On U.S. 24 between Glasco and Beloit in Kansas, driving at night can be hazardous. Not all the headlights that follow you on that lonely, seventeen-mile stretch of road have cars connected to them.
Perhaps I should explain. Go back a few years.
It was late, around midnight. Bob, Dean, and I were heading back home to Beloit in Bob’s Dodge Challenger. It was a fast car, so we usually took it. Dean’s car wasn’t exactly slow, but he kept messing it up and it was in the garage now with a carburetor problem and wouldn’t be ready till morning.
I never teased Dean much about his Mustang because it was better than what I had, which was nothing. Like his car, Dean himself often had problems.
At the time, Dean’s primary problem was with Lori, his girlfriend of the last few months. Dean was talking really big about what a bitch she was but Bob and I knew that if he punted her, he could be in for a long dry spell.
That night, she had punted him.
Dean sat in back on the way home, pouting. Usually I sat in back, being the shortest of us, but tonight Dean wanted to sulk, so Bob—all 6' 3" of him—encouraged Dean to sit in the back and let me ride up front.
The whole business of Glasco was a little silly. Bob’s cousin Valery lived there and we figured she was an ‘in’ to all the Glasco girls. Of course, Glasco was half the size of Beloit so “all the Glasco girls” didn’t really come to a lot.
We usually did all right, though. Especially Bob, because of his height and looks. Tonight, however, Dean’s fight with Lori had dominated affairs.
We were quiet. A Led Zeppelin tape dangled from the eight-track but we were tired of it, and not feeling particularly rowdy, so we left it off. The only sounds were the rush of air and Bob’s engine. It was warm so we had both front windows open. Wheat fields and milo cane went by in the dark flanking U.S. 24.
We had set a personal record after school that Friday: Running Le Mans-style to the car and driving like hell, we made it to Glasco in eleven minutes from the sound of the school bell. Our best time in four years of Glasco runs. It being April of our senior year (75 was our year and the number in our class), few opportunities remained to equal or surpass it.
Late that night, the legal limit was all the faster we felt like going.
“Shit!”
Dean was grumbling in the back seat, but Bob and I didn’t pay any attention to him as he was probably still upset about Lori.
“Oh shit.”
This time he sounded more worried than anything else.
I looked at Bob and he sighed audibly. “What is it, Dean?” Neither of us even glanced back at him.
“He’s back.”
“Who’s back?” I asked.
“The lights.”
“You mean there’s a car behind us?” Bob said, trying to coax information out of him.
“No car—just headlights.” Dean’s voice was quiet with resolve.
Bob and I sneered at each other. I looked back.
There were a pair of headlights—bright beams—far, far behind us on 24. A month ago, Dean had told us a story about being followed by headlights that had no car making them. It was a story a couple of others around town had mumbled, most of those, drunk kids trying to explain away why they were out late by switching the subject to ghostly headlights. Like a lot of things Dean said, we took it with a grain of salt. (Dean is a good guy but he has that tendency to exaggerate.)
I squinted hard and saw only headlights, which was normal for that distance in the dark. Kansas is pretty flat and you can usually see for miles in open country.
“Okay, there’s headlights back there,” I reported.
I shrugged at Bob and he gave a mild head-shake. Dean was hunched into the Naugahide, peering over the seat at the lights, as if they could detect him at that distance.
The headlights began to gain on us.
Bob pushed in the Led Zeppelin tape. “Communication Breakdown” poured out of the speakers. I flinched and lowered the volume on the tape deck.
“Look,” Dean said. He was frozen in position, staring out the back window.
The headlights were really coming on now. Still on bright beam, they glanced off the rear-view mirror into Bob’s eyes.
“I wish he’d dim those things,” Bob muttered.
“He never does,” Dean placidly said.
“Is the driver a he?” I asked.
Dean shrugged. “There isn’t any driver that you can see, I just say that.”
