When I was twenty-five, I traveled across America in a modified van. For three months, I didn’t have to worry about rent. I got my food from the dumpsters behind pizza shops and supermarkets. When I needed gas, I played my guitar on a streetcorner until my cup was full of change. A nationwide gym membership took care of showers. And as for friendship, in almost every town I visited I found a bonfire surrounded by other travelers like me.
The only real problem was finding somewhere to sleep.
Depending on local laws, residential streets, city parks, and 24-hour parking lots might be off-limits. The places left over were usually exposed, isolated, and dangerous. Places that make you suspect that the driver of that big semi-truck idling beside you is a serial killer. Places that magnify rustling in the bushes or make you wonder if you heard laughter from just outside your van. At some point, almost every conversation around the bonfire turned to the search for safe spots to park.
I was at a field party, watching the sunset and wondering miserably if I was going to have to drive overnight yet again when a teenage crust-punk nudged my elbow.
“There’s this map,” they said, running their fingers through their dreadlocks. “it’s got some sweet spots. Marked in red.” They shoved the biggest folding map I’d ever seen into my hands. It was the color of charcoal, everything black or gray except for the crimson dots. “I tried a couple of’em. Quiet. No cops. It’s just…” they hesitated. “Well, I guess you’ll find out.” They held up a black-nailed hand. “So, uh. Later.”
Sirens and flashing blue lights appeared at the edge of the tall grass: cops coming to break up the party. Everyone split…and I peeled out of the gravel lot in the direction of the first red marker.
The “sweet spot” turned out to be a parking lot behind a small warehouse. A single lamp, like a nightlight, glowed over its padlocked door. It wasn’t abandoned–but it didn’t seem like anyone was going to come scare me off anytime soon, either. The warehouse was the only building for miles in any direction. I had no idea what it could be for, but did it really matter? The spot was perfect. I set up the van around back and drifted off to the sound of wind in the aspen trees.
When I climbed out to take a leak, the digital clock read 02:34. Even the wind was quiet. I’d barely finished watering the dandelions when something moved in the warehouse behind me. As I crept back to the van, the noise got clearer: whatever was in there was jiggling and slopping around like coagulated soup–and it was huge. It threw itself against the warehouse door hard enough to make the padlock shake: once, twice, three times. Then it let out a low, sad moan and fell silent. Of all the weird, alien burbling sounds I’d just heard, that moan was the worst…because it sounded so human.
I woke up to bluebirds and sunshine. The odd warehouse was still locked up tight, and I wondered if I’d just dreamt the whole thing. Either way, a few freaky noises were nothing compared to the dangers I was used to:
Drug addicts. Sadistic cops. Curious bears.
I spent the day hiking up an icy creek with strangers I met at a trailhead, and when the weather turned nasty, I found a cozy public library. On my way out, I spotted an Italian restaurant full of couples and asked the owner if he’d let me play a couple 90’s tunes on my guitar for the candlelight-dining crowd: when he said yes, I made enough cash to eat there myself and pay for gas all the way to Texas.
After dinner, I set out for the nearest dot on my strange map. It turned out to be a closed-down fishing supply shop along a deserted country road. “Puck’s Live Bait!” the sign read, but it didn’t look like the gravel lot had seen any life for a long time.
The store’s only distinguishing feature was a plastic statue of a smiling baby holding up a fish. It was over eight feet tall, but chipped and fading paint made it look like an abandoned doll.
There was something about those unblinking plastic eyes that I didn’t like, but I’d just eaten my first real meal in weeks and washed it down with wine: I could put up with some creepiness for a little bit of shuteye. I parked so that the van was hidden from the road, reclined the driver’s seat, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
03:20, read my digital clock. I wondered groggily why my eyes were open, then I heard it again: tapping on the van window. I almost didn’t want to look: what if I turned and saw a pair of giant plastic eyes?
I mustered the courage to put my seat up and saw an old man in a rubber fishing hat and rain-slicker. A light drizzle was falling outside. The sound got more insistent. It was almost metallic, and I wondered what the old man was tapping with. I rolled my window down an inch.
“H-hello?” I mumbled.
“Howdy neighbor!” The man’s eyes were cheerful, but his mouth barely moved, like it was somehow full It was the strangest expression I’d ever seen. “I’m here for bait.” stared, dumbfounded. “This is the bait store,” the man’s voice rose like a tea kettle until he was practically screaming, “and I WANT MY BAIT!”
I noticed with horror that the man’s fingers had come through the top of the window. In his right hand, he held the fishing knife he’d been tapping with.
I reversed as hard as I could. The man didn’t fall; he just watched me speed out of the gravel lot, and I’d swear the eyes of the giant plastic baby did too.
I didn’t stop until I saw the lights of a 24-hour gas station. My tank was low anyway, so I pulled in to fill up and get myself under control. My knuckles were white around the wheel and I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. It was such a relief to see those familiar sights I’d always taken for granted: rows of unhealthy snacks, week-old hot dogs turning on the roller grill, coffee in styrofoam cups. An attendant in a red visor-and-vest uniform whistled while he wiped down the slushie machine.
I grabbed some comfort food to soothe my heaving stomach and walked up the cash register.
“Howdy neighbor!” the attendant greeted me. It was the old man from the bait shop. Those same painfully-happy eyes, that mouth swollen half-shut like it was holding in a secret.
“I just saw you.” I said flatly. I couldn’t believe it. “How are you here?”
“You’re not on your roads anymore, neighbor. You’re on our roads now.” The old man grinned. His teeth were sparkling white, almost horse-sized–so large that they didn’t fit in his mouth.
I sprinted to the van and grabbed my phone, ready to call the police, the fire department, anybody. No service. No matter how far I zoomed out on my maps app, all I saw was green.
Tap-tap-tap.
