Creepy - Tales From The Gas Station (Full Story)

Episode Date: April 2, 2019

Weird things happen at the gas station at the edge of town...***Written by Gas Station Jack***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod ***You can visit our store at: https://teespring.com/stores/new-creepy-logo***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin, Puzzle Audio***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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. Creepy presents. Tales from the gas station. Written by user gas station Jack on Reddit No Sleep.

With guest narration by Owen McCune and Steve Blizzin. At the edge of our town, there's a shitty gas station that's open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. If you were to go inside, you'd see row after row of off-brand chill. cupcakes, potted meats, and pickled curiosities. Expiration dates suspiciously missing from the canned goods like they were filed off years ago and some misguided attempt to control inventory turnover. A faded wet floor sign from way back covers a large crack in the foundation by the cooler where layers of sticky spelloff have formed a miniature tar pit,

preserving countless insect corpses, and the occasional small rodent. nobody ever complains about the aesthetic. By some providence bordering on the supernatural, the health inspectors repeatedly signed off on the business. Always kindly ignoring the faint smell of some kind of mysterious chemical cocktail that is the defining characteristic of the establishment. More noticeable than the steady mechanical hum of the frozen drink machine that was installed in the 70s, never once serviced.

More distracting than the random power. pockets of cold and warm air that seem to follow you around, and more annoying than the family of mutated raccoons that lives in the crawl space behind the grease trap. We think they're mutated anyway. At the very least, they must be imbred to the point of genetic deformity and mental retardation. The alpha, a muscular three-foot-tall son of a bitch named Rocco,

has been spotted multiple times chewing on people's tires and has been run over at least twice, but keeps coming back. That lingering smell? A sweet combination of honeysuckle, ammonia, and vomit. It's never been positively identified. But the prevalent theory is that it's coming from underground, wafting up through the thin fissures and the concrete

that grow and spread with each year of architectural settling. It's strongest right after a rain, impungent to the point of tear-inducing if you get too close to the storm drain where even Rocco and his clan refused to tread. If you were to go inside, you might see the bathroom cowboy. He's sort of an urban legend around here, only ever appearing when you're alone and unsuspecting.

What makes him truly legendary are the stories people tell after an alleged encounter. The accounts run the gamut from pretty weird to impossibly bizarre. Like the guy last month who went for a pee but changed his mind when he saw him standing next to the urinal wearing a duster, bandana, boots, and chaps, handing out balloon animals. Or a couple weeks later when another customer stepped in the same bathroom to see a man wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, boxers, and boots with spurs, literally grinding an axe on an old-fashioned stone sharpening wheel.

When he entered, the cowboy stopped what he was doing, looked up with a smile and a tip of the hat, and said, come on man come on with it if you should be lucky enough to see the cowboy that may or may not haunt the bathroom don't worry he's harmless and in fact usually quite polite honestly he doesn't seem so bad especially compared to some of the other things going on in that place when you go inside you might instantly get a toothache that's a strangely common phenomenon that nobody really understands. It should go away on its own after a couple hours. If you do go inside, you will almost definitely see me sitting behind the counter because I am the only full-time

employee, and I'm almost always here. You may catch me reading a book because, well, for some reason, the internet doesn't work way out here, and cell phone service is dicey on good days and non-existent on most. If you need to make a call, you can leave and go up to hillways, prefer to go back towards town because the other way will take you into the woods and you don't even want me to go into all the reasons. That's not a good idea. Or you can pay me 25 cents a minute and use the store's landline. That arrangement was cooked up by the owners and I actually have to enforce it because they do check the phone records. I'm sorry. While you're here, don't be offended if I don't strike up a conversation because, if I'm being completely honest,

I don't always know for sure if everyone who comes through the doors is real or not. And if I had to acknowledge everyone in that place that could be an actual person, I might lose my mind. And we don't need any more of that going on around here. I guess at the point I'm trying to make is this. Weird things happen to me working at the shitty gas station at the edge of town. I wish I could tell you the weirdest thing that's ever happened there, but I doubt I could ever decide. There were just too many.

