Lost Highways: Dark Fictions From the Road

by Rio Youers

  There’d been moments in her life when the thought of packing up and leaving it all behind—Beth included—had crossed her mind. She’d told herself over and over that those thoughts were normal, that every parent had them. But watching Beth’s face yesterday as she’d stepped away from Linda to drop a single rose on the oak lid, to see the light forever gone from her eyes, to feel her twitch under Linda’s hands as clumps of the cold dirt thudded against the coffin, it was then that Linda knew that she and her daughter were bound to tragedy. And no matter how far she went—with or without Beth—they were both doomed.

  Linda approached the headstone from behind, the black granite rising from the earth like an obelisk. When she rounded the tombstone, she held her breath, expecting to see Beth, the small girl that she was at seventeen, curled up on the dirt, cold, broken.

  But there was no Beth.

  Only an open grave and an empty casket.

  ***

  The trees hang high above like a cathedral ceiling, arched and stoic, completely blocking out the moon and the sky. Yet even without the light, Beth can see the path with perfect clarity, as though the road itself is its own moon. The more she walks, the lighter each step feels. The crunch of the stones under her boots echo all around her like she’s stepped into a vacant hall.

  There’s a break in the trees up ahead, at the end of the path. And there, dead centre, sits a well. It rests in the middle of a clearing, the trees thick around it any which way she looks, so thick that a body couldn’t pass through them. Fluffy snowflakes hover around her, floating neither up nor down, just stuck in place, twirling like a pendant on a string. She looks to the sky, still bright, but the moon is gone.

  Beth comes to the edge of the well, its rough stones faded and chipped away. She kneels at its base, by a groove in the snow that fits the canvas bag perfectly. She places it there, softly, and rests a hand on it.

  After a moment, she takes a deep breath and approaches the well. She peers over the side into the black mass, no bottom in sight, no sounds coming up. “Hello?” she calls out, her voice coarse and gravelled, small and broken. No echo sounds back.

  Her hands touch the cold stone, she closes her eyes. The slightest vibrations run through her finger tips, and for a fleeting second, she feels it in her chest, imagining the well’s power surging through her. She brings her legs over the edge and sits, the vibrations growing stronger, a sound rising under them.

  The roar of an engine.

  ***

  Linda ran to the funeral home, each step like quicksand trying to pull her down. In the lobby, where only yesterday she’d greeted all the mourners as Beth wept alone in the bathroom, stood Nancy, the funeral director, and Officer Daniels, a young cop that Linda had seen around town.

  “Christ, we’ve been trying to reach you!” Nancy said, running to Linda and grabbing hold of her. “Your line’s been busy all morning.”

  “Where’s Beth?” Linda screamed, her eyes darting between both women. “Where’s April?”

  “April’s body . . . ” Nancy started, looking back to Daniels.

  “Ms. Jeanson,” Officer Daniels took over, her tone soft. “When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?”

  Linda stepped back, the air around her heavy. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

  Nancy looked to the ground, while Daniels kept her eyes on Linda. “Ms. Jeanson, we have reason to believe that Beth—”

  Linda took off out the doors without letting Daniels finish, hands grasping her pockets for her keys. She got into her car and shoved them into the ignition. The engine turned once. Twice. Three times. Nothing. She tried again. And again. And again, until the car coughed no more, only clicked.

  “Fuck!” Linda screamed into her steering wheel. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

  She gripped the wheel, her head falling against the cold leather.

  This is all your fault.

  Everything poured out then: if she hadn’t moved them to this fucking town in the first place, this never would have happened. Beth would’ve never wound up pregnant at seventeen; Linda would’ve never cursed her daughter out that night she told her the news, all the hate that she’d built up inside for being a reckless teenager herself spilling onto her poor daughter; April would’ve never been born, a sweet, wide-eyed girl that’d made Linda’s heart melt the moment she first saw her; and April would’ve never died, Beth’s sleep-deprived body rolling on top of her. Beth waking hours later, a tiny blue arm sticking out from under her.