By now, the headlights had drawn very near, making the cabin of Bob’s Challenger almost as bright as day. Dean seemed to be trying to merge with the car seat. Bob motioned outside the window with his hand, waving the car past, but the lights stayed glued to our fender. I couldn’t see any car, but then, the light was awfully bright.
The car, or whatever it was, didn’t pass us. I began making half-peace-sign gestures at the lights with my hand. Bob maintained his speed, muttering “asshole” under his breath. “—communication breakdown, it’s always the saaammmeeee—” rattled the speakers.
“Another minute . . .” Dean said.
My eyes adjusted to the glare a little bit and I still couldn’t see a car. The old highway 41 turnoff drew near.
“About now . . .” Dean said, his voice softly patient.
The headlights eased off our tail, slowing to a near halt. They made the turn onto old 41. I tried to see what kind of car was behind them but my eyes were adjusted to light too much to permit me to see anything other than the headlights swerving and Dean looking at me for some kind of confirmation.
“Well?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” was all I could say.
“I was busy driving,” Bob said, pulling the tape out and sounding as apologetic as he could.
When we dropped Dean off at his house, he was still pissed at us.
Bob came over to my place that Saturday for a game of horse. We always played horse or one-on-one, but I preferred horse since I was short and had never won at the other. We were shooting the ball well that day with our shirts off and hanging from the trellis that marked the court’s east boundary. Winter-pale, we were hoping to start our tans. The score was “ho” to “ho.”
Dean’s car swung into the drive and pulled up to the west side of the court. Dean stepped out with flourish, the perennial Banner Drive-Inn glass of coke in his hand. (I swear, the guy drank more pop than a little-league team.) We expected him to whip off his shirt and join the game.
Instead, he sauntered coolly over to the trellis and sucked on his Coke. “Guess what I heard,” he said, staring into the cup.
I held the ball to my hip and waited.
“Well?” Bob said.
Dean pulled off the lid and stirred the ice with his straw. “Sumthin about those headlights . . .”
“Yeah,” I said. “Whad’ya hear?”
Dean cocked the cup to his mouth and tapped some ice in. “Some guy got killed in a wreck twenty years ago,” he said, his words slurpy with ice, “out by the old 41 turnoff. My dad told me about it.”
I won’t repeat Dean’s version of the tale. Since that Saturday, I’ve studied the incident and what follows is my version of what the papers reported:
There was a guy named Bill Phillips. His friends had called him “Tank” because he was built like a fire-plug, was strong, and had played fullback in school. He was a mechanic and a 1953 BHS grad. He had been driving back from Glasco in a big hurry and apparently tried to turn on to old 41. He was going too fast and rolled his Merc. His neck was broken. That was in May of 1955.
That was all the papers told me, but I did some talking around and learned more. It was Bob’s aunt—Valery’s mom—that gave me most of the real story behind that odd wreck.
She said that Tank had been dating her best friend, Becky Hunter. Both girls lived in Glasco, so Tank did a lot of commuting between Beloit and Glasco, much as we did. Tank had been dating Becky for four years and he was working up to a proposal that Becky probably wo
uld’ve rejected, or so Bob’s aunt believed.
She said Becky liked Tank all right, but she really wanted to go on to college and get a degree. Usually when a girl leaves Glasco—or Beloit, for that matter—for college, she meets a lot of new people. Most never come back, except for visits. And Tank was the kind of guy who wanted to settle down in Beloit.
Well anyway, Tank never got a chance to propose. He went to Glasco that May evening to see Becky but Bob’s aunt told him she had already gone out. Hopping mad, Tank tore off in his Merc, hoping, probably, to overtake Becky and her date. Since Glasco didn’t have a movie house, he figured they’d head for Beloit.
When Bob’s aunt reached this part, it was pretty obvious to guess the rest. Driving hard at night, Tank undoubtedly wanted to get to Beloit before the show let out so he could catch the new guy and Becky before they got to their car. But when he got near the old 41 turnoff, another thought probably occurred to him.
