Creepy - Shake Well Before Using

Episode Date: July 7, 2025

Shake Well Before Using***Written by: Sam Logan and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***New Stuff, Every Day***Written by: J. Scott King***Lull Road***Written by: Jordan Decker and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. For our first story this evening, when a high school senior discovers a new paint mixer at her job, she soon finds herself caught between cosmic horror and workplace creeps.

Creepy presents, shake well before using. Written by Sam Logan and narrated by Heather Thomas. It was a slow day in the prime and shine paint store. except for the intrusive commands that were implanted directly in my brain like a compulsive thought that I had no control over. No obvious source of the articulation. Silent and directionless. Feed me.

Despite the lack of sound waves to carry the command, my brain was like a metal detector that sensed its source through proximity. The Mixmaster Turbo, Model 39408-09202. The two-and-one industrial paint mixer and shaker arrived earlier in the day, and I was tasked with setting it up before closing the store when my shift ended. The mom-and-pop paint store had served our sleepy little town on Chesapeake Bay for nearly 50 years. The small brick building was nestled up against a row of other stores on Main Street. This after-school job was usually a boring exercise and matching, mixing, and shaking paints for customers.

But today was different. I stood in the middle of the island that served as the primary workstation, and I was the master of its domain. The register, computer, and reference books of colors and sheens were at my fingertips, behind a scratched wood counter that flipped up to get in and out. I pulled my long, dark, truffle-brown hair in a ponytail, and rolled up the sleeves of my blondie shirt. Debbie Harry was so hot. Still is, for that matter. Debbie's iconic face peaked out from behind my flirt alert red apron.

Catching my reflection in the blink computer monitor that had fallen asleep from disuse, I was dressed like I was on any other day. Band t-shirt, black jeans, black car heart boots, and no more than a splash of makeup to accentuate, but not highlight my feminine features. I opted for an artsy neo-goth punk aesthetic lately that made me look like I've belonged working behind a register at a record store, but our town didn't have one of those. Overhead fluorescent lights burned bright and illuminated the wall of color samples. The rainbow

presentation of miniature cards was pleasing to look at, and I often caught myself staring in their direction. An enlarged prime and shine logo with black lettering and a vibrant laser lemon yellow sun with paintbrush strokes for rays covered the opposite wall. The store always had an artificial and institutional smell that permeated the air, a combination of disinfectant and latex. Shaves of paint supplies were always well stocked and tidy. Careful swipes with an Xacto knife, and the Mixmaster was unboxed. Its shark fin gray frame was a perfect square about the size of a mini-fridge. A row of knobs with a small display screen lined the top edge of the front-facing side. With the door closed, a glass pane provided a window into

the unit to monitor its function. Hoses, computer cables, and the power supply were all securely connected after a few minutes of effort. I opened the Mixmaster's stainless steel door to examine the inside compartment. The chrome interior was polished like it just came off the assembly line, and my warped reflection stared back at me. Messing around, I put my head in as far as it could go. Perfect fit. About to shut the door? I caught a glance of a scratch on one of the inside walls. A closer inspection revealed a sketch, similar to Leonardo da Vinci's The Vitruvian Man,

etched into the metal that stared back at me. A combination of Latin script and strange symbols like runes floated around the image like an elven incantation. Tracing my fingers along the scratches sent a tingling sensation racing up my arm, then spread out towards the rest of my body. The Vitruvian man's arms and legs stuttered and flattered, then flapped in jerky movements, like it was going to peel itself off the slick metal surface. The surrounding script pulsed like a heartbeat.

Vision blurred. Burnt rubber slicked my tongue. Its metal grip softened, and senses returned to near baseline. Shaking my head cleared the fog, but it only released me to do its bidding. For a moment I questioned whether any of this. had actually happened. My overactive imagination served me well in Call of Cthulhu role-playing campaigns, but it was not exactly helpful on this particular afternoon. It wasn't like the Mixmaster was a sentient entity from beyond the cosmos and hell-bent on creating chaos and destruction. I mean, that sounded

metal a. F. But I couldn't be that lucky. Gary pushed, with unnecessary force, the swinging door, that separated the storage room from the showroom of the paint store. He strutted to the island workstation and flipped up the countertop to join me. An unkempt salt and pepper beard and glossy bald head betrayed his late stage middle age. He inherited the family business when his parents retired a few years ago. The abrupt entrance of Gary cleared any lingering cobwebs from my interaction with the Mixmaster. What the hell was that anyway? Most of me was disappointed with the interruption.

I'd rather be under the mind control of some interdimensional energy creature than forced to talk to this real-life goblin. Gary, noticing my Debbie Harry shirt, seized the moment to share his love for Blondie, reminiscing about seeing them live in Philadelphia in 1982. He noticed my Debbie Harry shirt and used it as an excuse to stare at my chest. Blondie's ex-offender played on the story. store's stereo system. How fitting. Yeah, they're cool, I replied. I would have ripped off this

shirt in a heartbeat if I didn't think that Gary would enjoy it so much. He always did this, tried to be a normal person who didn't jack off to underage girls in his spare time, if his social media likes were any indication. He just couldn't help himself, liking beach photos of me and my friends. It was like he wanted me to know that he saw my post. and enjoyed the thinly veiled power move. Total creepo. That's for sure, oh. He gestured toward the white cards on the counter

and inquired about any new exciting ideas from the suggestion box. One of my weekly tasks was to empty the wood container that hung near the front door. The box had a small slot on top for a confidential drop-off, and the panel in the front was secured with a tiny combination lock. No, not really, I replied. Never once had I read a helpful suggestion.

Most weeks the box was empty. This time there were two cards that read, Hot ass and nice tits. I couldn't prove it, but I was convinced it was Gary fucking with me. It was totally something he would do. Lingering behind me longer than necessary, Gary sniffed my hair as he passed by. He probably thought he was sly about it, but he wasn't.

An involuntary stress pretzel twisted itself around my organs. Gary stroked Cookie as she slept in her cat bed on the counter, and they reciprocated purrs. She was a 14-year-old tabby cat, one continuous swirl of orange and white like a creamsicle. Cookie spent her days roaming the aisles, soaking up affection from strangers and napping. It wasn't her fault, but I hated to be around her and fought the urge to keep. kick her any time she rubbed up against my ankles. She smelled faintly like a mixture of old spice and pine saw, odors that seeped out with excess from Gary's pores and rubbed into her fur from all his touching. He couldn't keep his hands off her, and she loved the attention.

