The Good Samaritan
The rain came down in sheets, as a solid wall of water that turned the world into a gray smear. My jacket, a cheap dark thing I'd picked up at a thrift store two states back, had given up the ghost an hour ago. Every thread was saturated, heavy, clinging to my skin like a second, colder flesh. The water had long since wicked down past my waist, soaking my jeans until the denim felt cold and dead wrapped around my legs. My boots, once reliable, now squished with every miserable step on the crumbling asphalt shoulder of Route 9.
Ahead, a single streetlight sputtered, fighting a losing battle against the deluge. It cast a weak, jaundiced cone of light onto the road. I stood directly beneath it, watching my breath plume and vanish in the frigid air. Cars had been scarce, their headlights blurring past like startled ghosts, their wake kicking up rooster tails of filthy water that splattered my shins. Each one that didn't stop tightened the knot of cold dread in my stomach.
My options had dwindled to a grim list: keep walking until my body gave out, or try to find a dry spot off the road and pray hypothermia was slow. Neither option felt like a winner.
Then I saw it. Headlights, cutting clean through the downpour. A silver crossover revealed itself. It was the kind of vehicle you see in a hundred commercials, perfect for soccer practice and trips to the home improvement store.
My heart gave a little thump of something that wasn't just the cold. Hope. However desperate and pathetic it may have been.
I stuck out my thumb clumsily. The silver crossover slowed, its tires screeching on the wet pavement as it eased onto the muddy shoulder just ahead of me. I hurried forward, my squishing boots slipping in the gravel. Water streamed off my hair and down my face. The passenger window slid down with a soft, electric whir, releasing a wave of blessedly warm air that smelled of clean upholstery and something else I couldn't pinpoint.
"Looks like you're having a rough night, friend," a warm, friendly voice said.
I leaned down, blinking water from my eyes. The driver was the picture of safety. Late thirties, maybe. A neatly trimmed dark beard framed a kind face. He wore a pale blue polo shirt, clean and unwrinkled. On the steering wheel, I saw a thick gold wedding band that caught the car's interior light.
He chuckled. "Nasty one out there. Where you headed?"
"Anywhere but here," I said, my own voice sounding rough and unused. "Just need to get out of this rain."
"Well, hop on in. I can take you as far as the next town. Junction's got a 24-hour diner, you can dry off there."
I didn't hesitate. I pulled the heavy door open and slid into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind me. The instant click of the latch was a profound relief. The heater was blasting, a wash of heat that immediately began seeping into my frozen limbs. I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes for a second, letting the warmth wash over me.
"Thanks," I breathed. "Really. Thank you."
"No problem at all," he said, pulling smoothly back onto the highway. The wipers beat a frantic, hypnotic rhythm against the glass. "Name's Greg, by the way."
"Otis."
"Good to meet you, Otis. Glad I could help out."
I opened my eyes, taking in the interior of the car. It was spotless, like it had just rolled off the lot. Not a speck of dust on the dashboard, not a stray wrapper on the floor mats. A green, pine-scented air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, slowly swinging with the motion of the car. Its artificial forest scent was strong, but there was noticeably another smell underneath it, something heavy and metallic.
I shifted in my seat, unsettled by the smell. I glanced over at Greg. He was watching the road, but not the road ahead. His eyes kept flicking to the side mirror, then to the rearview mirror, then back again. He wasn't looking at the traffic, because there was no traffic. We were the only car on this dark, empty stretch of highway.
"Long drive?" I asked, trying to make conversation, to ignore the growing sense of unease.
"Yeah, something like that," he said, his eyes still fixed on the mirrors. "Just running a few errands for the wife."
"Ah," I said, not knowing what else to say.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, save for the rhythm of the wipers in sync with the beating rain. The synthetic pine smell was starting to give me a headache, but it was better than the coppery undertone that kept breaking through.
"You must really love your wife," I said, nodding toward the gold band on his finger.
