Black Evening

by David Morrell

  I set the phone down and swallowed with sadness. Stepping from our house — it rests on a hill — I peered in admiration toward the glorious sky.

  I turned and faltered.

  To the west, a massive cloudbank approached, dark and thick and roiling. Wind began, bringing a chill.

  September twelfth. The temperature was seventy-eight. It dropped to fifty, then thirty-two.

  The rain had stopped. The old man had done what I asked. But I hadn't counted on his sense of humor.

  He had stopped the rain, all right.

  But I had a terrible feeling that the snow would never end.

  If there's a touch of humor in "The Storm," there's nothing at all humorous in this further story about the Midwest: a gross-out shocker. Although the story was published in 1984, its origin is eleven years earlier. In the summer of 1973, I spent thirty-five days on a survival course in the Wind River mountains of Wyoming. The course was conducted by Paul Petzoldt's National Outdoor Leadership School and trained its students in a variety of mountaineering skills: climbing, camping without a trace, crossing wild streams, living in snow caves, scavenging, etc. At the end of the course, our food was taken away from us. We were each allowed to keep a compass, a map, and a canteen. We were shown a spot on the map, fifty miles away, over the continental divide, and told that three days later a truck would be waiting to pick us up.

  How did we eat? We weren't supposed to. The idea was to replicate an emergency situation. Scavenging uses more energy than is supplied by the plants that are scavenged, so that was out. We could have caught and eaten fish, which would have given us adequate protein, but that would have been as a last measure. The idea was to prove to us that we could go three days without food, in strenuous conditions, and still be functional at the end. I was weak and light-headed when we came over the mountains and reached the dusty trailhead that was our destination, but I could have gone a day or two longer, and I certainly had acquired confidence about the outdoors. The course completed, I set out toward Iowa along Interstate 80, but my old four-cylinder Porsche 912 developed engine trouble, and in the Nebraska panhandle, I had to leave the highway, hoping to find a mechanic. That's when I came to this very unusual, very scary town. While the story is fictional, the setting is not.

  For These and All My Sins

  « ^ »

  There was a tree. I remember it. I swear I'd be able to recognize it. Because it looked so unusual.

  It stood on my left, in the distance, by Interstate 80. At first, it was just a blur in the shimmering heat haze, but as I drove closer, its skeletal outline became distinct. Skeletal: that's what struck me at first as being strange. After all, in August, even in the sun-parched Nebraska panhandle, trees (the few you see) are thick with leaves, but this one was bare.

  So it's dead, I thought. So what? Nothing to frown about. But then I noticed the second thing about it, and I guess I'd subconsciously been reacting before I even realized what its silhouette resembled.

  Stronger than resembled.

  I felt uneasy. The tree was very menorahlike, a giant counterpart of the candelabrum used on Jewish religious services. Eight candles in a row. Except in this case the candles were barren branches standing straight. I shrugged off an eerie tingle. It's just a freak, an accident of nature, I concluded, although I briefly wondered if someone had pruned the tree to give it that distinctive appearance and in the process had unavoidably killed it.

  But coincidence or not, the shape struck me as being uncanny — a religious symbol formed by a sterile tree ironically blessing a drought-wracked western plain. I thought of The Waste Land.

  For the past two weeks, I'd been camping with friends in the Wind River mountains of Wyoming. Fishing, exploring, rock-climbing, mostly sitting around our cook fire, drinking, reminiscing. After our long-postponed reunion, our time together had gone too quickly. Again we'd separated, heading our different ways across the country, back to wives and children, jobs and obligations. For me, that meant Iowa City, home, and the University. As much as I wanted to see my family again, I dreaded the prospect of still another fall semester, preparing classes, grading freshmen papers.

  Weary from driving (eight hours east since a wrenching emotional farewell breakfast), I glanced from the weird menorah tree and realized I was doing seventy. Slow down, I told myself. You'll end up getting a ticket.

  Or killed.