The only pussy that showed any interest in him. Gary used the customer restroom that was on the wall closest to the service counter, where I continued my tasks. I'll never understand why he never used the fan. His zipper purred, and the sound cut through the otherwise silent store. The constant sound of urine tinkling into the toilet bowl was only interrupted by the mild groans of relief that escaped Gary's lips. Most telling, there were no sounds of a thunk indicating the toilet lid was put down, nor the sink faucet running before he re-emerged. Absolutely feral behavior, and not fit for moving about in

general society. Gary looked around and saw that there were no customers in the store, before asking me when I would turn 18. You're so disgusting, I said. Nervous laughter escaped, but it was all I could muster in the moment. Of course, I'm sure Gary interpreted the chuckle as playing along, when in reality it was a manifestation of the absolute dread I felt every time he opened his mouth and revealed those string cheese yellow teeth. He attempted to backpedal, claiming that he was just curious and thought I might want the

day off, trying to plan ahead. We both knew he had been sneaking looks down my shirt since I started working here two years ago. A total clown since day one. But I needed the money. Graduating from high school in a month, I was saving up before college in the fall and finally got out of this town. Yeah, sure, I replied.

He called me Cupcake while informing me that I would be closing solo tonight. He smirked like he was just messing around, but he knew it was wrong. That's why he never used any one of the unwanted pet names for me when anyone else was around. Honeybun, pudding pie, lamb chop. I'd like to chop him up. I'll tell you that much. Why was it always a name related to food anyway? Revolting.

He left without waiting for a response, casually mentioning I should try to get the new Mixmaster up and running before scuttling out the front door. Gimme, give me, give me, give me. The Mixmaster's display blinked on, beeped once, and waited for input. Maybe I was cracking under the stress of senior year, but the intensity of the command ratcheted up a few notches.

A bit overzealous, but it was just a paint machine, so what else could it want besides paint? Using the reference database from the computer, I dialed in a flat lawn party green. The base paint was loaded, and the machine was ready to go. I pressed initialized and waited. I kept my eyes glued to the paint can visible through Mixmaster's window pane.

A subtle vibration indicated the machine's inner workings were put in motion. Pigments added, paint mixed, and lid securely fastened. The cans shook with violence. After about two minutes, a series of beeps and the hiss of escaped air as the front panel door opened automatically, indicated the Mixmaster was done. Popping open the lid with a flathead screwdriver, a perfect eight-ounce sample of lawn party green stared back at me.

What in synthetic scents sidled up my nose? I pulled out the can and tossed it onto the counter. Just regular paint. The evening dragged on with a few customers, who picked up some supplies for various projects. The Mixmaster lurked on the counter. Its presence loomed over the store, but no one else seemed to notice.

With less than an hour to go in my shift and the slow night, I started the end of the night checklist. Swept the floors, wiped the countertop, search the bathroom for a hidden camera. "'Okay, that last one was on my own personal checklist of unofficial closing duties. "'That weirdo Gary was capable of anything, "'and I'll be damned if he tried to revenge porn his way into my pants. "'Fuck that noise!'

Sheeks flushed at the thought of Gary, "'and I could feel them change from pale to cherry-fiz pink. "'Taking a bag of trash to the dumpster, I went through the storage room, "'then out the back door to the alley that connected several stores on Main Street.' Prime and Shine was toward the middle of the alley, with a similar distance to a side street on either side. Chilled air blasted my face, and a deep inhale of rotting garbage hit me like smelling salts. The dumpster was only 20 feet or so from the back door. Striding along with the bag of trash in my hand, I stopped in my tracks when I saw movement in my peripheral.

It was near dark, but I definitely saw a blur of motion off to the left. All the karate training from the last few years at the local dojo flooded into my consciousness and muscles twinged with readiness. I've never used it in a real-life situation, but the learned skills of my beach brilliant blue belt or ready for action. A tin can clanged against the pavement from behind the dumpster. Hello? I called out. Despite the confidence in my self-defense skills,

my voice hitched on the last syllable. In a burst of movement, a raccoon exploded from behind the dumpster and raced off down the alley. Fucking hell! My heart skipped a beat, and I dropped the bag of trash. Taking a deep breath to recover, I glanced toward both ends of the alley and confirmed there were no other looming threats. I threw away the trash and headed back inside the prime and shine. In precise alignment, the hands on the wall clock pointed to 8 o'clock. Closing time.

I flipped the sign from open to closed and locked the front door. Flesh. The command swelled with authority like the ocean in a coming hurricane. The Mixmaster somehow knew no unwanted customers would interrupt the feeding process. It bided its time, and now it reeled me toward it like I was attached to an invisible fishing line. I managed to pull myself away in an attempt to finish up my closing duties, reaching the boundaries of my new existence, I reached the switch and turn the lights off. The intrusive commands grew more forceful as my tasks drew me further away.

The Mixmaster kept bringing me back with a tug on the string. It tethered to my mind. I found myself standing in front of the Mixmaster. The backlit LCD display lit up in acknowledgement of my presence. The display gave off a weak illumination that lit my face. face in a soft blue glow, like I was holding a flashlight under my chin, preparing to tell a ghost story. Compelved beyond my control, all I could do was stand and stare at the Vitruvian Man that glowed a bonfire night orange from within. It was patient for now, and kept me in a holding

pattern. A sense of dread crawled along the bottom of my spine to the base of my neck. The mixmaster and planted in my brain the directive, that if I could not provide the flesh it demanded, it held the power to pull me in and take me instead. All I could see in my mind's eye was getting sucked into the Mixmaster, like it was a black hole that consumed anything in its orbit once a proximity threshold was crossed, compelled to give it what it wanted.

My eyes settled on cookie, who still napped on the counter. Come to think of it, her creamsicle coat was, sort of appetizing. And who would miss her besides Gary? Customers, I suppose. She was old anyway, and she had a good life. It wouldn't take much to shove her into the Mixmaster because she trusted me well enough.

I reached for her, and as soon as my hands touched her soft, fluffy fur, I knew I couldn't do it. But now my fingers smelled like Gary. So gross. Kling! The muffled and hollowed sound reverberated from the storage room, or perhaps the alley. I assumed the raccoon was back and digging through the trash again.

Yet goosebumps prickled my flesh at the thought of a prowler waiting for me to close the store to pounce. Gary would say it was an unfounded fear given the low crime rate in our quiet town. But this was simply the existence of young girls and women. Potential trouble lurked behind every shadow and unexplained noise. The sound was jarring enough to briefly interrupt the tightness of the Mixmaster's hold on my body. It's pull slackened, and I grabbed the flathead screwdriver as a precaution. I held it close and readied myself to psycho-stab an intruder. Self-defense skills would help, but this was an insurance policy.

