u/BobHammers

If you have car trouble in the town of Clearview, you go to Big Harry’s Automotive. Besides Big Harry’s being the only repair shop in town, Big Harry himself could fix anything. In fact, I’d never heard of someone bringing their car in for repairs and leaving without the problem resolved.

Despite his immense skill, Big Harry had some unusual policies.

For one thing, he never answered the phone. Nor did he consult with customers before servicing their vehicles. In fact, I’m not sure anyone had ever actually seen him leave the garage.

But everyone in Clearview knew the process.

You’d drop your car off. Then you’d leave.

Eventually, your phone would ring.

“Car’s done. Two hundred dollars.”

Click.

That was it. Every time.

And it was always two hundred dollars, no matter the job. A transmission replacement? Two hundred. An oil change? Two hundred. Replacing a missing lug nut? Two hundred.

Some people thought the arrangement sounded unfair as they slipped their checks through the little slot in the garage door.

But the other strange thing about Big Harry was that he never cashed any of them.

If you pressed your eye to the slot and looked inside, you could see the checks piled nearly three feet high on the dirty tile floor.

You might read this and think: What a lucky town. A mechanic who works for free.

But there’s always a price.

And I had to pay it the day I walked into Big Harry’s garage.

Back then I drove a blue Ford Taurus that was always breaking down. Unfortunately, this particular breakdown happened at the worst possible time. It was Friday morning, and the next day I had to drive a couple of hours away for a wedding I was in.

I considered gambling on the car and making the trip anyway, but the noise coming from under the hood sounded like the kind of problem you can’t responsibly ignore.

So around mid-morning, I parked the Taurus in Big Harry’s lot and hoped he’d get to it before the end of the day.

Luckily, my workplace was within walking distance.

I never got the call during my shift, but around six o’clock I headed back over to the garage. There wasn’t much else I could do.

When I arrived, I was relieved to see my car no longer sitting in the parking lot. Maybe he was working on it now. But for all I knew, he could’ve decided to leave it half-finished until morning.

Either way, I was stuck. Home was too far to walk, and I desperately needed him to understand how urgent this was.

Eventually, my determination outweighed my hesitation.

I decided I was going to walk inside and speak to Big Harry myself.

I pulled open the glass door and stepped inside. The waiting area was dim; a thick layer of dust matted every surface. An open door led to the back, where I could hear the sound of ratchets and the song “Plush” by Stone Temple Pilots.

“Excuse me…” I shouted hesitantly into the garage.

No answer.

Slowly, I crept closer, peeking my head through the doorway.

It looked like you’d expect an automotive repair shop to look. In fact, it looked far cleaner and more organized than the lobby. It almost put me at ease… until I saw Big Harry.

“Big” was not in any way an accurate description.

Big Harry was larger than I previously believed any human could be.

He sat next to my blue Ford Taurus, and beyond being just as large as the car itself, parts of him billowed over the hood, parts that human beings just don’t have. I stood frozen in the doorway.

Just as my mind was recovering, Big Harry looked up. His eyes, dead and emotionless, fixed on me.

He stared for a moment. Then, in that voice I’d only ever heard say, “Car’s done. Two hundred dollars,” I heard something different.

“Half inch. Deep socket.”

The words registered in my mind, but I found myself dissociated from their meaning and context. There were no real thoughts, no deliberation, but my body responded.

I walked into the garage, past Big Harry, and over to the large red toolbox along the far wall.

As if I had done it a million times, my hand moved across the massive array of sockets, picked one up, and returned to Big Harry.

He didn’t take the socket.

He took my entire arm.

As I looked on in shock, I saw I was no longer holding the socket.

My hand was the socket.

He gripped my forearm, yanked me toward the wheel well, and connected the socket to a bolt. Somehow, I felt the coldness of the bolt as I made contact. Even so, the strongest sensation was the smell: grease and pungent body odor.

As Big Harry cranked on my arm, a ratcheting sound emanated from where my wrist would be.

It’s hard to explain exactly how I felt. It was as if there were two of me. One part was stoic, automatic, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. The other, however…the one that couldn’t seem to find its voice, was terrified. Terrified not only to be so close to such an unnatural creature, but to understand firsthand what sort of power he had over me.

When he was finished, he let go of my arm, and I stood there, unable to move. I could feel my body trembling, my breath halting, but no matter what I told myself to do, it just wasn’t happening.

Until I heard him speak again.

“Twenty millimeter.”

That’s when my body moved again, back toward the toolbox.

I looked down at my one hand, which had become something like a wrench with a half inch socket attached, and watched as my other, still-normal hand reached for the twenty-millimeter socket.

I finally found my voice.

“No… don’t,” I whispered.

But it didn’t matter. My hand grasped the socket.

And right before my eyes, my hand was no more.

My legs carried me back to Big Harry. He repeated the same process, grabbing my forearm and extracting a bolt from beneath my car with it.

I managed to ask, “Why are you doing this?”

I can’t be sure he replied, but if he did, it was nothing more than a grunt and a shrug.

Then he spoke again.

“One and three-quarters deep well. Impact.”

I watched him move toward a different part of the toolbox.

And despite my fear, I wondered what would happen next, now that both my hands were no longer available.

The realization sent me into a full panic as I felt my mouth opening and my head slowly turning toward the row of black sockets.

I struggled with all my might to keep my body from obeying Big Harry’s commands.

There was nothing I could do.

I let out a garbled scream as the socket entered my mouth.

I was sure my head had transformed into something unnatural, but I could still see.

I walked back to Big Harry, who took hold of the back of my head and forced my mouth onto a large bolt. I felt him press something against the back of my head, followed by a loud clinking noise, and then we both began to turn.

He pulled my head away.

The bolt was still in my mouth.

