The storm the night before caused the dirt to become mud; the small pebbles to become slick, and the grass to become the sort of wet where walking turns into slogging. Even after nearly 12 hours of dryness it was still evident that a summer thunderstorm had passed. The air was still humid. Humid enough for my shirt to stick to my back even though the car windows were down and the climate controlled seats were pumping cold air by way of fans.
The headlights of my car washed over the damp pavement; steam rising in the white yellow glow. The steam was giving the illusion that the blacktop was chain smoking cigarettes and constantly puffing. I felt my tongue lick my lips. It had been so long since I had a cigarette. I stopped when I received the cancer diagnosis. The mint green of the Newport box I once smoked subconsciously emanated the mint taste of menthol. The box reminded me of the 1990’s jazz design Sweetheart Cup Company put on everything they produced: paper plates, disposable cups, even napkins. The 1990s reminded me of a time I was happy. It sounds just like yesterday but feels so long ago.
The car, another remnant of the 90s. Not really a car, no. A car was just a colloquialism for what this was. The ‘97 4Runner was the first and only vehicle I have ever owned. I needed something rugged for the harsh winters and hilly roads and the 4Runner brought just that. I still remember walking into Davis Toyota knowing that I was going to drive off in the anthracite metallic, straight engine SUV. The 44 cubic feet of cargo room was more than I would ever need.
That 44 cubic feet of cargo room housed a few simple items: a 46 inch spade shovel, a blue nylon tarp, a 100000 lumen flashlight, and a pair of workman’s gloves I knew I would never wear. There was no point. What I planned on doing didn’t cause me worry over split hands and calluses. It also brought up another point question I had left unanswered. How was I going to bury myself? I thought I had everything planned out. I already picked the spot and drove there. A secluded little section of Route 151 was perfect. I researched shovels and went to True Value to buy the best one. I even saw the tarp and thought it would make a good blanket of sorts that I could lay on. I guess I’ll need to figure it out as I go. Or at least start the process today and come back tomorrow to finish it off once I created a plan.
I had my clothes picked out for weeks at this point. Earlier this evening I had changed into the outfit I knew would be my last. The Under Armour compression boxer briefs that had become my favorite. The black Under Armour no show ankle socks that became stylish when I was in college and have never faded from the spotlight. The Under Armour slides that followed the same fashion trends as the socks beneath them. Grey, cotton Nike shorts with pockets. No one should wear the type without. A plain white Nike dri-fit t-shirt. I have no qualms about mixing and matching brands. I wear what looks cool and feels comfortable. I do only buy brand name but that only matters when I’m checking out at the store, not when I’m going through my closet.
With the flashlight in my left hand, the tarp over the same shoulder, and the shovel in my right, I began moving towards the exact spot that I picked. It sat back off the road, enough no one could see me but they would see the 4Runner parked on the shoulder. Placing the flashlight on the ground and the tarp next to it, all that was left was to shovel.
After about 10 minutes, covered in a sticky sweat that wasn’t evaporating due to the humidity, I had barely made a dent in the oversaturated, heavy dirt. I didn’t think I had much more in me but I at least had to finish the dig tonight. Five more shovel fulls and I strike gold. Well, not real gold. Just something hard enough to send a shudder up the shovel handle and make shoveling any more fruitless. A bunch of bedrock wasn’t going to stop me as my internal monologue said to just dig harder. I soon began to realize no amount of harder digging was going to penetrate this immovable force.
As I sunk into the mud, my legs nearly disappearing up to the knee, the hair on the back of my neck stood straight out. Despite the humidity, a cold breeze swarmed me, turning my sweat into ice. The absence of sound hit me in the face like bad breath. It was like someone flipped a switch and noise canceling barriers formed while an invisible, soundless air conditioning unit was cranked to the max.
The glow from the flashlight illuminated what I was kneeling on. Not bedrock, but some sort of lid to a chest. While I was ready to welcome death, an insurmountable feeling of dread made me realize I wasn’t ready to face the coffin I was now kneeling upon. All I could think of was my incredible luck, or lack thereof, to choose someone else’s final resting place as my own. Despite everything telling me not to, I knew I had to open the coffin to see what I was dealing with. I stuck down hard with my shovel and the wood splintered cleanly, almost as if I was meant to look into the depths of the coffin.
The flashlight illuminated space. Just the same wispy steam that was rising from the pavement 100 yards behind me. The steam surrounded me. Not steam at all but dirt. Not dirt at all but dust. Not just dust. The dust of the decayed bone. The dust of the depths of something supernatural.
As the dust surrounded me I knew I had to flee. I no longer wanted to die. I wanted to get as far away as possible. The dust brought fear, brought pain, brought feelings I didn’t even know it was possible for one to feel. I was afraid of the dust and what the dust could do. Afraid of what the dust knew.
The dust started to form into a being. A being that I knew I shouldn’t be seeing. A being I knew that I should be afraid of. A being that I knew mocked the same God I religiously prayed to for as long as I could remember. The being took the shape of a man. Not quite a man, but clearly a masculine figure. The shape of what most people would describe as the devil: horns, hooves, and arrow tipped tail.
I recoiled in fear. I knew what was in front of me could hurt me. Would hurt me. I wanted nothing to do with what was about to happen. The mud held me in place like quicksand. The same quicksand I was so worried about as a child but never encountered as an adult. The humid atmosphere held me down like a weighted blanket. I knew fighting to escape would only result in me becoming tired so I did the only thing I knew how to do; I cried.
I couldn’t stop crying. Out of fear, out of shame, out of emotion.
The beast before me spoke. Not in a booming voice that one would remember from a movie adaptation of the devil. Rather a voice that was soothing, calming, that kept a listen drawn in. Over my sobbing I could barely hear the voice but I knew every word. It was as if the message was being telepathically delivered.
The voice offered me life. The voice offered to take my cancer away.
I accepted.
Now I have to lurk in the shadows. Now I have to bring everyone’s wildest fears to life.