Creeping along the perimeter of the showroom, took cautious steps toward the swinging door between the showroom and the storage room. I pressed my free hand to the door and gently pushed it open. Gary startled me with a loud, Boo! While wearing a ridiculous grin, his face barely illuminated by residual light from the Mixmaster. Before I knew what was happening,

my training kicked in and my body reacted to the perceived threat, before my brain had a chance to recognize it was only Gary trying to be cool again. I grabbed his arm, hip through him to the ground, and plunged the screwdriver into his neck with one, swift motion. It all happened so fast. He stumbled over his words, attempting to explain that it was just a joke, all while gurgling and gargling as he pulled the screwdriver out of his neck. Crimson spurred it and sputtered through his fingers. His feeble attempt to plug the gaping hole was unsuccessful. I must have hit an artery. Oh shit. Sweat slicked my brows and my breath

became ragged. Why would Gary think it was funny to scare a girl alone in the dark like that? Oh, right, because he was an asshole. Walking around with a vagina was a burden and not because of its physical anatomy. That was for the fellas. I mean, where do testicles actually go when dudes cross their legs or ride a bike? I can only assume their sack gets stuffed up into whatever fold or crevice it can find. But that impossible geometry was,

a better problem to face, rather than the constant threat of coming across some self-entitled in-cell who one day decided that they were going to take what they felt was theirs. This is why we are so easily frightened by jump scares and horror movies, and have such a strong reaction to dads, brothers, and boyfriends who think it's funny to jump out from behind a bush. And I know you think this is feminism 101 bullshit, but that doesn't make it any less true. So yeah, forgive me if I wasn't all bent out of shape over Gary. I turned away as Gary took his last gasp of air, then expired. The command smacked me right between the eyes.

I stood next to Gary's lifeless body, plotting my next move, knowing I should call the cops. The initial rush of adrenaline wore off, and I felt the familiar pull toward the Mixmaster. It wanted Gary's still. warm corpse, and its beckoning was like a siren song. No amount of internal fortitude could be mustered to pull my cell phone out of my pocket and dial 911. Any remaining grip on reality? Slipped away.

Fog enveloped my mind, and I saw myself from outside of my own body. No longer a master of my own domain, but a passive observer as events unfolded. Tucking my hands under Gary's armpits, I dragged him across the bit of sugar white-tiled floor, leaving a blood trail from the storage room to the spot right in front of the Mixmaster. The handle of a hacksaw found its way into the palm of my right hand, jagged teeth bit into Gary's neck,

and worked back and forth, until only the remnants of sinewy flesh strands were any hint that it used to be connected to his body. I grasped Gary's head in between my hands and placed it inside the Mixmaster. The display lit up, and after a series of key presses, the door locked,

and its internal motor word to life. The head rested on a mechanized platform that raised until it met another protruding platform from above. Tightened between platforms, Gary's lifeless eyes stared out the front panel window. My head began to clear, and I regained control of my consciousness. violent vibrations shook Gary's flesh-covered skull.

Within a matter of seconds, skin sloughed off and melted chunks as the velocity reached and held its peak speed. Meteor shower gray sludge leaked from where the eyes, nose, and ears used to be. A pinprick of light formed and expanded into a cosmic swirl of aurora splendor purple, dark secret black, and sizzling sunset orange. I shielded my eyes from the vibrant display, that lit up the showroom. In another minute, darkness returned, and the shaking stopped.

Beep, hiss, pop. The Mixmaster's door opened, and inside was nothing. It was bone dry, and not a speck of tissue or blood remained. The Vitruvian man was satiated and no longer glowed or pulsed, a flat existence. Gary's head was gone, but I was left with the problem of the rest of Gary's body. There were two choices,

like my Choose Your Own Adventure books filled with medieval nights. One, I could call the cops and try to explain the events of the last hour, but a decapitated body was complicated to clarify its existence. This whole fiasco was an accident, even if Gary deserved what he got. The cops wouldn't believe me, though, and I'd end up in prison. Maybe I could dress pretty in court and get 20 years instead of life. Forget about college. This choice did not end well for me.

Two, I could drag the rest of Gary's body to the Mixmaster, cut him up, and feed him into the machine. Yeah, I went with the second choice. After hacking Gary's body up, limb by bloody limb, I fed them one at a time to the Mixmaster, like a modern stoker shoveling coal into a steam locomotive. Sorry, Lambchop, I said. Space swirl flashes captivated my attention, even if I couldn't stare directly into the machine because of its brightness from within. Nonetheless, the Vitruvian man spoke a declaration in its soundless way. I was now the caretaker, entrusted with the power within.

We were the Alpha and the Omega, two links in an unbroken chain of time and space, destined to go forth. I tried not to be annoyed that yet again, a man was bestowing his wisdom upon me. Why couldn't the etch drawing inside the Mixmaster have been the Mona Lisa instead? On second thought, she's too demure and too cutesy with the slyness of that partial smile. Another inspection of the Batruvian man revealed a full head of bouncy curls. I reimagined his existence as a modern-day gender god, despite his manhood that was clearly present. Okay, now I'm venturing into a blend of art history in Gender Studies 101, but it does set the stage for classes I want to take in college next year.

And as an art student, no one will question why the Mixmaster lives in my room. I'll be in a single with no roommates anyway. Mopping up Gary's dark crimson blood trail from the storage room to showroom, I contemplated my future. Gary was a symptom of a broader sickness. Entitlement. Boys will be boys, they say. Nope, nope, nope, nope.

A deep fire of brimstone bloomed within my chest. Oh, yes. I will feed the mix master. College boys can be. a little handsy from what I hear. For our second story this evening, an antique shop owner gets new perspective on the shop he and his wife built for their future together. Creepy presents, new stuff every day, written by Jay Scott King.

It would be difficult for me to say, in the unlikely event anyone should ask, just how long I've been dead. It's been a while. Years, probably. It's surprisingly difficult to tell. Death is vague. Not as vague as life, but pretty close. You'd think the moment of death would be a reliable reference point to build a timeline from.

But it isn't. Calenders are for the living. In hindsight, my death was a protracted thing. It began when, Sophie, the love of my life, My closest friend for 20 years died unexpectedly on a bitter cold fall night in October of 2005. A fucking aneurysm. In the dark unending days that followed her death, I had considered hastening my own departure from the colorless hell in which I found myself.