  Nancy knocked at the car window. Linda rolled it down, wiping the tears from her face. “My car’s dead,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “Here,” Nancy said, opening the door and pulling Linda out. “Take my keys.”

  Linda paused. “Are you sure?” She looked back to the funeral home. “What about Daniels?”

  “Go find Beth.” Nancy smiled, pushing her along.

  Linda hugged Nancy as she climbed into the vehicle, the engine roaring to life.

  Now what?

  She looked down to the floor, a few bunched up McDonald’s wrappers and empty Pepsi cans lining the mat. On the passenger’s seat was yesterday’s paper, the front page still intact: the church bake sale, the terrible weather they’d been having, and an Enquirer-esque piece on something called the Resurrection Gash.

  Linda tried to pull her eyes away, but that same feeling that roiled through her body told her to keep reading. So, she did.

  And when she was done, she threw the truck into reverse and went to find mile marker 156.

  ***

  “Beth!” Linda screams as she jumps from the truck, the Chronicle falling from her lap. “Stop, please!”

  The truck’s headlights strike Beth, her pale face awash in the white glow.

  Beth remains seated on the well’s edge. She looks down into the Gash, the black pit looking back at her.

  “Beth, this isn’t real. Whatever you think is going to happen, believe me, it won’t.”

  Linda moves closer, steadying her pace. Beth’s eyes meet her mother’s, then move to the small canvas bag, still under a thin blanket of snow. Linda’s eyes follow. At the sight of the bag, she stops.

  “Please, sweetheart,” Linda pleads. “You’ve already lost your daughter. I can’t lose mine, too.”

  Tears run down Beth’s face, a sob escaping her lips. Her eyes stay on the bag, small and motionless. She squeezes her fingers harder against the cold stone. It vibrates back.

  “Sorry, Mom. Sorry.”

  Linda throws herself forward just as Beth pushes off the ledge.

  Beth’s scarf tickles the edges of Linda’s fingers as they desperately try to grasp onto something—anything—but when Linda pulls her arms back, her hands are empty.

  Linda screams, the rage flying from her body out into the snowy night. The screams burn a hole inside her, tearing at her flesh, ripping through her bones. She cries out harder, louder, into the hole, into the night, as though all her fury will somehow bring Beth back up. As though it will somehow reverse time.

  Under the glow of the headlights, Linda falls to her knees. Fluffy snowflakes drift downwards, coming to rest on the truck, on her shivering body, on the little canvas bag.

  A quick movement catches Linda’s eye. She turns her head and looks to the empty forest, its branches still and rigid. The force of the truck’s still-running engine reverberates against the cold bricks of the well, a rumble that rises in her chest.

  Another movement, lower this time. Her eyes find the canvas bag. The night is frozen, nothing moves. She holds her breath. More snowflakes gently float down, resting on the bag.

  She stares for minutes, minutes that feel like days.

  More screams want to escape her throat, more tears want to pour from her eyes, but there’s nothing left inside her. Nothing but horror and pain and love and loss all rolled into one, a jagged, disfigured mass occupying the cavity where her heart once beat.

  She wills herself to
look away, from the bag, from the well, from everything.

  Look away and forget you were ever here.

  But she can’t. She won’t.

  Then, the bag twitches.

  TITAN, TYGER

  JONATHAN JANZ

  When the Beamer broke down, Peter Zink was stranded somewhere along County Road 1200 without a cell phone. Since Greta had become more vigilant in her sleuthing, Peter had grown more paranoid. He’d read somewhere that phones could be tracked, and he had no desire to arm her with more information than she already had. He’d told himself to pick up one of those cheapie phones, the kind you bought minutes for and used only in emergencies, but life was busy, and the prospect of an emergency like this had seemed so remote that he hadn’t followed through on purchasing the cheap-ass phone.

  Now look at him. Peter pocketed his hands in his cashmere coat, sighed, and performed a slow revolution. No houses in sight, no cars. He inclined his face, surveyed the black velvet sky. Empty. Not even a plane up there, a slow-moving red light reminding him that no, he wasn’t entirely alone in this rustic wasteland.