He finally looked over at me, and for a second, I saw something in his eyes that I couldn't quite read. I
"Best thing that ever happened to me," he said, his voice a little too cheerful, a little too loud. "Amy's the one who keeps me in line, you know? Always giving me a honey-do list a mile long."
He chuckled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He went back to watching the mirrors, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
The last sign of civilization dwindled and died as we passed the last lit gas station, its neon sign a fading beacon in the storm. Then we were plunged into true darkness, flanked by the dense, oppressive walls of the pine forest. The headlights did little more than illuminate the next fifty yards of slick, black asphalt. The world outside the car had vanished.
"So, Otis," Greg said, breaking the silence. "What do you do?"
"I'm between things right now," I said, hedging. "Just traveling."
"Just traveling? That's a good way to be, I think. See the world. Get some perspective."
Instead of responding, I found myself looking at the back of his head, at the neat way his hair was trimmed, at the way he held himself so perfectly still.
"You're not from around here, are you?" he asked.
"No. You?"
"Born and raised," he said, still looking in the mirrors. "Never left. Can't imagine why I would."
Then, it happened.
A dull, heavy vibration rattled the plastic interior panels right behind my head. It was a single, solid thud, like something massive had shifted in the enclosed cargo trunk space. Something heavy and alive.
I flinched, my body going rigid. My heart, which had just started to slow to a normal rhythm, slammed against my ribs.
"What was that?" I asked, my voice tight.
Greg didn't flinch. He didn't even look back. He just chuckled, a smooth, practiced sound.
"Just loose golf clubs rolling around back there," he said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "My wife keeps me busy, so I haven't cleared the trunk."
His knuckles were stark white on the steering wheel. The skin stretched tight over the bones.
"Golf clubs?" I repeated, my mind racing. "In this weather?"
"Forgot to take them out after my last game," he said. "You know how it is."
But I didn't know. And I didn't believe him.
The coppery smell was stronger now, thick and cloying. The pine air freshener was fighting a losing battle. I had to fight the urge to gag.
"Your wife, what's her name again?" I asked, trying to distract myself from the fear rapidly growing in my mind.
"Ann," he said, a little too quickly. "Ann. We've been married for ten years. Two kids, a boy and a girl. They're the light of my life." His words became more and more rehearsed. His tone, I still don't really know how to describe it, it was just unusual.
I stared out the window, watching the dark trees blur past. The rain was still coming down in sheets, but I barely noticed it anymore. My focus was on the man sitting next to me. The man with the kind eyes and the warm smile and the dead, dead, dead eyes.
The car was too warm. The heat was blasting, making the coppery smell even more overpowering. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my temple. I had to get out of this car.
"Could you turn down the heat?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Greg didn't answer. He just kept driving, his eyes darting between the road and the mirrors.
"Greg?" I said, a little louder this time.
He turned to me then, and the smile was gone. His face was a blank canvas. There was no warmth, no kindness anymore.
"What's the matter, Otis?" he asked, his voice flat. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The words were stuck in my throat.
We drove in silence for a few more minutes. The only sounds were the rain, the wipers, and the frantic beating of my own heart. I was a prisoner in this car, a prisoner in this conversation, a prisoner in this nightmare.
Then it happened again.
This time, it was a series of muffled, frantic kicks against the plastic lining, followed by the distinct, horrifying sound of something tearing at heavy vinyl. My blood ran cold. Something was moving in the trunk. Or, someone.
I looked at Greg. His breathing was shallow and wet, like he was struggling to get air. Beads of sweat were streaming down his face, matting his hair to his forehead.
"Greg," I said, my voice shaking. "What's in the trunk?"
He didn't answer. He just kept driving. The dim light cast a sickly, greenish glow on his face, making him look like a waxwork figure in a haunted house. The pine-scented air freshener had lost its battle with the coppery smell, which was now so thick I could almost taste it.
I had to get out. I had to get out now.
"I think...I think I'm feeling sick. Can we stop?" I lied, my mind racing.