But friends and family had other ideas. And eventually I found a hint of solace in my work as an appraised. at Sophie's Rarities, the antique store we had built together in the heart of a storious thriving waterfront. As it happened, I carried on for quite a while, long enough to consider a change, long enough to be comfortable making it. I wanted to travel, maybe buy a small place in Manzanita, a short drive down the Oregon coast, maybe open a bar, spend my free time hiking the beaches at the Pacific.

A loyal dog at my side. So in time, I sold the shop to Sophie's brother, Mark, and his wife, Anne. We agreed to do a three-month transition. I'd work half-time, get caught up on appraisals, and show them the finer points of running the business. I was happy to do it. There's nothing easy about running an antique store in a tourist town. And I was concerned they might quickly find themselves in over their heads. A month into the transition, an odd little illness took me out for a week.

On the day I returned to work, a crisp fall morning in October, nearly ten years to the day Sophia died, I laid my head on my appraisal desk for short rest and never woke up. But that isn't exactly accurate, is it? I suppose I'd describe myself as being awake now, in a sense, but it didn't start there. way. There was a period of nothing, the awareness of the absence of a thing. In this case, the passing of time during which there seems to be nothing going on at all implies that there very much is something going on. I just wasn't cognizant of it while it was happening, and when my awareness finally returned, the story I told myself that time had passed but nothing had

happened was a construct of retrospection. It was all rather vague at first. I was aware of being in a store, though at this stage I don't think I understood that I was dead and probably had a little sense of just what store I was in. So, aware might be too generous a word. Let's say aware, but not really all there. Like a shopper. I meandered around the store, stopping here and there to gaze at things set upon the shelves, considering perhaps whether to make a purchase or plausibly appraising their value. I really have no idea. As things became more clear as I realized that I was actually dead in roaming the stacks of Sophie's rarities,

I relentlessly haunted the place. I grew moody. I pushed things from counters and... shelves when I could manage it, and triggered the alarm late at night over and over again like a pissed-off teenager. For a while, poor market to deal with the police nightly. Once I knocked a latte from the jeweled fingers of an abusive out-of-town customer who had one of the high school kids behind the register in tears. It wasn't helpful. It just made things worse for the girl, and I never saw her again after that. I imagine she was a little. I imagine she

She quit. That's on me. I settled down after that. My disposition eased, and with it, my juvenile predilection for haunting, or better put, what I imagined haunting to be. Malevolence is a lot of work if you don't have it in you already. It didn't take long to transition from settled down to settled in. I found that I was drawn to my old workspace, which sat at the heart of Sophie's.

So, in my new, somewhat functional state of mind, I made my way there. It was little more than a 19th century mahogany Georgian writing desk, bounded on three sides by mismatched bookcases. Most of the bookcases faced inward, and these were filled with old business ledgers, biannual copies of Miller's Antiques, Handbook, and Price Guide, and multiple editions of Schroeder's Antiques Price Guide, as well as a variety of specialized books on topics ranging from clock repair to textiles to Victorian glassware. A few of the shelves faced away, and I'd cover their backsides with a poster of the works of Arumbach and Hoss Kuku Clock,

family photos, jotted reminders, and flyers from some of my favorite local events, including the annual Scandinavian Midsummer Festival and the Astoria Sunday Market that sprawled outside our front door on Sundays from spring to fall. The hand-carved Hickory Walking Stick, Sophia, giving me the day we moved in together, sat propped in a corner created by adjoining bookcases. On seeing it, a familiar hollowness opened in me, an old cloying emptiness that sobbed long ago in the sleepness dark of endless days. Despair boiled from some half-remembered place within me, and I erupted in a baleful lament that echoed throughout the shop. It's difficult to say how long that went on. Endless, ever endless, until it ended.

How odd. After all this time, Sophie was ten years gone when I passed on to whatever this nonsense was. I thought it worked through all that. I sighed a ghostly breath as my unbidden grief faded into the ether of memory and then turned my attention back to my desk. It was still strewn with the tools of my trade and stacks of paper, and my favorite coffee tumbler sat right where I left it the morning I died.

Everything was covered in dust. For some reason, Mark and Anne had left my workspace untouched. How long have I been dead? I left the confines of my workspace with the intention of making my way to the front of the store to search for a calendar or a poster with a date on it. anything that might give me a sense of how much time it passed. Instead, I stopped bedden my tracks. I'd been haunting the stacks of Sophie's rarities for what seemed like a long time now and never noticed.

The shop was in complete disarray. Sophia kept her business clean and well organized, and after she died, I'd done my best to honor her high standards, to carry forward her vision for Sophie's rarities. a convivial place that made patrons nostalgic for simpler times. The shelves and display cases and the warn of winding paths that tied them all together were always brightly lit in warm, welcoming light. Both of us had dusted half an hour each day and had our staff do the same.

Fifteen minutes on your way in, another fifteen on your way out. And above all else, everything was in its place. But things had changed. Sophie's rarities have become a clutter of discarded belongings crammed into shelves and stacked in piles on the floor. Some of the paths through the displays, already narrow by design, were blocked by what I can only describe as debris. There were half-abandoned, half-open boxes that looked as if they'd just come from a garage sale. Stacks of old books, including encyclopedias, which we never took in, and collapsed. displays that spilled into passageways like alluvia.

Scale model trains and collectible cars. Old dolls tipped from their stands or thrown from their fragile cardboard boxes. Chest pieces of stone and bone and wood. Some of them quite rare. Discarded from their boards and heaps that look like mass burials. Someone had piled crates of old tools and auto parts on a circa 1925 Chesterfield. Stuff looked like you've been there for years. Oil and grease had leaked from the crates, ruining the once lush, burnished red leather of a glorious sofa. Fucking barbarians!

There were shadows everywhere. But where there was light, it was the harsh, verdant evil of fluorescent bulbs. Who would ever consider such a thing? In an antique shop? What the hell were they thinking? Sophie would have taken heads for that. And the dust.

You could excavate it with a trowel, like some bespectacled archaeologist of old and come away with relics. There were illegible price tags, faded in morning community event posters, and hip-hop pulsed through the store sound system, no doubt selected by the beyond-caring 16-year-old working the front desk. The more I looked, the angrier I got.