  And that's when the engine started shuddering. I drive a secondhand Porsche 912, the kind with four cylinders, from the sixties. I bought it cheap because it needed a lot of body work, but despite its age, it usually works like a charm. The trouble is, I didn't know the carburetors had to be adjusted for the thinner air of higher altitude, so when I'd reached the mountains in Wyoming, the engine had sputtered, the carburetors had overflowed, and I'd rushed to put out a devastating fire on the engine. In Lander, Wyoming, a garage had repaired the damage while I went camping with my friends, but when I'd come back to get it, the accelerator hadn't seemed as responsive as it used to be. All day, the motor had sounded a little noisier than usual, and now as it shuddered, it wasn't just noisy, it was thunderous. Oh, Christ, I thought. The fire must have cracked the engine block. Whatever was wrong, I didn't dare go much farther. The steering wheel was jerking in my hands. Scared, I slowed to thirty. The roar and shudder persisted. I needed to find a mechanic fast.

  I said this happened in Nebraska's panhandle. Imagine the state as a wide rectangle. Cut away the bottom left corner. The remaining top left corner — that's the panhandle, just to the east of Wyoming. It's nothing but broad flat open range. Scrub grass, sagebrush, tumbleweed. The land's as desolate as when the pioneers struggled across it a hundred years ago. A couple more hours into Nebraska, I wouldn't have worried too much. Towns start showing up every twenty miles or so. But heading through the panhandle, I hadn't seen a sign for a town in quite a while. Despite the false security of the four lane Interstate, I might as well have been on the moon.

  As a consequence, when I saw the off ramp, I didn't think twice. Thanking whatever god had smiled on me, I struggled with the spastic tremors of the steering wheel and exited, wincing as the engine not only roared but crackled as if bits of metal were breaking off inside and scraping, gouging. There wasn't a sign for a town at this exit, but I knew there had to be a reason for the off ramp. Reaching a stop sign, I glanced right and left along a two lane blacktop but saw no buildings either way. So which direction? I asked myself. On impulse, I chose the left and crossed the bridge above the Interstate, only then realizing I headed toward the menorah tree.

  Again I felt that eerie tingle. But the shuddering roar of the engine distracted me. The accelerator heaved beneath my foot, sending spasms up my leg. The car could barely do twenty miles an hour now. I tried to control my nervous breathing, vaguely sensing the tree as I passed it.

  On my left. I'm sure of it. I wasn't so preocuppied I wouldn't remember. The tree was on the left of the unmarked two lane road.

  I'm positive. I know I'm not wrong.

  I drove. And drove. The Porsche seemed ready to fall apart at any moment, jolting, rattling. The road stretched ahead, leading nowhere, seemingly forever. With the menorah tree behind me, nothing relieved the dismal prairie landscape. Any time now, I thought. I'll see some buildings. Just another mile or so — if the car can manage that far.

  It did, and another mile after that, but down to fifteen now. My stomach cramped. I had the terrible sense I should have gone the other way along this road. For all I knew, I'd have reached a town in a minute. But now I'd gone so far in this direction I had to keep going. I wasn't sure the car could fight its way back to the Interstate.

  When I'd first seen the menorah tree, the clock on my dashboard had shown near five. As I glanced at the clock again, I winced when I saw near six. Christ, just a few more hours of light, and even if I found a garage, the chances were it wouldn't stay open after six. Premonitions squeezed my chest. I should have stayed on the Interstate, I thought.
There at least, if the car broke down, I could have flagged down someone going by and asked them to send a tow truck. Here, I hadn't seen any traffic. Visions of a night spent at the side of the road in my disabled car were dismally matched by the wearying prospect of the long hike back to the Interstate. I'd been planning to drive all night in hopes of reaching home in Iowa City by noon tomorrow, but if my luck kept turning sour, I might not get there for at best another day and likely more, supposing the engine was as bad as the roar made it seem. I had to find a phone and tell my wife not to worry when I didn't reach home at the time I'd said I would. My thoughts became more urgent. I had to —

  That's when I saw the building. In the distance. Hard to make out, a vague rectangular object, but unmistakably a building, its metal roof reflecting the glint of the lowering sun. Then I saw another building, and another. Trees. Thank God, a town. My heart pounded almost as hard as the engine rattled. I clutched the steering wheel, frantically trying to control it, lurching past a water tower and an empty cattle pen. The buildings became distinct: houses, a car lot, a diner.