Even in 1955, 41 was a vintage strip of road. Made in the 20’s, it was a narrow piece of old, cracked concrete that ran north-south for thirty miles. It wasn’t very well traveled but its shallow ditches made for excellent parking.
The thought that maybe, just maybe, Becky and this new guy were parking on old 41 got to Tank so hard, he didn’t know which way to go. So he ended up going nowhere.
If you believe in ghosts, it’s not hard to imagine Tank’s ghost tearing up U.S. 24 looking for Becky. He’d keep his brights on so he could peer inside cars to see if Becky was there. Then he’d complete the turn onto old 41.
That’s a pretty stupid notion.
Not many folks claim to have seen ghostly headlights on 24, and if they were for real, there wasn’t much they could do to a person. Besides, Becky Hunter Collins moved to New York back in 1960 and Bob’s aunt assured me that it wasn’t fear of headlights that made the move attractive to her.
But in 1975, the newspaper story was all Bob, Dean, and I knew about the whole affair. Bob and I remained convinced that Dean was exaggerating about the “mysterious” headlights, but we were intrigued nonetheless.
That Saturday evening, the three of us cruised Mill Street in Bob’s Dodge before making the inevitable trip to Glasco. We had dates, except for Dean, but the prospect of encountering the lights again was stronger than any dim hope of sex.
We reached Glasco at sundown. Val joined us to keep Dean company.
The night was uneventful. We parked in a cemetery, hoping for some necking, but the girls weren’t very scare-prone and easily avoided our attempts at “comfort.” Disgusted, we took them home and left Glasco, but not before several hours had passed and four six-packs were downed.
On the way back, I was in my customary place in the back seat. Bachman Turner Overdrive was singing at us to “stay awake all night” over the eight-track and the windows were down. Lounging drunkenly, I glanced out the back.
There were headlights to our rear.
I watched for half a mile until the headlights became a red pickup that took the first farm turnoff. I sat back and watched Beloit twinkle in the west.
“—stay awake, stay awake—” the tape deck throbbed.
Sitting in the back reminded me of the times I sat in the back of Dad’s big Chrysler when we were coming back from trips to Topeka to see my uncle. I’d stretch out in the back but wouldn’t sleep.
I never sleep in cars.
Peering out the window, I’d gaze as far as I could see over the land. On the horizon, sometimes, thunderheads would stand, lit like pink cauliflower by lightning.
Other times, it would appear that there were large, vague objects trundling along—like nebulous tumbleweeds or something—trying to keep pace with our car. They would move just outside the edge of sight, rolling and lurching along, but finally fall far behind. Others would be there to take up the chase until we got near town and the lights drove them away.
I knew they were illusions, like water on the road on a sunny day, but it was neat to imagine them chasing us.
Fortunately, we never had a flat or engine trouble.
Over the years, things didn’t change all that much. When I got my restricted license, I began dreaming of a car of my own . . . but I remained stuck in back seats.
While reminiscing, I looked out the Challenger’s side window into the darkness. I saw nothing strange—a farm light and a thunderhead far in the north. Lightning flashed inside the cloud. The color was blue like brains.
Light flashed suddenly in the compartment. I looked back to see two headlights on high-beam coming over a low rise a mile back. They were gaining on us—fast.
Bachman/Turner switched songs. “Let it Ride” blared over the speakers.
I closed my eyes, trying to keep the pupils opened wide, and looked again.
There was no car visible behind the lights. Brightness became glare inside our car.
“Bob, Dean—he’s here.” Dean looked back as Bob stayed fixed to the road.
“Shit, it’s him,” Dean said. The headlights came right behind us like the night before. “—wouldja let it ride?” the tape deck asked.
“I don’t see a car, fellas,” I dutifully reported.
“Fuck him!” Bob growled, stomping on the pedal. The Challenger roared and hit 70.
The headlights didn’t fade an inch.
“I can’t hear an engine on that thing!” I shouted, not really sure that I could’ve heard anything at all outside the car.
The headlights stayed mutely on our tail at 85 mph.
“C’mon, Bob!” Dean pleaded. “Why bother?”