Mark and Ann had fucked up our place, and it didn't happen overnight. I'd been gone for years, but what could I do about it? I had no sense of how to commune with the living, had no idea if it was even possible. I thought about working nights to clean up the place, but moving things around was tough,

as I'd learned early on. Oh, I could walk around, even so. sit and lay down, don't ask me how, but actually move things, that required immense focus, and it always took a lot out of me, whatever the outcome. So, in my malaise, I wandered the shop, mostly a night, as I suppose ghosts are wont to do. On one such night, I heard Mark and Anne talking at the front counter. I didn't really pay them any attention. I suppose I didn't want anything to do with them after seeing the state they'd allowed sophies to fall into. They looked older and very tired.

Mark's hair had receded some and his beard was graying. And, as beautiful as ever, moved slower and with less grace than I'd remembered. Mark was behind the counter, head down, writing in a notebook. We're just going to have to lay off a few people, he said without looking up. Doris, maybe a couple of kids. That's more work here for you and me, said Anne slamming the counter for emphasis, leaving even less time for us to focus on our inventory problem. Mark stood taller and looked his wife directly in her eyes,

reminding her that they had a plan for that. Anne gave an exasperated sigh and stormed off. What the hell did they think they were signing up for? No wonder the place was in shambles. There was no love here anymore. I wandered away and rummed the ruins of Sophie's rarities, and as the sun came up, I returned to my appraisal desk, not out of habit or any kind of work ethic. I just wanted to be there. There it was again.

Why was I drawn to my desk? There's nothing to appraise, no work at hand, so that wasn't it. even if there was, I didn't see the point of it. Did I want to feel close to what it defined me in life? Sure, maybe. But the work I did in this little space was just a small part of who I was. So no, that wasn't it. So there I sat, probing and ruminating, and, to be honest, just making shit up,

elaborate explanations completely untethered from reality. Hours blurred into days, days into weeks, months went by for all I know, years probably. I grew immensely bored, so much so that I imagined my boredom manifesting into an unwelcome guess that, in turn, became bored of my company and departed. But I knew, even as the question came to me, I knew. I'd made a game of avoiding the obvious. I'm drawn here to this small, forgotten corner of a place I once held dear, because this is where I died.

And oh, that is a dark notion. For if true, there's nothing I can do to break free. And darker still? If death itself holds me here? What if Sophie? Do we share the same fate? Is she haunting our old Queen Anne on Vista Avenue? Is she crouched on the cold marble tile of the kitchen floor wondering why there are strangers roaming her home, wondering why she can't leave?

A chill shuddered through me. No. It was too much. This is my fate. I won't pull her memory into my darkness. So what the hell did I do in life to warrant this? But that's yet another question, isn't it? One that carries with it the implication that some outside force,

God, or whatever, is a right asshole and thinks I am too. I wasn't a person of faith when I walked among the living, even in the midst of such profound loss, so in the mire of death. whoever the fuck was wasting their time. In life, I was a person of action. So why should I be any different in death? I stood defiantly and strode to the front of the shop,

used all my moxie to swing open the 12th Avenue door, just enough to slip through and walked out, only to find myself back in my chair at the appraisal desk. I did it again, and a third time. and as I approached the front door for what I knew would be a futile fourth attempt, Anne was locking up for the day. She slammed the door shut, muttered under her breath as she fumbled with the deadbolt, and then turned, her face flush, her eyes alight.

Anne stomped towards the front register where Mark stood thumbing through the day's receipts. I hadn't noticed them. I'm not giving you the address, Mark! Mark sighed and set a small stack of receipts on the checkout counter. We've talked about this. You went to the walk through yesterday and made a list, Annie. Estate sales tomorrow. That means I've got to go tonight.

Estate sale. Anne crossed her arms. And just how are you going to manage that? You can barely walk. I'm fine, just a little stiff. I'm going. In and out, just like last. Last time, Mark grinned at her.

I'm getting good at this, he said. Oh, I knew that look. Charming and confident and predatory in a playful Mai Ties at sunset sort of way. I'd seen Anne melt in the face of it countless times. She wasn't melting now, though. She glared at Mark, the muscles in her neck straining, her jaw tight. After a long moment, she said, Fine, fine, you get caught, leave me out of it.

It's all on you. Anne stormed off towards a small loading dock at the rear of the store. Mark watched her go, laughing softly, shaking his head. Caught? He said under his breath. I don't think so. No, that was interesting. What hell are they up to?

Is Mark actually going to break into a dead person? person's home and walk off with some of their stuff? Sophie used to help one of the local estate sale companies with their appraisals, and she often brought Anne along. Sophie and her sister-in-law were close, and while Anne had no formal training in the trade, she seemed to have an innate sense of the value of the thing. Had she picked up where Sophie left off? How long had they been doing this? And why? If business was that bad, why not clean up Sophie's? Why not do the hard work of building inventory one piece at a time? Sophie had put all of her heart into this place.

Hell, I put my soul into it. Why haven't Mark and and done the same? I had seen the passion in them in the weeks before and after the sale. They had a vision for the future of Sophie's rarities, lovingly tethered Sophie's legacy. They'd make it their own with Sophie ever at its heart, and then I died. I suppose Mark and Anne never had a chance. Passion is fuel, but it isn't the works. It isn't the apparatus of the day-to-day.

They never really had the opportunity to learn the nuance of the business of antiques. So some of this was my fault. My death had set all this in motion. The casual indifference and the layered dust and the petty crime. All of it was on me. I lost myself in the decision. spare of that thought until I heard music. Somehow I had wandered into the dusty windowless storage room adjacent to the loading dock. A song played softly somewhere nearby, perhaps from a passing car

on the dockside alley. I couldn't place the tune, but it made me smile, and I shrugged off my malaise and looked around. For the life of me, I could not recall the last time I'd been in this room. Sophie and I'd used it as a staging area for incoming merchandise, and by the looks of it, Mark and Ann were doing the same. Though nothing was organized, and most of the clutter looked like it would be better off donated or driven to the local dump. I wondered how much of it was stolen. God, Sophie would be livid. When you finally get back upon your feet again, a man saying from afar, that's familiar. Blue standard, old.

Everybody wants to be your long-lost friend. The music grew louder, and my perception abruptly shifted, as if startling awake after nodding off. A wave of dizziness swept through me in the storage room stretched thin, like saltwater taffy being pulled in a great machine, said it's mighty strange. The world blurred, and I was falling. Accelerating, my perception lagging even further behind until I felt as if I were observing

something happening to some other aspect of myself. Nobody knows you. Suddenly everything stopped. I found myself sitting in the cab of a truck, the percussion of rain and the wump of the windshield wipers keeping time to a song coming from the truck speakers. sat in the driver's seat, smiling, his head bouncing with the easy strum of the guitar. No man, nobody knows you. What the hell?

