Hey there folks, can I get some help? See, about four months ago, I began a job at a car dealership, specifically as a porter/valet. I basically check in customers and their vehicles, then drive and park their cars.
At first it was pretty straightforward, and to be entirely honest, super easy. I spend maybe four hours actually interacting with customers, the other six are downtime.
I try to stay to myself and mind my own business, but it’s pretty difficult. As hard as I tried, I have overheard many things I would be better off never knowing. I think the employees might be a cult.
Hear me out, please. I know it’s a wild accusation, and even wilder to handle, but… it’s strange here. The mechanics share a hive mind, sometimes freezing to stare with their hollow, soulless eyes, into the ether. The service advisors give off more smoke than a campfire, often sticking outside to blow off steam, and smoke. The manager seems to be in on all of this, though I haven’t personally seen much of what he’s capable of.
Back at my interview, I could not have guessed what I would be walking into, though I can’t be sure which is worse, this or my last job. Though my last job is a whole other story, if I survive long enough, I might just get to share it.
After my first week of getting my bearings, I felt comfortable and confident filling out the forms alone. I picked up speed, checking in customers, the job was pretty easy. Until my second week. I came in Tuesday, thirty minutes early, as always. I’m scheduled for 7:30am but arrive at 7am so I can help park cars before we open. I clocked in, parked cars, meanwhile cars lined up outside the doors.
7:30 came, and we hit the openers, guiding in the wave of ‘early birds’ as we call them. The car I had led in had “Vietnam Veteran” on the license plate, so I thanked the man for his service.
“Thank you for your service sir,” I said, gesturing to the rear license plate.
“No problem kid, step back” the 70 something year old ordered, reaching for the trunk. Unsure of what to do, I wordlessly took a few steps away.
The man pulled open his trunk, revealing some… unsavory contents, we’ll say. Inside that trunk were weapons, well used ones. Spent rounds, brown and red stained blades, and a sickening arsenal were splayed out in that torture chamber of a trunk.
Now, I am slightly autistic, so I don’t respond to situations like a normal person would. After a brief moment, I spoke up, “everything alright there, sir?”
“Just a minute,” he grunted, haphazardly tossing the trunk around, searching for something. A couple minutes go by, my eyes never peeling away from the potential serial killer in front of me, until the man pulled out a long, shining cane. “Ureka!” he spat, clicking his cane a few times on the ground.
I took that as a signal to carry on, carefully marking up the dings and dents on the worn out murder-mobile. The man left his trunk open, approaching one of the six service supervisors to check in for an appointment. I reached up, delicately closing the trunk to where it didn’t make a single sound. I wordlessly wrote the VIN (vehicle identification number), mileage, make/model, and handed the advisor the sheet.
I sped walked from the desk, back to the car, where I sat in the driver’s seat. My heart dropped. No key. Dammit. The power button wouldn’t kick on, meaning the man still had his keys. Not only that, but I would have to retrieve them from him.
“Sir, um.” I choked, masking it by clearing my throat, then asked “may I have your keys.” I gulped, fearing him snapping.
“You one of ‘em?” The man spoke with crushing pressure, not turning to look at me. “Haven’t seen ya before.”
One of who? How do I respond? “Sir, I need to park your car, we’ve got a line.” Oh god… I would have facepalmed, but I made sure to maintain my field of view on him.
After a moment of tense silence, the man tossed me his keys. At that, I backed up, fumbled for the handle, and drove the car out to the parking lot. I sat in that car, feeling sick from both that encounter, and the thick Black Ice air freshener masking what could only be the old man serial killer musk the car would otherwise have.
I took some time to recollect myself, sighing, opening and closing the car door, locking it behind me. I walked back to the building, relieved to see the man was gone, but dreading the backed up line of cars.
My coworkers and I processed the cars, until we could finally close the doors. I took the opportunity to ask about that man.
“Bryan?” I called, approaching the youngest of my coworkers. “I ran into this old guy, and he was pretty concerning,” I stated.
“What do you mean?”
“He had a torture chamber in his trunk, some of it looked bloody…” I shivered, recalling the sight.
“Weird. Probably Robert though,” Bryan shrugged nonchalantly. “He’s convinced there are monsters among us, and carries as many guns and blades on him as he can for when one of those ‘monsters’” he made air quotes, “as he puts it, shows up.” Bryan took a sip of his iced coffee.
“Do we call the police or something?!” I spat, alarmed at how casual Bryan was acting. Was this a common thing here?
“People like him come in here frequently. Fact of life,” Bryan frowned, opening the door for another car.
I need to find another job. I can’t be around these sorts of crazy people! I sat in a chair, scrolling through job offers, that very moment. Four months later, not a single application had a follow up. I haven’t found another job yet, but boy have I had some terrible encounters.
That same day, I was sent to the carwash. It had grown a thin green sheen along the otherwise pale cement floor. The carwash had an apparent bacterial colony, happily growing everywhere, the physical result of shit hitting the fan. And I was sent to clean it up.
I made my way to the cleaning department, who handle the car cleanups, as well as the general state of the dealership. Jordan, the full time employee who never seems to get a day off, offered me a scrub brush, a 50lb tub of solid soap, and some advice.
“Listen kid, if you start to feel lightheaded or see things that don’t make sense, close the garage, and calmly walk inside. Do not run. Walk inside,” Jordan emphasized. Sadly, I did not press any questions, and went back to the carwash, soap and scrub brush in hand.
I got to spreading the pale yellow, powdered soap across the ground. Though it was over 90 degrees, I was freezing almost immediately. As soon as I touched the brush to the soapy, slippery ground, my hair stood on end.
