Frightful Fables: Flash Fiction

Let Me In

As a person of color, I tend to choose my rest stops wisely. Old habits die hard in the small mountain towns I pass through for work. As dated as it sounds, I sell encyclopedias. Yes, that's still a thing. It started as a hobby, and – well, the rest is history.

I had passed a rusty sign welcoming me to Wieuca when I noticed the sedan trailing me. It was a real wreck on wheels, and its hazy headlights glinted in my rearview. I wasn't speeding; my lights were functioning. I knew I was in for trouble when the siren blared, but I would be in for more trouble if I didn't comply. A ball of dread swelled in my stomach as I veered off to the dirt shoulder.

The officer scraped along, a lanky form dressed in crisp blue and black. I lifted my gaze and forced a grin - careful not to offend - but he did not smile back. His knuckles rapped the glass with an unsettling sense of urgency. Something was off.

"Let me in," he said, and tapped again. His voice was insistent, and his eyes turned to ice. "You gotta let me in." His top lip curled ever so slightly, revealing a snaggled tooth that overlapped the bottom.

I hit the gas, sending the officer reeling, and I didn't look back. I drove with manic energy, ignoring the brake pedal until the neon light of the Donny's Saloon sign bathed my windshield in pink. By this time of night, the patrons had imbibed sufficiently so that they didn't notice my breathless entrance. Except the bartender. Explaining the bizarre encounter I'd just had on the outskirts of town, he eyed me with curiosity.

"Wieuca? That's a ghost town," he said. "There's no police there."