the series of r/nosleep | volume one: the {smile} series

{G}remlin

A '61 Eldorado, red with white interior, housing a 429 cu in V8, pushing all those pretty horses to whitewall tires wrapped around some clean chrome rims. That's what should be in this garage, not some rusted AMC hatchback that was put together by a design team just competent enough to make every angle displeasing to the average eye. Four mismatched tires drooping and worn cling to life around brown 15" rims. The car sits so low to the ground that the front fender, if that's what it's even considered since it's just a plastic flap, grinds atop not only speed bumps but any bump in the road higher than two inches. It was originally white, but one of the hundred or so owners along the way painted it black, so now it looks like a miniature hearse, which is fitting, I guess, given where it's parked.

If you ignore the big hearse, the little hearse, the stack of economy coffins, and the whatever-the-fuck-that-is growling at me from the corner, this garage would be just like every other two-car rectangular box on this street. We've got two electric door-openers, though only one currently works, ceiling racks for bicycles we never ride, and a refrigerator full of cheap beer that I was trying to empty 12-ounces at a time before I was cornered behind this 1977 AMC Shitbucket. God, I wish I bought the Caddy. I had the option. I mean, the car itself wasn't an option, but I had an option. I could marry the mysterious girl with the perfect ass, or live out bachelorhood drinking cheap beer and driving around in a bright red convertible – God, I wish I bought the Caddy.

And now... Well, now I'm bleeding out between the big hearse that came with her job, and the little hearse that came with our wedding. Her dad did a little work on the side, a little "I scratch your back you scratch mine" business transaction for some joker twenty years before I said "I do", and this jackrabbit decides to gift us his beloved car for our wedding as a present? Whatever happened to toaster ovens and timeshares? I wonder what Jon would've given us if Old Papa Reynolds did a bit more than change a handful of CODs.

I know one thing for sure; if I hadn't married her I wouldn't be sitting in my boxers on a concrete floor drinking the warm remains of what is probably my last beer ever. And it's a light beer. Seriously, I should've bought that damn Caddy. What's the last thing I said to her? I know it wasn't "Have a good day at work", because for her to have a good day that means a lot of people have to die, and I'm just not that into profit I guess. I should be sad, right? Like, I should be thinking of all the happy times we had; the dancing, the vacations, the parties, and all the other stuff that never happened.

It's moving again; slinking along the back wall like I can't see it glowing in the light of the open fridge door. I don't get the whole "stalk your prey" in this scenario. I'm obviously unarmed. Hell, I'm not even wearing pants. My only weapon is an almost empty beer can, and unless this thing plans on giving me a refill I think I'll hold on to it, thank you very much. And it's not like crumpled aluminum is going to do much damage on something like that. Was that its fingernails or some weapon? And why did it smell like smoke?

I lose sight of it for a minute as I swallow down the last of my beer and then something drops on the other side of the big hearse; a wet bag slapping on the concrete. There's a whimper, a gargling howl, and then silence again. I consider being scared but I think I'm either too blitzed or too dead already to care.

I look at the empty can in my hand. Ah, hell. Might as well give it a shot. I toss the can over my shoulder like it's a grenade from a bunker and plug my ears. It clinks across the floor, and the laughter hurts my stomach. Something long and ropey falls from the gash along my midsection, and my laughing stops. I have to scoop the rope up with my left hand and try to gently push it back in. This hurts much worse than I'd like it to, but, y'know, what are you gonna do? My fault for laughing in the first place, I guess. Once everything is back in, or at least not falling out onto my lap, I hold the cut closed with my fingers; pinching it along the edges until the skin turns white. My head starts to swim. Am I drunk or is this the end? A little bit of column A and a little column B probably.