I picked the brush up, warmth returning to me almost as quickly as it had departed. Odd. No use holding off. I stupidly returned to work on the assignment. The slick, sickly green was slowly scrubbing out of the floor, congealing as it did. The bristles on the brush became slimy, covered in sludge and suds. No matter how many times I slammed the brush on the floor, the muck would quickly cover the brush seconds later.
The ground beneath my feet, oddly enough, always seemed to have a ring of clean cement around them. Everywhere I stepped, the grime would clear, refilling the areas I had previously cleared. Twenty minutes of nonstop scrubbing later, but somehow the sludge had thickened everywhere, other than where I stood. It had even begun climbing the walls… and my shoes… crap! I sped out of the carwash, back to Jordan. By the time I arrived, thirty seconds later, I was perfectly clean. Damn I’m really cold. I feel like I’m melting.
“Everything alright there kid? You look like hell.”
“Um yeah, I guess. Is there anything other than the brush I can use?” I asked absentmindedly, as I observed my slightly worn, yet not green shoes.
“You didn’t run, did you?” Jordan demanded, glaring at me from atop a truck. At that instant, a slithering hiss pierced through the wall between cleanup and the carwash. Jordan’s dark complexion fell pale. “Kid! Dammit!” he shouted, sprinting to the carwash.
I did not follow him. Instead, I went to find the manager. David was a pretty nice guy, but I still don’t know what’s going on with him. He seems legitimate, but he has to be up to something. Regardless, I set off to find David. Ten minutes later, David and I passed through parts, and out to the carwash. There, we found Jordan in a frenzy, frantically smashing the scrub brush into a glittering hose, flailing around.
David wasted no time, appearing at Jordan’s side within the blink of an eye, and began undoing the nozzle. A couple heartbeats watching this spectacle later, and the hose was no longer attached to the wall. Why isn’t the nozzle leaking?
“Jordan, you know what to do,” David instructed, wrapping the now immobile hose up into a neat bundle, handing it to Jordan.
With a nod, Jordan silently left the carwash. I caught the slightest glimpse of his neck. The hair all stood on end. I suppose being bald doesn’t do you any favors for the cold in here.
“Jamie, look,” David began, looking me dead in the eyes. I could see something unnatural in those eyes, though not dangerous. “I’m certain Jordan told you not to run from the carwash, right?”
All I could do was nod in affirmation.
“Assuming you ran, you must have been seeing things. Are you still able to clean the floor up in here?” I caught a flash of a thin lipped grin stretch across his face, before returning to normal.
“Is there anything to speed it up? I haven’t made any progress.” I replied bluntly.
“Let’s find another hose. Can you use a pressure washer?” David asked, following after Jordan.
“I can figure one out” I offered, not having used one before.
“Fair enough,” David sighed, walking into cleanup. David returned a couple minutes later with a yellow hose, wrapped in a neat bundle like the previous one. David sped by me, back into the freezing, where he swiftly attached the new hose to the faucet.
“Just push the lever, and it will increase pressure. Do not drop it. If you do, stomp on the head,” David instructed, handing the hose to me.
I got to work, pressure washing the filthy carwash. If it gets any colder in here, I might start seeing ice. I sprinkled more powdered soap, honestly, I saw some progress. I can do this! I celebrated internally, which quickly turned to dread.
The muck was growing back quicker than I was cleaning it. Is this a prank? I mulled over the possibilities in my head, barely registering the guide rail before I stepped on it, slipping, and dropping the hose.
I managed to catch myself, only for something to whip out and lash my lower calf. Looking down, I realized it didn’t just lash at me, but the hose had latched onto my leg. What are the odds- my thoughts were cut off as the hose began gripping tighter and tighter around my leg, digging deep into the muscle.
This is starting to hurt. I pushed myself upright, wincing as the hose pulsed with more and more strength. I took a step with my right foot, then my left. Then I tripped on something, landing right back on the grimy floor.
Pro move there, I sighed to myself in embarrassment. At least no one saw that. The throb in my leg forced me back to reality, as I looked at what I tripped over.
Part of the hose was held midair, frozen from falling by some phantom means. While some of the hose flailed, this segment had somehow managed to steady itself perfectly, just like the end around my left leg.
I crawled over to the nozzle, reaching for the water valve. I almost had my hand there, only to be dragged away from the wall. I didn’t have to look to know what was doing this. Is this thing alive?! I gulped, clawing first at the hose snaked around my leg, to no result, then at the floor in a desperate attempt to kill the water supply.
The hose stood firm, no matter how much I struggled. My lower leg began to fill with pin prickles as it fell numb, filling the rest of me with subdued panic and adrenaline unlike any I’d ever experienced.
I’ve been in a couple near death experiences, a tree fell on the car while my dad and I were driving once, and I went into hyperthermic shock that one time, so my reactions are a bit unusual. That said, I’d never dealt with a hose-snake-thing like this.
I reached for anything, frantically searching for something to save me. But there was nothing. I was splayed out on the ground, leg ensnared, on a bed of green mold. I shut my eyes, escape seeming hopeless.
The pin pricks in my leg lessened, perhaps a mercy? I held my eyelids closed, shivering as I heard sloshing all around me, coating my freezing form in a warm, yet slimy blanket. I shuddered, picturing the snake I had been swallowed by. I began hyperventilating, until I realized something.
I could breathe. How? I steeled myself, hazarding one eye open, only to see I was alone. No more hose. The grime was gone. The carwash looked brand new, unused even. My soap bucket and mop were nowhere to be found, the ground wasn’t even wet.
Feeling ill, I trudged my way out of the carwash, free to live another day, but confused beyond reason.
If anyone has some advice, please send it my way. I have three and a half months to catch you guys up on, but things are chaotic in new ways with each day. I don’t know how long I’ll last.