Page 25 of Cruel Cravings

I cut off the radio, my nerves twisted up inside me.

Both hands tight on the wheel, I focus on what lays ahead.

The highway stretches endlessly into the dark. The lane rolls beneath me like an unraveling black ribbon. The headlights of the station wagon carve out a narrow path ahead, guiding me through the pitch-black night.

No other cars pass by.

I’m once again alone, pondering if anyone else is alive out there.

I should stop. I know I should. I’ve been driving for hours and the needle on the fuel gauge hovers dangerously close to empty.

More motels whiz by from the sidelines of the highway, the rates seemingly lower and lower. Fifty bucks a night, forty bucks a night, thirty…

The thought of locking myself in another room with thin walls and dim lights makes my stomach churn.

I have to keep going. I have a destination in mind, and once I get there, I can finally turn the tables.

The paranoia comes in waves, crashing over me like a high tide. Sometimes I feel almost strangely calm, almost borderline sedated. But then I glance at the rearview mirror and my chest tightens all over again.

Every shadow belongs to him. Every dark shape in the night must be him.

The monotony of the road starts to lull me into a dangerous haze. My eyelids grow heavy, my head nodding forward before I jerk upright, forcing myself awake. I crack a window to allow the cold night air in, stinging my face, but it doesn’t help.

The semi-truck comes out of nowhere.

The blare of its horn shatters the quiet. I jump in my seat and jerk the wheel, swerving hard to the right. The station wagon’s tires screech against the asphalt. The truck roars past me, its headlights glaring in the side mirror, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.

My heart slams against my ribs as I attempt to pull back into my lane, hands shaking as I try to right my wrong.

It’s too late. I’ve veered off the highway toward the treeline. I slam desperately on the brakes and brace myself for impact.

The station wagon lurches to a halt at the last possible second, the front bumper smashing against the trunk of a tree. The airbag deploys. Smoke rises from the hood. The air fills with the smell of it and burned rubber.

I twist the key and find the engine dead.

“No,” I mutter. “Fuck, don’t die now!”

But as I twist the key again and again to restart the car, dread mounts. Panic spreads. A cool sweat beads from my skin. I can’tbreathe as I shake my head and then glance into the rear view mirror, already aware of what I will find.

He’s come.

He stands among the deep shadows of the wooded area, backlit only by the single lamppost on the side of the highway, his head the shape of a minotaur’s, horns and all.

He starts toward me.

I shake my head, on the verge of passing out.

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

Pebbles and grass crunch beneath his large feet. His stride is long and slow yet he gains ground quickly.

I abandon the station wagon altogether, deciding to run for it. This isn’t at all what I had in mind, but what other choice do I have?

I dart out from the car and make it only a few steps before my feet leave the ground. I’m slammed against the side of the wagon, his massive hand clenching shut around my throat. My eyes widen looking up at him, finding his face shrouded in darkness.

He’s wearing the mask again.

“Please,” I sob. “Don’t hurt me.”

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