Going out for a late night drive, I find myself at a red light. The weather was nice and I didn’t have anywhere to be, so a nice little cruise to clear my head seemed like the right thing to do. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, and a night time cruise sounded mentally satisfying.
After all, I’ve been doing so good. No reason not to.
Ahead the traffic lantern sways in the breeze, the red glow beaming through its weathered lens. There’s no one else at the intersection, and the empty streets start to make me feel antsy. My palms start to sweat, and I readjust my grip on the wheel as I look around.
To my left, there’s a gas station. An old mom and pop looking place, with a single duo of pumps standing under a flickering light. When I look through the window, there doesn’t seem to be anyone working behind the counter. Maybe they’re taking out the trash?
To my right, there seems to be a bar that’s closed up for the night. The parking lot is empty, and their neon sign is shut off. I try to make out the name, but it’s too dark. The sixth something. Maybe I’d have to come back some other time in the daylight and check it out.
The light ahead remains red. No matter, I’m not in a hurry.
I crack my knuckles nervously, and turn on the radio. Some soothing music will do the trick. I tune the dial to find a station, watching the needle move on the dash as I navigate the static. The walls are meat. The needle wobbles back and forth, but nothing can really come through. I must be too far from the local stations. Something about the aggravated static makes me uneasy, and I feel myself start to sweat.
I got to look at the red light again, and get distracted. Across the street there’s a fox walking in the grass, one that’s pulling a tiny leash behind it. It stops and looks at me momentarily, tilting its head in interest. Something about it makes me uncomfortable, and I feel the condensation of sweat on my brow.
I rub my eyes, feeling the glimmer of a migraine behind it. It passes, and when I look down, I see a relief to the unending static on the radio.
Sitting in the cup holder is a cassette tape. It seems too good to be true.
I grab the tape and look at it. It’s an old tape, one that looks like it’s seen much use. Celine Dion’s “Falling Into You” album. Perfect.
I look around the intersection, and see it’s still empty. I have time to put it in. At last, some kind of reassurance for this damn red light. I check both ways again, and lean over to put the tape in. The rectangular plastic of the cassette is satisfying. The crisp drag of it entering the deck is satisfying.
I’m satisfied.
As the tape plays over the speakers, I feel myself relax. I’ve been doing so good. It’s better now. I’m better now.
I sink into my seat as the piano intro starts, and I feel like I can breathe again. The music calms the buzzing in my head, and my nerves start to calm. Now if only the light would change, and I could get on with my peaceful drive.
Across the street, the Fox continues to look at me. I pay it no mind, and place my hands back on the steering wheel. It’s nice out tonight. Through the haze of the windshield, I look up at the red light. I don’t know why it refuses to change, but I’m patient. It’ll get there. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I glance at all lanes of the intersection, thinking maybe a car is coming and I didn’t see it. That’s why it’s taking so long.
The streets are empty.
The streets are empty.
The streets are empty.
I look nervously at the gas station to my left, expecting it to be empty, and it’s not. Something is standing behind the register. It looks like a man in a metal suit– like knight’s armor, horribly modified with a tail made of wires and computer parts—
“No.” I whisper to myself, looking away. I’ve been doing so good, there’s no way it’s gotten away from me. It’s not really there, I know it’s not, so I look to the right and make sure—
The parking lot to the closed bar is no longer empty, something stands tall amongst the rows of painted lines. A large horse in a suit, human hands stapled where the front hooves should be—
“No.” I say again, feeling a rush of bile in my throat. I swallow and keep it down, along with the murmur of the migraine that begs to return.
I’ve been doing good, really. It’s fine, everything’s fine. It’s been fine for a while. Really.
The familiar cold sweat returns, hands clammy on the wheel. The song rises over the speakers of the playing tape, and I plead for it to comfort me as I look desperately at the red light.
Why won’t it change?
Why won’t it just change?
I don’t want to do this, I can’t do this.
Above, the red light mocks me. Across the street, the fox mocks me. It looks at me in judgment, its face twisting as it looks like it’s trying to gag. Something behind it stirs in the trees, and I can faintly make out the outline of a large rack of antlers, and a writhing mass of slick tentacles—
“Please! Please!” I beat my hands on the steering wheel, feeling myself crumble under the weight of it all.
Above, the light is red. Behind me, I see headlights for another car. I watch them in the rearview mirror, and I feel the welling of tears in my eyes. The hair on my neck stands straight. My armpits are moist, a stream of sweat drizzles down my temple. I want to feel for my phone, but I don’t think I have it. I don’t think I’ve had it for a while.
Behind me the car slows for the red light, and pulls in the lane next to me. The car stops, the groan of another engine idling threatening my music. I don’t want to look at them, so I don’t. I don’t care who it is. I try to focus on the music but it’s hard to hear it.
I decide I’m going to run the red light. I mash the pedal to the floor but the car doesn’t move. I try again, and again, each time harder than the last. I look at the fuel gauge… and see I have no gas. Every warning light on the dash is on now, a collection of symbols telling me I’m not going anywhere soon.
Deep breaths. You can do this, deep breaths. Breathe. You’ve being doing good, you been—
Across the street, the fox is vomiting what looks like a man. Tearing fur makes way for a head and naked body, a slimy face with eyes that open in time to look at me.
