Page 45 of Trip Through Your Wires

I forgot there was anything out this way, until the directions I scribbled using the folded up map in the glove box reminded me. As I drove, resting stops with picnic tables and boarded up fruit stands stirred memories of camping and fishing trips with my Daddy and brothers. Moments not lost, but forgotten over time, waiting to be discovered again.

Looking back down at the card, however, I can’t help but wonder if I’d gotten the directions wrong because the once vibrant station is eerily quiet. I haven’t seen a car for miles, and there are no birds in the sky. Even the bugs seem to have abandoned this place.

After double checking my directions and seeing I have everything right, I get out of the car to look around. Pebbles crunch underfoot as I place both feet on the ground and when I push up from the driver’s seat and close the door, I’m hit with a wall of heat.

The temperature is different inland than it is by the coast; the air steamy and hot, even though it’s mid-February. “The swamp makes its own weather,” Daddy said once during one of those trips, long ago. “Don’t find yourself out here alone, sugar.”

He was right. It was easy to become dehydrated out here, and without the right clothing, you could get bit or stung by something, which could be catastrophic. Just last year a couple went hiking, only to be found days later on the brink of death because the dummies were in shorts and forgot to carry water.

I may have been a bit of a rule breaker, but I always remembered his warnings. When taking a road trip I always brought a thermos of water and kept extra layers in the trunk. But today, driven by a burning curiosity, I found myself out here with nothing more than a windbreaker and questions and I wanted to kick myself.

Stuffing the card in my back pocket, I take off my coat, tie it around my waist, and look down at my feet. Thank goodness I’d come from the store because I was in jeans and Docs. At least my legs and feet were protected.

I make my way toward the station, passing an old pay phone under the portico, and coming to a stop in front of the boarded up door with the word CLOSED etched into one of the wood slats. When I peek through a small opening and can’t see a thing, I walk along the side of the structure and crawl up onto an old ice box with a cracked Coca-Cola logo and try to get a better look.

Leaning in, I cup my hands on either side of my face and look through a still in-tact piece of glass. Judging by the state of things inside, the station’s been closed for some time. The shelves are empty, there are wood crates turned over on the floor, and the area around the register has been picked dry like it was looted during an apocalypse. Even a possum scurries across the floor in search of a better place.

Hopping down, I go around to the back, and when I reach a door that has not been boarded up, I grab the screen and pull it open. As I check the doorknob, I hear a shrill whistle in the distance. Whipping my head around, I scan the horizon but don’t see anything. As I turn my attention back to the door, I hear it again.

Turning around slowly, I scan the horizon carefully, and in the distance spot a man in a suit, standing under a grove of trees at the edge of the swamp.

“What…do…you…want?” I yell, saying each word slowly so they carry.

“He’s…waiting!” he shouts back.

“Who?” I throw both hands in the air.

“Rich…er…son,” he says with a wave. “Come on!”

It’s a relief to know I’m at the right place, and at the same time, annoying. Why the hell would he bring me all the way out here, and summon me into the swamp, nonetheless? And who is this dude in the suit?

I take a couple of steps, then stop. What if he’s a hitman? What if Richardson was taking up the mantle of his son and preying on young girls and this guy was here to do his dirty work and dispose of my body? The idea wasn’t all that crazy if you think about it. Apples tend not to fall far from the tree.

Then again, Langston Richardson is a narcissist. He is all about self-preservation. It’s why he went on the run when the stories of Elmhurst hit the news. If he were a crazed killer like his son, he wouldn’t have left any kind of a trail, and coming into the store would have done just that. Surely someone saw him and at minimum, the security cameras my parents installed a few years back would have captured his visit.

“Where…is…he?” I shout.

The man points toward the trees.

“Oh, hell no,” I shake my head. “If he thinks I’m going in there, he’s…”

My thought falls short when I spot a building beyond where the man is standing. It’s painted the same color of the trees, blending in like camouflage. It’s a strange place for a dwelling. Then again, the swamp was a world of its own. Secrets could be trapped forever under fallen trees and sludge filled water ways. If Richardson wanted a place to hide, the swamp would be the perfect place to do it.

Hoping karma doesn’t bite me in the ass and I don’t wind up like some dumb bitch in a horror movie that ignores all the warnings and heads into the woods alone, I start down a trail that leads away from the station and toward the swamp.

I hold my hands at my sides, ready to defend if needed. One good thing about having brothers was they taught me how to protect myself. I know how to grab a snake before it strikes and how to get out of a man’s hold by stomping down on their instep and slamming the back of my head into theirs.

Hoping it doesn’t come to any of that, I walk carefully, my attention alert, and when I reach the edge of the swamp, I’m enveloped by a suffocating humidity. With the sun disappearing above the thick canopy of vines and leaves, the air has nowhere to escape to and I feel like I’ve stepped into the belly of a furnace.

“Take your sweet time, did ya?” the man says impatiently, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.

Now that I’m closer, I can see him more clearly, and wish I couldn’t. He gives off classic creeper vibes, with a gap in his front teeth and a scar over one eye, and he is sweating enough for the both of us.

“Where is he?” I reply, not dignifying his question with a response.

“Inside.” He jerks his head toward the structure. “Come on. Time is money.”

I flick my eyes to the building in front of me and now that I can see it more clearly, it appears harmless. But so did the farmhouse in Texas Chainsaw Massacre and I could be walking into a trap.

---