  Peter shook his head, checked his Rolex. It was half past two in the morning.

  It’s what you get for cheating, Tiger, the voice in his head mocked.

  Scowling, Peter set off at a sullen stroll, his coat scant protection from the early March wind, his suede loafers ill-suited for the crumbly macadam road. He supposed he could return to Janice’s, but things had ended badly, and she needed time to cool off. There’d been an uneasy moment when he believed she’d actually follow through on her threat, would actually call the police, and that was why it had been necessary for him to end that talk pronto.

  No, Janice’s was out of the question.

  Peter strolled on, a vague recollection flitting through his mind about the way they numbered country roads. 1200 meant he was twelve miles from the county’s center, or at least that’s what he thought he’d heard. If that was the case, this was going to be a hell of a cruddy night.

  His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but he could discern no glow from where he believed town to be. God, that far away? Peter kicked a stone the size of a golf ball and watched it skitter into the weedy shoulder. He stopped and grinned ruefully. He hadn’t remembered to lock his car!

  Peter turned, extracted the key from his pocket, and thumbed the Lock button. As the familiar chirp sounded from the Beamer and the twin headlight blinks told him the car was indeed secure, Peter glimpsed something that made the grin on his face wither.

  There was a truck parked beside the Beamer. A giant white truck.

  Peter swallowed, screwed up his eyes. Yes, he was certain of the truck’s presence, but to remove all doubt, he depressed the Lock button again, and in the pallid flicker of his headlamps, he made out the sleek white length of the pick-up truck. A newer model. He could see it gleam in the meager illumination filtering through the late-winter clouds.

  Peter started toward his car. The fact that the truck was a newer model and, from the looks of it, polished to a pearlescent gleam, should have reassured him. But something about the way it idled in the road, its engine so noiseless Peter had to strain to pick it up, sent a ripple of unease down his back. It occurred to him he’d left his Browning at home in the nightstand. He ordinarily only carried the gun when there was business in Chicago or some other big city crawling with thugs, but now he realized how foolish he’d been. What if the driver of this truck—a Nissan Titan, he now saw—planned to rob him? Peter was in decent shape. He walked the treadmills at the country club fitness center, but at fifty-two years old and without much muscle, he knew the chances were slim he’d be able to overcome the Titan’s driver in a fight.

  Ten feet from the truck’s gleaming grill, Peter halted, a new worry assailing him. What if there were multiple occupants inside the pick-up truck? What if this was a gang of rowdy teenagers out hunting for a cheap thrill? Hey, look at the rich white guy! Let’s see how loud he can scream!

  Peter reached into his pocket, his fingers probing for the keys. Maybe if he unlocked the Beamer, raced around to the passenger’s side door, lunged inside, and locked himself in he could just wait these thrill-seeking bastards out. Maybe he could—

  The Titan’s interior lit up. A sole figure stared back at him.

  It was a man. Peter could see that clearly. But unless he was deceived, the driver was smallish, almost feminine, with his narrow, bony shoulders, and his celery-stalk neck. Peter peered at the driver’s face: brown hair matted down and tufted a little behind the ears, as if he’d been wearing a ball cap.

  Well, of course he’s been wearing a ball cap, the voice in Peter’s head declared. Have you ever seen someone in a full-sized pick-up truck who didn’t wear ball caps?

  It emboldened Peter, started him forward. He owned several caps of his own, often wore them while driving his boat.

  He reached the passenger’s side of the Titan, watched the window descend. An odd aroma wafted out at him. Cinnamon, maybe. Some sort of cheap air freshener.

  Peter leaned an arm on the window aperture and nodded. “Don’t suppose you’d give a guy a lift home, would you?”

  The driver swiveled his head, and Peter had to strain to maintain his smile. Creepy, the way the driver had turned. But not as creepy as the mindless grin. Alfred E. Newman, Peter thought. The mascot for the old Mad magazines. No, this young man wasn’t as cartoonish as Alfred E. Newman, but there was something of the cartoon character’s mischief in his grin, too much of Newman’s jeering mockery. God, Peter thought. Like a ventriloquist’s dummy sprung to life.

