Honor the Horrors of the Internet

Gumjaw

Night materialized over Interstate 8. Frank Gibber peered out at the Arizona desert as he drove, his mind thinking of getting home from his business trip. His van suddenly stalled and came to a complete stop, his check-engine light began to flash.

"Dammit," he exclaimed.

Frank reached to open the driver door and stopped himself as he immediately thought of the Urban Legends and horror stories that involved people leaving their vehicle at night to never see day again. Maybe I can call for help, he thought as he pulled out his cell phone. His signal had no bars.

"Of course," he blurted out to himself.

Frank used various things from his travel case and around the van to cover all of the windows. He crawled in the back and tucked himself in, underneath a blanket. He decided that he'd wait until it was light to go find help. Frank Gibber was nearly asleep when his van began to rock back and forth. The spare blanket he had used to cover the windshield fell off and he saw a furry, clawed hand smack against the windshield. The windshield cracked, but held. A fearful Frank shrunk himself under the blanket. Something scraping against the van could be heard.

7 AM rolled around and the sunlight shone into the van through the windshield. The warmth of the sunlight bathed Frank's blanket, its warmth calmed him. Frank came out from underneath the blanket and slowly peeled the makeshift covers off the windows. He saw nothing but road and desert for miles, that was both good and bad.

After grabbing a few essentials, Frank cautiously stepped out of the van. His van was shot. Scratch marks adorned the metal work, the back left tire was shredded, the backdoors were decorated with dents that appeared to have come from large fists, and the windshield was cracked.

"What the hell did I manage to avoid?"

Faced with no alternative, Frank Gibber walked north on the I-8 longing for his wife. The further he walked, the more animal carcasses he found. Initially Frank was unfazed, he became disturbed when he noticed a similarity between them all. The teeth were missing. His gut told him that whatever had assaulted his van was responsible, and that the same fate awaited him if he couldn't find refuge before nightfall.

After walking for hours, Frank's water supplies were naught and his walking had been reduced to staggering. He'd nearly given up hope after he'd staggered for what felt like miles. His hope was restored when he managed to spot a house in the distance. Frank dizzily rang the doorbell. He silently prayed that someone would answer. His prayer was answered when the door swung open to reveal a well aged man in his boxers. Frank's mind raced with horror stories of recluses that ate people.

"Please, don't eat me," Frank managed as he succumbed to dehydration.

Frank's eyes opened. He slowly took in his surroundings to find that they were unfamiliar. All he knew was that he was in a house. The power was out and the owner was nowhere to be seen. As he slowly rose from the couch he heard a crash to his right. He turned and immediately spotted a furry fist that had crashed through a window. The fist un-balled and extended a clawed middle finger as the hand slowly retracted from the window. The whole house began to shake; the shaking was followed by loud roars that were coming from outside. The shaking stopped and the front door splintered open as Frank's van crashed through it and part of the wall.

The driver door opened and out stepped—Frank's eyes shot open as he awoke from his nightmare, to a loud piercing sound that he realized to be his own screams. The aging man he had seen earlier was now fully clothed and walked over to him while shushing.

Frank blinked a couple of times to clear his head, "You're clothed now."

"I was doing laundry when you showed. It isn't like I ever get visitors out here. Well, welcome visitors anyway," the man replied in a southern accent.