“It’s been a shit-night and I wanna lose this ghost!”
“What!?” I yelled as we went over 90. “—would you say good-bye, wouldja let it ride—” Randy Bachman shrieked over the speakers.
“May as well try!!” Bob shouted, letting it all out on the floorboards. The car roared up to 100 mph.
The headlights didn’t waver. It was high-noon bright inside the Challenger.
The 41 turnoff loomed ahead.
“I’ll take the turn and he’ll follow!” Bob yelled.
“No!!” Dean wailed. He reached for the wheel. Bob turned to slap his hand away. “—ride, ride, ride, let it ride—” chanted the tape deck. I grabbed an arm rest and dropped to the floor.
We skipped off the road and jumped the ditch at 90 mph. The Challenger bucked hard into the cultivated earth and the tires blew out. Dirty milo-cane churned into the car as I buffeted fetally on the floor, my arm cracking against the back seat as we ground to a dead halt in the milo field. Our headlights faintly lit the dead, brown stalks all around us. The tape had broken and FM hiss played softly in the car.
In the front seat. Bob and Dean remained, their heads imbedded in the dashboard.
Painfully, I turned my head and looked out, back through the swath we had made, and saw the headlights in the road. They had stopped, as if to allow their invisible driver to view the accident, and then started moving slowly forward. I watched them pass by, but they didn’t turn on to old highway 41.
They just switched off.
There isn’t much more to tell.
It’s been four years since the wreck, and since then, I’ve gotten my college diploma and a car of my own. In a few weeks, I’ll be moving to Wichita to start a new job, but for now, it feels good sitting comfy in Beloit.
I reckon while I’m here visiting the folks, I’ll stop by Bob and Dean’s graves and leave them some flowers. That might make them feel a little better.
Lately, the talk around town is that the headlights that follow you from Glasco are back. The few that have seen them say they’re different: four beams now, instead of two. Like the high-beams of a Dodge. I know the rumor is true because I’ve seen the headlights myself.
Come to think of it, I’d better put flowers on my friends’ graves.
Last night, coming into town, they tried to run me off the road.
Talking in the Dark by Dennis Etchison
In the case of
the frequent contributors to The Year’s Best Horror Stories, it sometimes becomes a strain to write something new about them with each new introduction. Looking back over my own and previous editor Gerald W. Page’s introduction to stories by Dennis Etchison, I note one pleasant change over the years: It is no longer accurate to describe Dennis Etchison as “unknown and unjustly neglected.” It took a few years, but Etchison has now firmly established himself as one of the horror genre’s premier authors.
Born in Stockton, California on March 30, 1943, Etchison now lives in Los Angeles, where he teaches creative writing at U.C.L.A. Most recently, he has been hired as story editor for “The Hitchhiker” horror/fantasy series on HBO. Etchison’s books include film novelizations of The Fog, Halloween II, Halloween III, and Videodrome (the last three under the pseudonym Jack Martin); two short story collections, The Dark Country and Red Dreams, and a novel, Darkside. “Talking in the Dark” was first published in Charles L. Grant’s Shadows 7. Any resemblance to actual horror fans or horror writers is unimaginable.
In the damp bedroom Victor Ripon sat hunched over his desk, making last-minute corrections on the ninth or tenth draft, he couldn’t remember which, of a letter to the one person in the world who might be able to help. Outside, puppies with the voices of children struggled against their leashes for a chance to be let in from the cold. He ignored them and bore down. Their efforts at sympathy were wasted on him; he had nothing more to give. After thirty-three years he had finally stepped out of the melodrama.
He clicked the pen against his teeth. Since the letter was to a man he had never met, he had to be certain that his words would not seem naive or foolish.
“Dear Sir,” he reread, squinting down at the latest version’s cramped, meticulously cursive backhand. He lifted the three-hole notebook paper by the edges so as not to risk smearing the ballpoint ink. “Dear Sir . . .”
The Year's Best Horror Stories 13 Page 25