“Please.” I say again, looking away from the oral birth to the car next to me. The window rolls down, revealing two men in suits and close-cropped hair. They watch me wordlessly, eyes shielded behind sunglasses and a film of cigarette smoke that billows out. They say nothing, only watch, as the sound of my music fades away to nothing.
No—nononononononono—
I try to turn the volume down but the radio explodes with noise, the sounds of a hundred screams filling my ears so loud it hurts. I scream against the noise, but it doesn’t stop. I hit the “stop” button, try to eject the tape–anything. The screams become too much, and I find myself tearing off my seatbelt and fleeing the car.
Outside of the car, it is silent again. A fog is rolling in, one that wafts over the intersection until it’s consumed by it.
I look to the gas station for help, only to see the inside of it painted red. Inside the station a man in a hardhat is getting mutilated, watching me with a smile as a metal-alligator-human tears through his guts with gloves made of knives. The alloy abomination snarls and stomps the man on the ground, crushing both his skull and the hardhat with a large steel boot. Outside, a garbage truck rumbles to life at the gas-pump.
Please.
Over the crisp night air, I hear the neigh of the horse man. He’s closer now, standing on the side of the road. He downs what looks like a glass of whiskey, before squeezing it in his hand so hard it shatters. His unnatural hand runs the thumb over its fingers, shards of glass serrating the pale digits.
Across the street, the fox completes its purge. The naked man rises from the fetal position in the grass, standing tall and awkwardly with a face and eyes that look just like mine. Behind him the deer monstrosity emerges from the woods, a portrait of animal gore of all kinds shifting under a hundred reaching feelers. I turn to get away, to get back into the car, but when I turn around—
My car is gone. The men in sunglasses watch without emotion, their eyes bleeding from behind the sunglasses. After staring at me for a moment, they turn their heads in unison to face the intersection. The trunk of their car pops, and a clown climbs out with a wooden bat in his hands. He points past me with the club, in the same direction the men in sunglasses are looking.
“Please, help me—”
My voice chokes when I follow their gaze, and I want to cover my eyes as the fog retreats in fast-forward.
In the intersection, there is no redlight. The pavement has crumbled in on itself, forming a crater where the street used to be. I don’t want to see it but I have too– I can’t look away. My feet move on their own, and I ignore the abominations as I focus on the gaping hole. It calls to me, and I can’t seem to resist its voice.
I look down in the pit, wishing I could stop even as I lower myself to climb in. There’s something down there, and I need to see it. I make my descent, hands and shoes navigating the jagged concrete and twisted rebar as I blink away tears. As I near the bottom, the things from above gather around, each silently observing as I go deeper and deeper. I don’t want to go, but I don’t know how to stop. I scream at them for help and they ignore me. I curse at them angrily, shouting and pleading until I feel the purchase of flat ground beneath my feet. My breath shudders as I turn, but my body continues on autopilot to the center.
Laying on the ground, is a Hawaiian shirt. The fabric is frayed and dirty, the floral pattern torn in multiple places. I reach down to grab it but it ignites into a ball of fire, stitches withering and turning black against the flame. Through the smoke of the smoldering shirt, a door materializes in the wall of rock. I don’t understand. I don’t want to.
I want to cry but the tears won’t come. I look above for guidance and see the rim of the pit is outlined with a silent audience.
The naked man that looks like me. The standing horse in a suit, with stapled on hands. The men in sunglasses, bleeding from their eyes. The horror with the head of a deer. The metal alligator monster.
In unison, they point to the door. I don’t want to go, but I know I must. I need to see what they want to show me. Reluctantly, I head to the door. I hear the screams trying to get out, a chorus of pain and death and fear, all welcoming and warning. I feel an angry heat the closer I get, and the knob is hot to the touch. When I open the door, it feels like my skull is breaking in two. I step in and the door slams behind me, a momentary darkness transitioning to a single flickering light.
Behind the door, the walls are meat. Gestating, aggravated flesh. They squirm and wiggle, arms reaching and eyes staring as I break before them. I shiver and hug myself as it all comes back to me, like a bomb detonating in the calm ocean that was my brain. I want to say I’ve been doing good, but I know it’s a lie.
I recognize the laundromat, even in its appalling state. Washing machines thrash on each side, the clanging of metal boxes squelching in the gore that has replaced the tiled floor. In the center of the room stands an old television on a cart, overgrown by tendons and sprouting teeth.
Around me, everything screams. I look behind the glass of every agitating machine, and all I see is a mass of pounding limbs fighting to get out. Fingers and toes kicking and screaming, digits breaking against the glass. I want to be far away from here, back in the car on the open road.
Behind me the door is gone, replaced by a stretch of skin and veins. The light goes out, and all I can hear is the convulsing of the meat, and the banging of the broken machines. In the darkness the walls come for me, and I can only cower and sob as they draw near.
In the dark, the television blinks to life. Even as I watch the walls close in and the writhing corridor narrows around me. The picture is old and grainy but I recognize the scene, like it’s a movie I saw long ago. A man in a straight-jacket, kicking against men in white coats. The man thrashes inconsolably, even as they stick a needle in his arm. His eyes are bloodshot and dart around, and his hair is tossed and missing in places. But there’s an undeniable, sickening familiarity to him.
He shouts the same things over and over, and it all comes back to me as I make out the words. I mouth the words myself, the syllables feeling natural even as I sob.
I seem to have misplaced my pills.
Somebody help me.
Help me.
Please.