Charlie (SHORT HORROR STORY)

Charlie

The road was ancient, the pavement at least a half century well into need of repair. It wound around olden trees, gray and drooping from the mists of autumn air; a canopy of dead leaves danced above the asphalt. It was beautiful in the daylight, filled with golden colors and excited wildlife, but the nightly skeletal silhouettes of dead trees did little to comfort the man.

He leisurely drives along the road, and had traveled on this familiar highway a dozen times, but he had never felt this potent, foreboding pressure on his chest as he does now. Anxiety swells against his ribs, pressing down on his stomach, and he feels sick for some anomalous reason. Why does he feel like the shadows of the trees casted by the yellowing headlights would consume his car whole? Why does he feel like monsters would materialize from the trunks of the blackened greenery to eat him alive?

The night had been going well. He'd met for a date with a man he found at a park – Charlie, his name was, a nickname - at an obscure, lodge-like restaurant outside of town. He had laughed throughout their dinner, one filled with red-cheeked flirtation and messy platters. Charlie was endearingly shy. Barely a word had escaped his mouth that night, but he had smiled and seemed to enjoy himself. It was the first successful date the man had had in his recent string of failed romantic ventures, and he felt a connection to his Charlie, one that made his stomach flutter. Remnant alcohol airily floats through his system, making his head light and vision unfocused, which is surely to blame for his apprehension.

His lights catch an obscure object, rendering it a brilliant shade of green. Granville 11 Miles. What a strange object to see, one indicating civilization and modernity, here in forgotten woods. With a crank and cry from protesting gears, he rolls a sliver of the window down, allowing a cool breeze to cut through the cabin's stale atmosphere and his radio's notes to escape into the wilderness. His thumbs drum against the steering wheel as he tunelessly hums the beat, feigning sanguineness as his eyes study every casted shadow and hint of movement. A feeling of claustrophobia closes in about him, imprisoning him.

Another green sign flashes by, though he does not bother to read it. He had ridden this road a dozen times. He knew what was coming. He knew what he was passing.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand alert, and he can't tell if he is imagining the cold breath that whispers on his skin. His stomach solidifies, and his eyes slowly trail to his mirror. No one and no thing. No one is there. Trepidation moistens his hairline, and his head twists around to look into the back seat, and there, lying in the floorboard, is the figure of a man under a rough, gray blanket.

His head whips to the dashboard. Oh, God. Not me, not me. This was the work of fiction, stories meant to grip your stomach and throw it into your throat with dread and fear. Could it be a petty burglar, maybe a homeless man? Now his stomach was in his mouth, and he could taste rancid curdles of bile.

Terror widens his eyes and freezes the sickening taste on his tongue as a memory floats into his consciousness. Authorities have launched a statewide manhunt for accused serial killer, Teddy Manson. Residents of Granville are advised to be home by dusk and strengthen home security. Never travel alone, especially at night. The news had streamed coverage of this man for months, but the only change to their story was the body count: two to six to twelve. Please, dear God ... his eyes searched heavenward for protection. Don't let me be thirteen.

He struggles against his seat, digging deep into his pocket for his phone. A blinking blue light fills the dark cabin, erupting from an empty triangle on the screen. Of course I wouldn't have any service, of freaking course. A spark of inspiration bursts into his mind, but a grim realization soon fills its place. Your weapons are at the cabin. You're screwed.