  Peter glanced at the road to escape the guy’s disconcerting grin. “Maybe I’ll walk. The night air—”

  “It’s no trouble,” the driver said.

  Peter glanced at him sidelong.

  “Come ride with me,” the driver said.

  The message was innocuous, Peter knew, but something about the driver’s choice of words . . .

  “Wanna see my hands?” the driver asked, and actually showed his palms as though to prove he wasn’t a threat.

  The goofiness of the gesture released some of Peter’s tension. Chuckling, he glanced down at his loafers, dusty already from the road.

  “Alright,” Peter said, opening the Titan’s door. “A ride would be nice.”

  “Depends on the chauffeur,” the driver said as Peter settled in. This close, the guy looked even younger than Peter had first estimated. Barely drinking age.

  The door thudded shut. “Well, I certainly appreciate it,” Peter said.

  The driver switched off the interior light and twisted on the headlights. “I had a feeling you would.”

  “It’s frigid out tonight,” Peter said. “Mind if I roll up the window?”

  The driver shifted the truck into gear, and they began to roll forward. “Do what you want. Cold doesn’t affect me.”

  That’s because you’re tougher than I am, I suppose. Peter suppressed a smile and kept his opinions to himself. This kid had saved his ass, after all. He’d have been hiking until dawn without the intervention.

  Peter introduced himself. When the kid didn’t answer, Peter said, “Are you going to tell me your name, or should I just call you my guardian angel?”

  The kid’s smile went away. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that.”

  Peter studied the kid’s profile. Despite the disappearance of the goofy grin, the kid looked more like a ventriloquist’s doll than ever. Okay, Peter thought. Be a weirdo. God knows the world’s full of them.

  “Merry,” the kid said at length.

  Peter raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “My name’s Merry.”

  “Like Mary, mother of—”

  “Like the hobbit,” the kid said.

  Peter grinned. “As in, Merry Christmas?”

  “Yes,” the kid said, his lips drawing downward at the corners. “Like Merry Christmas.”

  ***

  “So, is this where we share our life stories?
” Peter asked. He nestled into the leather seat, smoothed his coat over his legs. “I don’t really know much about hitchhiker’s etiquette.”

  The kid’s easy grin returned, though his eyes remained on the road. “Surprising. I figured you knew everything about everything.”

  Peter narrowed his eyes and let them linger on the kid’s profile. Definitely a bit of a smartass, a trait Peter could not abide. His son, fourteen, was more than a bit of a smartass, and Peter planned to nip that behavior in the bud—

  “Pronto,” Merry said.

  Peter blinked. “What did you say?”

  An infinitesimal shake of the head. “Nothing, tiger.”

  Peter reached up and adjusted the collar of his coat. “Well, Merry. Tell me about yourself.”

  “Your imagination couldn’t handle it.”

  Definitely a smartass. “This truck, for starters.” Peter spread his arms. “This is a nice truck. It can’t be more than a few years old.” Peter leaned sideways and tried to see the odometer. “How many miles are on it?”

  Merry didn’t answer.

  Peter pushed up higher on his seat, but other than the bluish glow of the speedometer, the dashboard appeared dark.

  “You ought to get that fixed,” Peter said, settling back. “You get pulled over . . . ”

  “What were you doing tonight?” Merry asked.

  Peter stiffened.

  “It’s awful late,” Merry continued. “What were you doing out so late at night?”

  Peter glowered out the passenger’s window. “Business.”

  Merry guffawed. Peter jolted in his seat. Merry slapped the steering wheel, brayed his donkey’s bray. “‘Business,’” Merry said. “He’s a businessman doing his business.” Merry wiped an eye.

  Peter glared at the kid, made no attempt at hiding his asperity. Had Merry been drinking? He certainly acted like it. Or perhaps he was merely a simpleton, amused by his own dull-witted jokes. At any rate, it was a nuisance. The sooner he got home, the better.