  And a service station where I lurched to a raw-nerved stop, my hands still shaking from the vibrations of the steering wheel. I shut off the engine, grateful for the sudden quiet, and noticed two men at the pump, their backs to me. Self-conscious about my beard stubble and my sweat-drenched clothes, I got out wearily to ask directions.

  They had their backs to me. That should have told me right away that something was wrong. I'd made such a racket pulling up it wasn't normal for them not to turn, curious, wondering what the hell was coming.

  But they didn't, and I was too exhausted for my instincts to jangle, warning me. Stiff-legged, I approached them. "Excuse me," I said. "I guess you can tell I've got some trouble. Is the mechanic still on duty?"

  Neither turned or answered.

  They must have heard me, I thought. All the same, I repeated louder. "The mechanic. Is he still on duty?"

  No response.

  For Christ sake, are they deaf or what? So I walked around to face them.

  Even as they pivoted to show me their backs again, I gaped. Because I'd seen a brief glimpse of their faces. Oh, my God. I felt as if an ice cold needle had pierced my spine. I've never seen a leper. All the same, from what I've read, I imagine a leper might have been less ugly than what I was looking at. Ugly isn't strong enough to describe what I saw. Not just the swollen goiter bulging from each throat like an obscene Adam's apple. Not just the twisted jaws and cheekbones or the massive lumps on their forehead. Or the distended lips and misshapen nostrils. Worse, their skin itself seemed rotten, gray and mushy. Like open festering sores.

  I nearly gagged. My throat contracted so I couldn't breath. Get control, I told myself. Whatever's wrong with them, it's not their fault. Don't gape like a six-year-old who's never seen someone malformed before. Obviously that's why they didn't want to look at me. Because they hated the disgusted reaction, the awful sickened stare.

  They faced the door to the service station now, and I certainly wasn't about to walk in front of them again, so I repeated, "The mechanic. Where is he?"

  As one, they each raised their right arm and pointed horribly twisted fingers toward the right, toward a gravel road that led out of town, parallel to the Interstate miles away.

  Well, damn it, I thought. I'm sorry about what's happened to you. I wish there was some way to help you, but right now I need help myself, and you two guys are rude.

  I stalked away, my head beginning to ache, my throat feeling raw. A quick glance at my watch showed seven o'clock. The sun, of course, was lower. If I didn't find a mechanic soon…

  Across the street, on the corner, I saw a restaurant. Perhaps too kind a word. Greasy spoon would have been more accurate. The windows looked grimy. The posters for Pepsi and Schlitz looked ten years old. BAR-B-CUE, a dingy neon sign said. Why not shorten it, I thought, to B.B.C., which if you change the c to g stands for botulism and bad gas?

  And why not stop with the jokes? You might be eating there tonight.

  That's almost funny now. Eating, I mean. Dear God, I don't know how long I can stand this.

  … So I walked across the dusty street and opened the fly-covered creaky screen door, peering in at five customers. "Hey, anybody know where — "

  The words caught in my throat. My mind reeled. Because the customers had already shifted, turning, with their backs to me — and these had humps and twisted spines and shoulders wrenched in directions nature had never intended. In shock, I hurriedly glanced at the waitress behind the corner, and she'd turned her back as well. The mirror, though. The goddamn mirror. Her face reflecting off it seemed the result of a hideous genetic experiment. She had no jaw. And only one eye. I stumbled back, letting the door swing shut with a creak and a bang, my mind still retaining the terrible impression of — it couldn't be — two slits where there should have been a nose.

  I'll make this quick. Everywhere I went, growing ever more apprehensive, I found monsters. The town was like a hundred horror movies squeezed together. Lon Chaney's worst makeup inventions almost seemed normal by comparison. The island of Dr. Moreau would have been a resort for beauty contest winners.

  Jesus.

  Eight o'clock. The eastern sky was turning gray. The western horizon was the red of blood. I wondered if I'd gone insane. A town of monsters, no one speaking to me, everyone turning away, most pointing toward the gravel road that headed east out of town.