His only response was a wry laugh. He was staring straight ahead, and his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscles twitching in his cheek.
My eyes darted to the door, to the power lock switch. I grabbed the handle with one hand and reached down to the switch with the other, my fingers trembling, and pressed the button. Nothing happened. I pressed it again, harder this time. Still nothing. I looked closer. The entire plastic housing for the power lock switches had been violently pried out, leaving snipped, dead copper wires exposed.
I was trapped.
I sat there, frozen in terror, my mind racing through a fog of panic. I had to do something. I had to think. The thinking that had kept me alive on the road all these months needed to kicked in. I needed to see. I needed to know what was back there. I needed to know if my worst fears were true.
I fumbled with my wallet, pretending to be clumsy. "Oh, damn," I said, my voice shaking. "I dropped my wallet." I leaned forward, pretending to search the floorboard.
But I wasn't looking for my wallet. I was looking for something else. I was looking for a way out.
My eyes scanned the floorboard, looking for anything I could use as a weapon, anything I could use to break the window. But there was nothing. The car was too clean.
I leaned down further, my head almost touching the floor. The coppery smell was overwhelming down here, a thick, cloying scent of death. I turned my body, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.
And then I saw it.
Through the narrow gap between the split-folding rear seats, I could see into the trunk. A blue tarp had slipped away, revealing the faint outline of a pale human hand, violently flexing and clawing at the carpet. My blood ran cold. The image burned itself into my retinas. The fingers were long and slender, the nails ragged and torn. The skin was pale, almost translucent, with a blueish tint. And the blood. Oh, the blood. It was everywhere. Now it was spattered on the walls, pooled on the carpet, dripping from the tarp.
Greg was watching me now, his head turned, his eyes locked on mine. There was no pretense left. No fake smile, no rehearsed lines. Just a cold, dead emptiness that made my skin crawl.
"Find your wallet?" he asked, his voice chillingly flat. I knew he wasn't asking about my wallet; he was asking if I had seen. If I knew.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The words were caught in my throat, a lump of pure terror. I slowly pushed myself back up into my seat, my movements stiff and robotic. My wallet, I suddenly realized, was still in my back pocket. A foolish, pointless lie.
The car began to slow down. Through the windshield, I saw it. A dark crossroads with a single, flashing red light. The rhythmic blinking cast an eerie, blood-red glow over the interior of the car, over Greg's dead eyes, over my own trembling hands.
This was it. This was my only chance. I knew it with a certainty that was as cold and hard as the steel of the car's frame. If I didn't act now, I would die here. I would end up like the man in the trunk. A pale, blood-spattered hand clawing at a tarp in the dark.
As we slowed, the blinking red light painted us in strokes of crimson and black. We were actors in a macabre play, and the final act was about to begin.
I broke eye contact, my head snapping down to the dark floorboard. My hands fumbled blindly, my fingers brushing against the rough carpet, the cold metal of the seat rail. Then, I felt a cold hand yank on my shoulder.
Unexplainable, loud shouting burst from my left.
"Stop, you little bastard!"
He was reaching over, trying to choke me or stop me. The car swerved violently as he took one hand off the wheel. The tires hydroplaned on the slick asphalt, a terrifying squeal of rubber on water.
My heart stopped. My breath caught in my throat. I was frozen, trapped in his gaze, a deer in the headlights of an oncoming disaster.
With a sudden surge of adrenaline, I broke free of his grip and threw my weight into the door. My shoulder connected with the hard plastic, a sharp, searing pain shooting down my arm. But the door didn't budge.
He snarled and grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back.
I cried out in pain, my neck snapping back at an unnatural angle. Tears sprang to my eyes, blurring my vision.
Then, I felt it. A small, recessed lever. The manual override. My lifeline.
I wrapped my fingers around it, the plastic cool and hard against my skin, and pulled.
There was a loud click, and the door unlocked. I didn't hesitate. I threw my shoulder against the door, using all my weight, all my fear, all my desperation.