I shuddered, stared at him. Nobody knows you. I turned, gazed blankly out the windshield, and moths the final line. When you're down and out, no man. They don't. Mark turned off the music as the song ended. He slowed, looked right, and turned on to Waldorf Circle. What?

Where was he going? Sophie and I had lived on a street off Waldorf just a short distance from here. I leaned forward in my seat, drew through the window. Mark passed a couple of familiar houses, pulled up to the curb, and stopped a truck. He turned, craning his neck to stare out at the narrow rear window at the cab. A dark silhouette of a house loomed at the top of a winding concrete stair, veiled by heavy rain. A nice older couple had lived there, I remembered. The Emerson's?

Yeah, Minnie and Dawn. He died a few years after Sophie, but Minnie had, as far as I knew, outlived me. If this was the place Mark had in mind, I suppose Minnie was gone now too. There you are, Mark said. I frowned it Mark as he got out of the truck. His door was wide open, but out of habit I'd turned to my door and attempted to open it, but my hand passed through the handle. I failed the second time as Mark rummaged through a toolbox in the bed at the truck,

and then slid my way to the driver's side and quickly got out. Mark had slung a backpack over one shoulder. He quietly closed the truck door and then picked up something that was leaning in the shadows between the bed and the cab. My walking stick. I stared open-mouthed as Mark, leaning heavily on my stick, limped over the broken sidewalk toward Minnie Emerson's house. It wasn't my workspace that held me here. It wasn't the place I died. It wasn't selfies.

The place we'd built together, the business I'd carried forward for nearly a decade after my wife was gone. It was Sophie herself. It was a simple thing she'd given me in our early days. Something that said, I see you, I know you, I love you. I closed my ghost eyes and the memory of rain assaulted me. The autumn chill of it. meditative percussion of it, the salt scent of the Pacific carried in every drop, the acrid

taste of oil and exhaust dissolving from summer pavement. It was like waking from a long night of unsettling dreams. Suddenly, I remembered vividly what it was like to be alive, and while it was mere memory, the elation of it brought me to my knees. I raised my head to the sky and imagined the rain drenching my face, washing away an age of hapless conjecture and hopeless wandering. I felt as if some long-forgotten part of me had at last settled back into its proper place. I opened my eyes, caught a glimpse of Mark slipping into the shadows behind the house. I stood, made my way along the sidewalk, and then climbed the front stairs to the porch. Mark had gone around the left side of the house.

I followed with unnecessary caution, stepping lightly on moss-covered pavers. No one would ever see me or hear me, of course. But it's what I would have done were I alive and breaking into someone's house, so it seemed prudent. The side door of the Emerson home sat slightly ajar. I eased my way through and found myself in a kitchen, linoleum flooring and painted oak cabinets. Most of them open and empty.

and outdated, yet charming appliances. There was a steep, narrow ascending back stair just to the right of the door I'd come through, and a small table-less seating nook nestled on the opposite side of the kitchen. The nook was stacked with boxes, most of them tagged with moving company stickers, and labels scrawled illegibly in black ink. A muffled thud came from a room ahead and to the right,

followed immediately by a soft curse from Mark. I stepped past the nook to the threshold and surveyed the room. Minnie's living room had been turned into an auction staging area. The missing eating nook table sat in the middle of the room, leafed to its full size. The lives of Minnie and Don Emerson heaped upon it in hastily organized piles. Out of habit, a couple of things caught my eye. A set of Markey, Markham, Waterford, old-fashioned glasses with matching decanter. a box of circa 1920s, well near silverware.

But mostly it looked like what you'd find in the home of just about anyone making their way in the world. Mark swore again. He was rummaging through a glass cabinet on the other side of the table. My walking stick tucked neatly under his left arm. He held a pen light between clenched teeth and what must have been Anne's shopping list in his right hand. Mark arched the light back and forth between the list and an open wooden box in the cabinet, grumbling in frustration with each turn of his head. I felt like an intruder, an accomplice in Markanin's ridiculous scheme.

I had to get out, so I stepped back into the kitchen and started for the door. A sorrowful lament swept into the kitchen like a draft, not from the outside, but from the stairway. I slowed and approached the landing, peering into the darkness. Someone was crying upstairs. There was no fear in me. I knew what this was. Who this was?

I climbed the stairs, a sadness building in me with every step. In the ambient light of the second-story hallway, I saw her. Minnie Emerson knelt on the carpeted floor of the hallway, gazing longingly at framed pictures leaning against the wall. Their hooks abandoned above. She rocked forward and back, sobbing, completely lost. Early days yet. I didn't approach her, nor did she notice me in the immeasurable moments I lingered.

His mark's meaningless theft played out below, many grieved, not for her own death, but for profound loss of context. The patina of the connections we accrue in life defines us, reminds us of what we are. and in death, as I was learning, who we once were. I offered Minnie Emerson a prayer as I turned and descended the stairs. Her journey was her own, but it seemed the right thing to do, and I wondered as some spirit, Sophie, perhaps, had offered me the same grace. The house was quiet now, and I had the sense that Mark had left.

Sure enough, the kitchen door was closed. I looked at it for a long moment, reached for the doorknob and willed my fingers to find purchase. The knob turned and the door opened enough for me to slip out. I pushed a close behind me. I'm not entirely useless. I made my way to the front steps. The rain at ease considerably and a crescent moon peeked through the brakes and the clouds of the west. It was a beautiful view, not unlike the one from my old house nearby.

I wondered if it would be possible to visit it, but dismissed the thought as nostalgia. Though I couldn't say why, I was certain now that Sophie wasn't there. So what would be the point? An engine sputtered a life on the street below. I turned in time to see Mark pulling away from the curb. There was no way I was going to reach him in time, so I waited, watching the cloud stance with the moon. When the sensation came, I managed to hold the pull of the moment. it at bay for a short while.

Then, as the first color of dawn touched the night's sky, the world dilated into an impressionist painting, and I was back at Sophies, standing near the front entrance. My walking stick leaned against the front corner. If Mark wasn't using it anymore, and I didn't want him anywhere near it, he should have at least put it back in my workspace.