I found myself placing a new part somewhere in the wheel well.

Then he used the same sockets in reverse order, putting the big one back on and then the two smaller ones.

Finally, the wheel returned to its place, and he pressed a button hanging from a nearby cable. The car lowered a few inches.

I’m not sure exactly how, but Big Harry moved away from the car, backing up a few feet and looking it over with another grunting noise.

Slowly, he turned his head toward me, his eyes still lacking any semblance of humanity, and grunted:

“Car’s done. Thanks for the help.”

Suddenly, I had control of my body again.

I looked in my rearview mirror and found my face was exactly as it had been before.

But ever since that night, whenever I grip anything too tightly, I swear I can feel something inside my wrist clicking.

A few weeks ago, a patient came into my practice exhibiting strange behavior, even for someone with a brain tumor.

He was a young man, and according to his parents, completely normal before the onset of symptoms. Over the course of a month or two, however, they said he had undergone drastic personality changes. His food preferences shifted, the way he spoke changed, and even the way he dressed became unfamiliar.

It was difficult for me to measure the extent of these changes. I hadn’t known him before all this, and while he was clearly different, at least by his parents’ account, he seemed composed and in his right mind. Still, they described episodes of extreme anger that I was fortunate not to witness in those early visits.

I ordered a series of scans and, unsurprisingly, discovered a meningioma. It appeared to be pressing against the frontal lobe. Personality shifts are not unusual with this type of tumor, but I had never seen anything so comprehensive. Typically, the changes are limited to irritability or depressive symptoms.

Even so, I was confident that removing the tumor would resolve the issue.

At first, the young man was friendly during our appointments. But once the tumor was identified and we began planning its removal, his attitude toward me soured.

“You’re making a big mistake,” he said one day during a pre-op consultation. “You’d better leave me alone.”

I knew he wasn’t fully himself, but I tried to reason with him.

“If I leave you alone,” I said, “this tumor will continue to grow and eventually take over your body.”

“That’s what I want,” he shouted.

He gripped the arms of his chair, his face reddening with anger. But he never stood, never made any move toward violence. Soon enough, the consultation ended.

His instability worsened on the day of the procedure. He fought the staff to the point that we were forced to sedate him before administering general anesthesia.

The procedure itself was routine, at least at first.

It wasn’t until I reached the tumor that something felt off.

As I began excising it, I had the distinct sensation that something was pressing back against my instruments. From my angle, I couldn’t see the area directly, but through the imaging feed, it almost looked as though the mass was moving.

I noticed it once or twice. Not enough to cause real alarm.

Otherwise, the surgery was unremarkable.

I spoke with my OR team, mentioned I’d be going to a baseball game later that night. That kind of small talk is normal during procedures. I know it unsettles people to imagine surgeons chatting while someone’s skull is open, but that’s how it is.

Once the tumor was removed, we closed him up and moved him to recovery.

I was particularly interested in how the procedure would affect him, so as soon as I heard he was conscious, I went to see him.

He was still groggy from the anesthesia, but it was immediately clear I was speaking to a different person. His voice had changed. His mannerisms were different. Most notably, he was no longer threatening me.

I considered it a success.

I sent the tumor for biopsy, finished my shift, and went to the baseball game.

The next day, the threats began.

When I arrived at work, I found the words you’re dead scratched into my office door.

I contacted hospital administration, who in turn contacted the police. My entire morning was consumed with questions and paperwork. I tried to remain calm, but the truth is, I was shaken. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to harm me.

At first, I convinced myself it was a prank.

That lasted until I checked my email.

There was a message from an unknown sender. The body contained the same words that had been carved into my door, repeated hundreds of times.

you’re dead

More calls followed. More reports. And with them, the creeping realization that someone, somewhere, truly wanted me dead.

I thought about leaving work then and there, but concluded that I was in just as much danger no matter where I went. At least at work there were security guards—and half the hospital knew about what was going on.

The only distraction came after lunch, when Hannah, our resident pathologist knocked on my door with information from the tumor from the day before. I had always liked Hannah, and while her coming up for a face-to-face chat was abnormal. I read it as indication that the tumor contained something interesting.

She asked to come in—friendly and smiling as she entered my office and laid a folder on my desk.

"The specimen you sent down yesterday was unlike anything I've ever seen before," she said.

I instantly thought of those fleeting moments in the O.R. where I felt like something was pushing back against my instruments. But I didn't mention any of that.

"How so?"

"I've been unable to identify it. It just doesn't fit any known tissue classifications…" She hesitated. "There's something else."

I felt my stomach tighten.

"Can you show me your notes from the surgery?" She asked.

At the moment, I didn't think to wonder why she needed my notes when I was sitting right in front of her. But in my shock, I turned to my computer and began searching for the documents.

We sat in silence, the only sound that of the keys clicking on my keyboard.

I had nearly found the document when Hannah broke the silence.

"How was the baseball game?"

"It was…" I started. Then froze. I had never told her about—

I looked up. Everything about Hannah was different.

She glared down at me, her face contorted with rage.

That's when I noticed the scalpel in her hand.

"You should have left me alone!" she shouted, lunging over my desk, swinging the scalpel wildly.

The thing about sharp instruments like a scalpel (and high adrenaline moments) is that you hardly feel the cut, however deep it might be. I struggled with Hannah, trying desperately to keep the blade away from me. But as both of our clothes began showing red stains, I knew I was failing. Thanks to my fearful shouts, security entered the room and, though it took multiple men to subdue her, finally ended the attack.

I was rushed off to get my wounds stitched up. But even as I worried about my own wounds, a frightening thought began to clarify in my mind.

But it was impossible.

As soon as I could free myself from the ER, I walked down to the pathology wing. After a little searching, I found the specimen container for the mass I had removed the day before.

It was empty.