The door flew open, and the world rushed in. The wind and the rain, the roar of the engine, the blinding light of the flashing red.
I tumbled out of the car, my body a ragdoll thrown from a moving vehicle. I hit the muddy ditch with a bone-jarring thud, the impact knocking the wind out of me. I lay there for a second, gasping for breath.
I could hear the car tires screech as he slammed on the brakes. I could hear the engine revving, the sound of him shifting into reverse. I prayed to the God I hadn't prayed to in a decade that he wouldn't find me.
I scrambled to my feet. My ankle twisted, a sharp, searing pain shooting up my leg. I stumbled, my hands sinking into the mud, then pushed myself up and started to run.
I ran blindly, fueled by a terror so pure, so absolute, that it eclipsed everything else. The pain, the cold, the exhaustion—it all faded into the background. There was only the run. Only the need to get away.
I plunged into the woods, the branches tearing at my clothes, the thorns scratching my face. I ran until my lungs burned, until my legs felt like they were on fire. I ran until I couldn't run anymore.
I collapsed behind a thick oak tree, my chest heaving, my body trembling. I crouched there in the dark, listening. For a long, terrifying moment, there was only the sound of the rain and the pounding of my own heart. Then I heard it. The sound of screeching tires on pavement and the roar of an engine receding into the night.
I stayed there for what felt like an eternity, my body slowly relaxing, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a terrible exhaustion and a dull, throbbing pain in my ankle. But I was alive, and I thanked the God I hadn't thanked in a decade.
I got up, my body protesting with every movement, and made my way back to the road. My clothes were torn, my body covered in a putrid mix of mud and blood, but I was alive. I stumbled out of the tree line and onto the asphalt, my boots squishing with every step. I looked up, my eyes searching the darkness for the blinking red light. I needed to get my bearings. I needed to know where I was.
I saw it, a solitary, rhythmic flash of red in the distance. I limped towards it, my ankle screaming in protest with every step. This intersection was eerily quiet, save for the gentled rain. A rusted chain-link fence ran along one corner of the intersection, its metal posts leaning at odd angles, its links sagging with age.
And there, tacked to the fence, illuminated by the flashing red light, was a plastic-sleeved flyer. On closer inspection, a missing persons flyer.
I took a step closer, my curiosity getting the better of me. The face on the flyer was a smiling, bearded man in a pastel pink polo shirt. The text read: MISSING: GREGORY MORRISON.
I stared at the flyer, my mind refusing to process what I was seeing. The man in the picture was the man who had picked me up. The man who had tried to kill me. Or, so I thought.
I studied the photo and found some slight differences , subtle but undeniable. The man in the picture had a scar that was thin and white over his left eyebrow. The man who had picked me up didn't. Other than that, their resemblance was almost uncannily the same. I looked down to read the details under the photo. Gregory R. Morrison, 38, last seen Tuesday evening. He was on his way home from a business trip in the city. He was driving a late-model silver crossover. He was last seen at a gas station just off Route 9.
The world tilted on its axis. My mind reeled, struggling to make sense of it all. The friendly smile, the rehearsed lines, the dead eyes. It all clicked into place with a horrifying clarity. That man, or thing, in the car wasn't Greg. The real Greg, then, the smiling man on the flyer, was the pale, blood-spattered hand I'd seen clawing at the trunk.
Nausea washed over me. I bent over, my hands on my knees, and retched, but nothing came up.
The rain had softened to a miserable, persistent drizzle. My ankle throbbed with a deep ache. Every part of me hurt. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the psychic scream echoing in my head.
I was alone in the middle of nowhere, a witness to a horror I couldn't comprehend, with no phone, no wallet, and no way to call for help. I started walking, my steps slow and unsteady, my eyes fixed on the dark, empty road ahead. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I had to keep moving. I had to get away from this place, from this intersection, from this blinking red light and the ghost of the man who had smiled at me from a flyer on a rusted fence. But most of all, I had to get away from the headlights swelling in the distance, quickly cutting through the drizzle.