  Appalled, I scrambled into the Porsche, turned the key, and the rest hadn't done the car any good. If anything, the engine roared and shuddered more extremely. Stomach scalding, I prayed. Although the Porsche shook and protested, it blessedly managed to move.

  A town, I thought. Maybe there's another town a few miles along that gravel road. Maybe that's why they pointed down there.

  I rattled and heaved and jolted out of town, switching on my emergency flashers, although I didn't know why since I'd seen no traffic. All the same, with dusk coming on, it didn't hurt to be careful.

  A quarter mile. Then half a mile. That's as far as I got before the engine failed completely. It's probable that only one cylinder was working by then. I'd hear a bang, then three silent beats, then another bang and three more silent beats. With every bang, the car crept forward a little. Then it finally wheezed and coasted to a stop. The motor pinged from the heat. A Porsche doesn't have a radiator, but I swear I heard a hiss.

  And that was that, stuck in the middle of nowhere, a town of horrors behind me, an empty landscape ahead of me, and an Interstate God knew how far away.

  With night approaching.

  On the prairie.

  I've said I was frightened. But then I got mad. At my luck and the guy in Lander who'd "fixed" my car, at me and my stupidity for having left the highway, not to mention my failure to think ahead when I was back in town. I should have bought some soft drinks anyhow, some candy bars and potato chips or something — anything to keep from starving all night out here in the dark. A beer. Hell, considering the way I felt, a six-pack. Might as well get shit-faced.

  Angry, I stepped from the car. I leaned against a fender and lit a cigarette and cursed. Eight-thirty now. Dusk thickened. What was I going to do?

  I try to convince myself I was being logical. By nine, I'd made my choice. The town was only half a mile away. Ten minutes' walk at most. If that stupid BAR-B-CUE had stayed open, I could still get some beer and chips. At the moment, I didn't care how revolting those people looked. I'd be damned if I was going to spend the night out here with my stomach rumbling. That'd be one discomfort too many.

  So I walked, and when I reached the outskirts, night at last had fallen. The lights were on in the BAR-B-CUE; at least my luck hadn't failed entirely. Or so I thought, because the lights quickly went off as I came closer. Swell, I thought in disgust.

  The place stayed dark.

  But then the door creaked open. The waitress — a vague white shape — stepped out. She locked the door behind her. I a
lmost asked if she'd mind waiting so I could buy some food. Naturally I assumed she hadn't seen me. That's why she surprised me when she turned.

  I blinked, astonished. In contrast with the way the town had treated me, she actually spoke. Her voice was frail and wispy, the words slurred, suggestive of a cleft palate or a hair lip. "I saw you," she said. "Through the window. Coming back." Maybe I imagined it, but her whispered cadence sounded musical.

  And this is important, too. Although we faced each other, the street had no lights, and the darkness had thickened enough that I couldn't see her features. For the first time since I'd arrived in town, I felt as if I was having a normal conversation. It wasn't hard to pretend, as long as I forced myself not to remember the horror of what she looked like.

  I managed a shrug, a laugh of despair. "My car broke down. I'm stuck out there." Although I knew she couldn't see my gesture, I pointed down the pitch dark road. "I hoped you'd still be open so I could get something to eat."

  She didn't answer for a moment. Then abruptly she said, "I'm sorry. The owner closed a half hour ago. I stayed to clean up and get things ready for tomorrow. The grill's cold."

  "But just some beer? Potato chips or something?"

  "Can't. The cash register's empty."

  "But I don't care about change. I'll pay you more than the stuff is worth."

  Again she didn't answer for a moment. "Beer and potato chips?"

  "Please." My hopes rose. "If you wouldn't mind."

  "While you spend the night in your car?"

  "Unless there's a hotel."

  "There isn't. You need a decent meal, a proper place to sleep. Considering the trouble you're in."

  She paused. I remember the night was silent. Not even crickets sang.

  "I live alone," she said, her cadence even more musical. "You can sleep on the sofa in the living room. I'll broil a steak for you."

  "I couldn't," I said. The thought of seeing her face again filled me with panic.