The old man held the knife to my window. He ground his enormous teeth together excitedly. A fat glob of drool dribbled down his chin.
Like before, I tried to reverse, but the van lurched strangely…the tires. He’d slashed the tires.
TAP-TAP-TAP.
If he hit the window any harder it might shatter.
“GO AWAY!” I shrieked.
Just like that, the old man disappeared. The lights of the gas station immediately went out. I sat in the darkness, listening to my own ragged breaths–
Until a knife stabbed straight down through the metal roof.
“What’s wrong, neighbor?” the old man laughed. “Don’t you want a slushie?!” His next jab missed my ear by an inch. I screamed.
The wheels would get destroyed if I drove, but better than me. I swerved, but I wasn’t going fast enough to fling away the attacker hacking away at my roof. I pulled out onto the empty road, trying to build up speed–
and I slammed on the brakes.
With a shriek, a red-uniformed shape flew through my high beams. I accelerated forward, but I didn’t hear any thump.
I clenched my teeth against the sound of metal scraping on asphalt. My rims weren’t going to last much longer–I had to get off the road. But how?
The charcoal-colored map that had gotten me into this was still in the passenger’s seat.
I stopped in the middle of the deserted road to get my bearings. As I studied the map, I realized that some of the strange gray lines might indicate a different kind of road–like the kind that I was currently on. If I was right, there should be a turnoff to a place called ‘Yellow Veil’ before too long. From there, I could connect to one of the red points and finally escape from…wherever this was.
My van had other plans. At least the exit for Yellow Veil was in sight when it finally broke down. With no other options, I stuffed only what was necessary into my backpack and started off on foot. My headlamp was the only light beneath the starless sky: a beacon for anything hunting out there in the dark. Nothing moved, not even the wind, but somehow the stillness made it worse. According to the map I’d turn right after the exit and, about two miles down the road, I’d find a “red point.” Exactly what it would be–whether safe or deadly–there was no way to know.
I walked up the exit ramp like it was a sidewalk–it’s not like there were any other cars on the road. I paused below the sign for “YELLOW VEIL - 6.” The color and text were wrong somehow, like whoever had made it knew what a roadsign was but had never actually seen one. I reached out to touch it, but its surface burbled like acid toward my hand. I pulled away and kept walking.
The same dead trees, stretching on forever in every direction. The same silence. I saw a pool of light in the abyss, getting closer with every step. Soon I was close enough to see what it was: a rest area. A little brown-brick structure with restrooms, vending machines, trash cans and benches. A beige RV was parked in front. Was this my “red point?”
I’d just started up the ramp when I heard scuffling behind me. A pack of skinless, dog-like things were crossing the road behind me. A few of them froze in the beam of my headlamp, snarling. They clawed the pavement, bent their raw bodies for attack–the light. They were coming for the light. I hated giving up my vision, but I had no choice. I switched off my headlamp.
The darkness filled with howls, angry confused yips, and the clatter of paws on pavement. I fixed my eyes on the rest area and tried not to think about unseen teeth sinking into my legs. By the time I was halfway up the ramp, I could no longer hear them.
I checked out the RV first. Its door was off its hinges, and there was no light inside. I switched my headlamp back on and climbed the stairs.
It was like a time capsule from the 1980’s had exploded inside. Star Wars bedsheets on a overturned mattress. Shattered wood paneling. A shredded Stretch Armstrong–
and a dried out, half-eaten corpse hanging from the ceiling by its Smiley-Face tie.
I backed slowly out of the RV, wondering if I’d see those skinless hounds waiting patiently for their meal–but the parking lot was deserted.
The lights were on in the rest area, but the map-frames and shelves were empty. I’d just begun to explore the men’s restroom when a door creaked shut somewhere outside.
“Da-da, dadada…” I wasn’t alone. I thought of the half-eaten corpse in the RV outside and scurried into a bathroom stall. Heavy footsteps. A squeaky wheel. A wet, slopping sound. I pulled my knees up to my chest.
“Da-da, dadadada…” BOOM. A stall door flew open. More wet slopping sounds. BOOM. Through the gap beneath the stall door, I saw the bottom half of a janitorial uniform. There was a push on the door, then a slam. “Huh. Anybody in there?” I held my breath–and the thing outside started pulling the door off of its hinges! I shut my eyes tight–
“You aight, man? Don’t tell me you another druggie.”
I was face-to-face with one very confused South Carolina custodian.
I wanted to hug the guy, but I figured I’d already freaked him out enough. I rushed outside, saw the brochures, the maps, the tourists and butterflies and morning sunshine–
I felt myself slammed against a wall. Two officers cuffed me, and I felt the charcoal-colored map pulled from my grasp. The officers spun me around.
“Don’t touch his skin ‘til he’s been debriefed,” a bald white guy in a suit warned. Once we were away from curious onlookers, he held up the map. “I want you to tell me what you think this is.”
“It, uh, shows places you can spend the night…places where people don’t go.”
“‘Places where people don’t go.’” the bald man sneered. “You got that part right, son. Too right.” He flipped open a notepad. “Now I’m gonna ask you a couple things, and you best answer honestly. We’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Have you looked in a mirror in the past 48 hours?”
“Have you exchanged fluids with any entity within the past 48 hours?”
“Can you tell me who the President is? Do you remember your mother’s face?”
I’d been interrogated by police before, but never like this. The weird questions seem to go on forever. Finally the man stepped away and made a phone call. When he finished, the officers removed the cuffs.
“I’d warn you not to come back to this place after midnight,” the bald man sighed, “but from the look on your face I think you’ve learned your lesson already.” He and the two officers walked down the grassy hill to an unmarked white SUV, so plain and soccer-mommish it was almost funny.
I never saw them again–
but I’ve slept in my own bed ever since.