I was used to resting, for lack of a better term, at my desk, but didn't much feel like it now. So I wandered the shop, eventually finding myself staring down at the Chesterfield, which, to my surprise, had been cleared of the usual debris, though it was still filthy. I settled into it and lost myself for a while, replaying the events of the evening. My reverie ended when a young couple wandered past me, pausing for a moment to look at the sofa. They moved on without a word. I didn't blame them.

I guess I'd lost track of time. I pulled myself up from the Chesterfield and walked to the front door at the store. The door to Sophie's rarities was wide open. The sun was shining. The air, I imagined, was as crisp as an apple from the tree. And 12th Street was bustling with artisans and food vendors and crowds of shoppers. That made it a Sunday, I surmised. probably mid-October, perhaps the last day of the Astoria Sunday market of, well, whatever

year it was. Mark was nowhere to be seen, probably still in bed, giving this criminally late night. But Anne stood behind the counter chatting with a woman. They were clearly friends. The woman talked with her hands and her eyes were kind. Her graying hair was pulled back in a crop ponytail. It looked as if she was buying a small Tiffany lamp. one that had been in the store for as long as I could remember.

I turned away, lured by the thriving market just outside the door. I wondered if I might be able to venture out a short distance to roam for a while. And then I heard my name. That belonged to Sophie's husband, Henry, Anne said. It's beautiful, said the woman. She held my walking stick in her right hand, looking it up and down. Is it made of beach?

Hickory. I think, said Anne. It's quite old. Sophie gave it to him nearly 40 years ago. The woman lowered it, measuring its length against her height. It might be a bit long for me. But other than that, it's perfect. Anne smiled and nodded her head thoughtfully.

I think Henry would appreciate someone like you taking it up, Sarah. I know you're fond of exploring the Oregon coastline. Henry was making plans to do just that in retirement. It was so odd to hear. your hand talk about me. There was a kindness in her voice and a hint of grief. I looked outside again in the sunshine and the blue sky, recalling the rain and the moonlight of previous evening. Sarah took up my walking stick and trek to the door, then back to the counter. How much, Annie? She asked. Not a thing, love. He'll be doing Henry a favor. She wasn't wrong. It was long

past time to go. Sarah smiled and ran her fingers over the patina of my, of her walking stick, as Anne bubble wrapped the lamp and put it in a box. They wished each other well, and Sarah left the store, quickly disappearing into the crowd. I followed but paused at the doorway, turning and taken Sophie's one last time. The beautiful mess of the place made me smile. I stepped into the market, And the memory of sunshine caressed my face. It warmed my soul. I walked casually through the gathered crowd, nodding to strangers as I passed, and wondered if Sarah had a dog. For our final story this evening.

After a tense fight on a desolate coastal road, a couple's drive turns nightmarish when they strike something. And then things get worse. Creepy Presents Lull Road. Written by Jordan Decker and narrated by Need to Fort. Henry's old Pontiac rolled down low road at the mild pace of 40 miles an hour, screeching like a wounded animal begging for a bullet. They pass no other travelers on the winding two-lane road for over 30 miles.

Although neither of them dared to break the post-fight silence first, Henry felt the heavy weight of Becky's growing skepticism without need for words. They shared a distrust for the decrepit sedan, and he could not blame her for feeling uneasy about taking the rolling rust bucket on long drives. What he blamed Becky for was not believing him. They weren't lost. He gazed out his window at a sun sinking deeper into the Pacific ocean, convincing himself you couldn't be lost when driving along the coast.

Henry scanned Becky in his peripheral, but her eyes remained glued on the thick wall of redwoods, zipping past her open window. She sat like a statue, her feet cemented on the edge of the passenger seat, and her arms wrapped around her knees. They passed another tree trunk, shredded deep with claw marks. Goose bumps crawled up her neck. She closed her eyes until they wrinkled, forcing herself to stop imagining what kind of beasts could cause such damage. The image grew more horrific,

with every mauled redwood Becky counted. She kept her eyelids shut and leaned forward until the wind funneling in from the window skimmed the top of her nose. She bathed in the blending sense. in the blending sense of pine and saltwater. The fragrance lifted her far away from the Pontiac,

far away from Henry in their stupid little fight. Lowell Road hugged the coastline and mimicked its abrasive route. Henry swept the squealing car around another sharp bend. Becky sank her fingernails deeper into her arms. Before the fight, she told him to be careful. around every corner. Henry appreciated the silent treatment as he stepped further on the gas pedal

and forced the poor car up another steep hill, although a part of him yearned to place a consoling hand on her thigh. The road straightened, and he took the opportunity to overlook the waves

crashing on rocks, hundreds of feet below them. The last sliver of sun faded beyond the edge of the earth. Each wave churned more black than the last. Becky slapped Henry's arm, startling him. He jumped and veered over the yellow divider lines. Ruts in the asphalt rattled the Pontiac's frame with a steady thud, thud, thud beneath its tires. Henry shot his foot to the brake, but hovered over it instead

of slamming down. The road was empty. The Pontiac, as if waiting for its opportunity to die on them instead of going uphill, slowed to 20 miles an hour before Henry found the gas again. He pressed as far as he felt he could without killing the struggling engine, and the car began to regain its speed with great patience. "'Jesus, Becky!' he said. "'What the hell did you do that for?' Another series of thuds rang through the car as he steered back into their lane. Becky pointed ahead, demanding he pay attention to the road,

but her eyes remained on the woods they passed. A flash of something, small maybe a fawn, had caught her attention. She had imagined it darting out, and the thought of what could have happened made her chest tighten. Henry rolled his eyes, scoffed. Becky raised her eyebrows and asked him if he would rather get them killed than just say sorry. No, he said, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white,

I'd rather enjoy the scenery than start up this stupid fight again, which is clearly all you're going for. The car regained its regular pace of 40 miles an hour as they reached the peak of another cliff and began descending on the other side. Henry looked Becky up and down for signs of an aftershock, paying no mind to the way the Pontiac picked up speed, heading back downhill. Becky insisted she wasn't angry, more concerned maybe. She imagined the worst and voiced her fears to Henry,

a fawn darting out, a crash, something stupid and preventable. Henry shook his head and sighed at her lie, but the rest of Becky's words got him thinking. You didn't see any other, dear? He asked. She shook her head no. Becky turned her gaze from him and back to the trees. Strange for it to be all alone, Henry said.

