the last cookbook you would ever need.

Oddities, I thought.

I walked up to the counter to pay for my gas and waited. Now, every horror movie I have ever seen screams at me to get the hell out, but I needed gas. I rang the bell that sat on the counter and waited once more.

Behind me, I heard shuffling and saying that the hair on the back of my neck prickled would be an understatement. I turned, and there tottering down the aisle, was the shortest woman I had ever seen. She must have been four feet tall, and to be honest, that was a stretch—no pun intended.

“No one ever stops in these parts.” she said in a gruff voice, spitting what I presumed was chewing tobacco on the floor.

Classy.

“I was running low on gas and didn’t notice until I passed the pit stop a few miles back.”

“Mhmm. Where you headed?”

“The coast.”

“Running, are you?” She muttered more as a statement than a question. “How much do you need?”

“Sorry?”

She looked at me with deadpan eyes. The kind of look that pierced your soul. A knowing look.

“How much do you need?”

“About fifty.” I answered.

“Hungry? We got some possum pie, but seeing as you’ll be driving, I can cut you some squirrel meat real nice and thin.”

“You know, I would, but–stuffed,” I said, patting my stomach.

“Suit yourself.” she shrugged.

I paid for my gas, and just as I was about to push the door open to leave, she yelled something about a box.

“Sorry?”

“Your box. This here brown box.”

“Oh. That’s not mine.”

“Then why is your picture on the top?”

“What?” I walked back and picked up the box she was referring to.

There it was. The picture of us that I had given to the medicine man a few months back. Taped right to the top of the box as the strange lady said. Nothing else was on the box. I looked the lady in the face, and she turned and shuffled back down the aisles.

“Storms coming,” she muttered. “It might be best to leave now.” She said as she disappeared behind a curtain.

I looked back at the box and opened it. Inside sat a cell phone, and across the screen was the word–RUN!