The Man in the Backseat (#FreeYourShorts #horrorthriller)

Quinque

        You pull up to a dark, formidable cabin deep in the heart of the woods. Ivy coats the rotting wooden exterior like a sickly green cancer. A jagged brick chimney juts out of the collapsing roof like an undead hand. You swear you see a a tumbleweed roll ever so slowly across the desolate landscape.

        The man claps his hands once. "This is it!" he exclaims cheerily.

        You attempt to swallow the huge lump that's taken host in your throat. "Okay, can I go now?" you ask tentatively, nerves on edge.

         "Well of course!" He tosses you a carefree and sincere grin, but his eyes tell a different story. "Can you just grab my bag out of your trunk? There are some heavy tools in there, to, you know, fix up the house, but I twisted my arm carrying it here."

         Your mind screams at you not to listen to him, because how did he get in your trunk? And why did he lay down in the back of your car if he just wanted to hitchhike? And why, oh why, did he ask you to bring him to this hellhole in obvious disrepair? There's no fixing that! Your reasonable side wars with your helpful, yet irrevocably stupid side. You feel so conflicted, and the tiniest bit anxious.

         "Well?"

         "I'll pop the trunk, and you can get it," you suggest, your voice cracking.

         "But my arm," he implores, shooting you a look filled with pain.

         Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't-

         "Okay." You push open your door and climb slowly out of the car. A plan begins to formulate in your mind. If you can just get the trunk open, he won't be able to see you from his seat. And then you can run. You can run, run, run like you've never run before. You'll run until your legs turn to mush, until your lungs catch fire. You'll run until you collapse. You'll run, because that is the only way you'll get out of this. 

         And you have to get out of this. You promised your mother you'd get home safe when you told her not to worry.

        And that's a promise you will keep.

        You press the little silver button on the base of the trunk, and it pops open with a soft click. You nudge it up all the way and check to see if he can see you. 

        Nope. His hands are in his lap, but there's something clasped in them. It looks like... a bottle?

        Doesn't matter. Checking one last time to ensure his vision of you is insubstantial, you turn swiftly on your heel and book it into the forest.

_________________________________

      Sweat pours down your neck. Your T-shirt is drenched and clings to you like a tic to a deer. Adrenaline rages through your body like an out of control wildfire, setting your nerves and instincts ablaze. You know that if you stop, your legs will turn to overcooked spaghetti and you'll plummet to the rocky forest floor and never be able to get back up again. You know that if you stop, he will find you.

      And he can't find you.

      You don't know how long you've been running, but the weight of exhaustion pushing down on your body makes it seem like hours. You've gone down countless roads, navigated an unlimited amount of twists and turns, and turned your muscles to jelly. But who cares about all of that? All that matters is that you get out of this alive. That's enough to continue to stimulate the adrenaline supply slowly dwindling in your fatigued body.

      But you're hit with a sudden wave of burnout, causing you to fall to your knees. A sharp piece of rock immediately slices the surface of your right knee, shredding your jeans and unleashing a bloom of crimson. You cry out in pain as you cradle your wounded knee to your stomach. Examining it, you find that it's only a shallow gash.

       But your clumsiness will be your enemy.

       Snap.

       Your ears suddenly prick up to the sound of a branch that's been stepped on. It couldn't have been far.

       You stop breathing. A fresh batch of fear clouds your mind as you struggle to stay as quiet as possible. No matter what, you must not make a sound.  It's a battle of the wills to silence your hammering heart, beating like a jackhammer trying to break free of your sternum.

       Snap.

       This one was even closer.

        And that's when time seems to stop. The air drops several degrees, and you swear you can see your breath plume before you in a misty puff of air when you exhale.

       And then

       hands. One coils around your throat like a boa constrictor while the other presses a damp, noxious-smelling cloth over your mouth and nose. 

       You know you shouldn't breathe. And you don't, at least for a few seconds. But your chest begins to squeeze from the lack of oxygen, and your head feels as if it might pop off your shoulders.

       So you gulp in lungfuls of air, the toxins quickly swirling down your windpipe. Your eyelids become heavy, like lead weights have been placed on them. 

       And then the world goes black.