Real strange. Speaking again relieved some pressure and opened the door to reconcile. Henry grew too distracted, thinking up a line to avoid slipping back into silence for him to notice the glowing red needle of the speedometer creeping beyond 60. He turned to Becky, unsure what his half-assed apology would be, but confident it would come to him if he ripped the Band-Aid off. I'm sorry, but the Pontiac jerked forward and made him gag on his words. Rage erupted in Henry, positive the old car, pulled the plug,

and he would look up to see nothing more than a dense cloud of smoke spewing from under the hood. A gray blob, too solid and wet to be smoke, flopped over. the front bumper and shattered the windshield. Becky wrapped her arms around her skull and screamed, but Henry could not hear her. He could not hear the raining shards of glass either. Even the steady cadence of crashing waves below them vanished. The dominating noise on Lull Road now, echoing far over the open ocean and penetrating deep into the redwoods, came from the creature rolling over the roof of the Pontiac.

It bellowed a gargling distorted roar like a growling animal deep inside a well. Henry swore it let out a demented cackle as it rolled off the trunk and smashed into the asphalt. The steering wheel vibrated beneath his grip when the beast hit the ground. He caught a glimpse in his side mirror of its grotesque gray form rolling on the pavement, but survival instincts forced his eyes back on the road ahead before he could make it. out what he saw. The Pontiac did little right these days, but it took the impact like a heavyweight contender and kept blazing its trail like nothing happened. It trucked along a little over 50 miles an hour by the time Henry regained control and read the spedometer. He brought both feet down on the brake

pedal as though that would make it work quicker. Squeals of burning rubber erupted beneath them. He held himself up by the steering wheel, but Becky slammed into the dashboard like a test dummy. She put out her hands, shrieking as tiny shards of the broken windshield embedded in her palms. They jerked to a stop and fell back in their seats. For a moment, they said nothing, hearing only the idling engine and their heavy breathing. Nightfall blanketed the coastline in a swift wave. One of the Pontiac's headlights had exploded upon collision, but the other shined on through the darkness. Beyond this lone ray of yellow light stood solid black. Henry glanced at the side mirror again and saw the weak red blur of the car's tail lights, too dim to reveal even the ground below them.

Becky stared down at her shaking hands, her mouth ajar. Her palms stung, pumping out blood that overfilled them and reigned on the floorboard. Becky was sobbing now, almost incomprehensible, something about she had told him so, and he really should have been paying attention. Henry heard the noise of her talking, but he did not make out the words. What the hell was that? he asked.

Still mesmerized by the pools of blood forming in her hands, Becky mumbled something about Bambi's mother. "'What, a deer?' Henry asked before realizing she was too busy staring out that damn window to see what he saw. "'B Becky, that was no deer!' Henry leaned forward, trying to see past the reach of the remaining headlight. He already knew. Whatever it was they'd struck, it hadn't been a deer. She seemed convinced otherwise, or maybe she just didn't want to believe him.

to her anything that big and fast could be explained away a deer maybe a bear something wild and unfortunate henry shook his head and turned around squinting his eyes to stare into the thick darkness outside the rear window the hell was it becky ignored him begging to get out of there now he raised his hand like a crossing guard without realizing he was doing it Becky fell silent, more out of confusion than obedience. I'm going to see what it was, he said. Becky was shocked. She doubled down that it was just some kind of animal. Damn it, Becky, didn't you hear that thing? he asked. What animal makes noises like that? There was a flicker in Becky's eyes, brief but unmistakable.

She'd heard it too, whatever sound. that thing had made when the Pontiac hit. And it hadn't sounded like any deer. She swallowed hard, the motion stiff and deliberate, as if forcing something back down. Henry exhaled and pushed the driver's door open. The hinges screamed into the night, metal scraping against metal,

loud enough to stir something in the trees. Becky reacted instantly, grabbing at his shirt with blood-slick fingers. a final silent plea. He paused, looked down at her hand. The print she left behind on his sleeve stood out in vivid red, hot against the chill in the air. He gently peeled her grip away,

gaze fixed on the woods behind them. Whether it was guilt, stubbornness, or something deeper pulling at him, even he wasn't sure. But whatever they hit, it hadn't sounded right. Maybe it was just a deer Maybe it needed help Maybe

I gotta go back he said Say it is a deer Poor thing will need to be put out of its misery After it hit like that She shook her head But Henry was outside the car Before he could see this silent plea He scanned their surroundings

Pretending he could see anything Beyond the minuscule field of light Around the Pontiac He heard the waves again, but now they crashed somewhere deep in the void. He popped his head back inside the car's cabin. Becky was plucking pieces of red-stained glass from her trembling hands. Sweetie, can you give me the flashlight out of the glove box? He asked.

She smeared blood over the chrome handle of the glove box, but fell back into her seat with a moan before finding her grip on it. Her temples throbbed. A blurred wave washed over her vision. She reached a blind hand forward, found the knob, and twisted with a tearful wince until she heard it click.

The glove box dropped open. Henry returned to his seat as she fumbled through the drive-thru napkins and receipts stuffed inside. He clutched her wrist, ready to tell her he was sorry, and they could keep driving. Becky dropped the flash

flashlight to the touch of his hand. She looked up at him but saw nothing more than vague outlines where his prominent brow and crooked smile should have been. Her head swayed like a ship at sea. Before she could ask Henry for help, a hazy gray line emerged from the darkness behind him, squirming its way out of the black. The massive shape was slung over Henry's shoulder and wrapped around his chest. He screamed and clutched her tighter, but he slipped away. His arm shot out to grab hold of the Pontiac's doorframe. Becky winced at the dull thud his knuckles made on the metal as they zoomed past it. His desperate cries sank further away from the car until his voice disappeared over the rocky edge of the cliffside and plummeted toward the ocean. She scrambled over the middle

console, yelling his name. A mammoth snake-like arm scooped her by the ribcage from somewhere behind her, clinching tight the way a python does a puppy and crushing her lungs flat. Becky thought of her open window as it dragged her toward it. She recalled moments during the full day's drive, when she smelled the air so deeply it felt like her lungs would explode. A harsh pop burst inside her. A real organ detonating, no doubt in her mind. The slimy creature yanked her through the passenger window, reeling her deeper into the forest so fast she never touched the ground. Becky slugged the beast with desperate fists that bounced off its gooey skin and left slime dripping off her knuckles. Her nails dug deep into its disgusting flesh, forcing a discomforted grunt out of the gray blob.

They powered on through the trees just the same. She shrieked and fought on until a redwood collided with her speeding skull and put her to sleep. The idling engine of the rusty Pontiac hummed on joining the choir of crashing waves in the Pacific and ruffling pines in the wind. Lull Road fell back asleep.

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