I've seen a total of four coffins inside the store on three different occasions. I've met at least a dozen people wandering back into town from the woods, claiming they had escaped aliens or government conspirators of the like, and they had no money but needed to make a call, and could I just let them please use our store phone before they find them again? But rules are rules, and I'm not inclined to lose my job just because you didn't escape captivity with a little pocket change. And then, of course, there was Farmer Brown. Yeah, that's his real name. Who got mad at us and complained about the bulk feed we've been ordering for him.

He insisted something was wrong with the product because, as he put it, all of his animals suddenly had human faces. when he settled with him by charging a significant discount on his next couple purchases. He stopped coming in not long after, and they found what was left of his body inside a bedroom at his farmhouse that had been locked from the inside. As far as I know, they still haven't figured that one out. Anyway, I guess I can come back and tell a story or two,

but first I need to get ready for work. At the edge of our town, there's three. a shitty gas station that's open 24 hours a day, seven days a week and sometimes longer. If you were to go inside, you'd probably see the tire cashier sitting behind the front desk doing his best to mind his own business. He's real. You may also see someone else. You may also see something else. If you're curious about the reality of anyone or anything, including yourself, inside that small ammonia scented, flickering fluorescent collection of off-brand junk food, dirt, four walls, and a roof,

may I recommend that you follow the cashier's lead? And mind your own business. I've been working at that gas station almost non-stop since I graduated high school. At this point, I doubt I quit if I wanted to. Not long ago, a doctor recommended that I start keeping a journal, and after some consideration, I decided I might as well give it a shot. It's not like any of the traditional treatments are having any effect. But enough about me.

Let's get back to the interesting thing. The gas station. I spent a decent portion of my shift last night trying to decide how to begin this journal. Where can I start that would make any sense at all? How do I explain the gas station to someone who hasn't experienced it? I've tried telling some of my stories before, so I know what to expect. People don't believe it. Or people don't want to believe it.

I still remember the difficulty I had last year when I had to call the sheriff's station and explained to the new girl that half a pig had broken into the store and was running amok, breaking things and screaming with a voice of an old woman. Yes, I meant half a pig. Yes, a pig, the front half. Now this isn't a joke. I'm at the gas station. What do you mean which gas station?

Is this your first day or something? Oh, it is. In that case, can I please talk to someone else? She finally put me through to Tom. He's a deputy that drew the short straw all those years ago and ended up on official gas station duty. That was back before his hair turned all white. He's been in enough times now that all I have to say

when he picks up the line is, it's half a pig, it won't stop screaming, and I can't catch it. and then he grunts mutters something about this being pretty freaking weird and then drives out to help me catch it. Tom's a good guy. I asked around, but nobody knew where the pig had come from. Farmer Brown, who was still alive at the time, came down to take a look and provide his expert opinion.

According to farmer, the pig had somehow been chopped down the middle, but miraculously none of the important organs were hit. Nothing supernatural about it. Just really unusual. It stated the local elementary school is a kind of mascot for the summer before a scientist and his team from somewhere up north offered the school $1,000 to let them take it. For science, I suppose. I don't mean to ramble. But my point is that it's hard to believe some of these stories if you haven't been inside the gas station at least once.

And maybe you have. We're the only gas station for miles. We're close enough to some big crossroads. If you've ever been out driving in an unfamiliar part of the country and found yourself lost, it's not impossible that you could have found yourself at my doors, looking to top off your gas or ask for directions. If you have a strange memory of a weird place that somehow doesn't seem to fit, then there's a chance we've actually met.

It was laid into my overnight shift when I decided to just start writing. I took notes about what was happening. I got it down a few of my stranger memories, but consciously, decided to leave out those stories that were so unbelievable that I won't even waste people's time with them. I call those to try and forget stories. I was writing it all down on a book or a receipt paper when Carlos interrupted me. Carlos is one of the part-timers at the gas station. We have a pretty long list of part-time employees here.

The owner likes to hire transients, drifters, hitch-eyed. hackers, passers-by, and runaways looking for work for a few days. I try not to get to know the part-timers. They come and go after a few days, or sometimes a few weeks, rarely long enough to form any kind of meaningful relationship. But then there's Carlos, who has been working here for almost a year now. He started it as part of the prison work relief program, unloading trucks twice a week and was the only one of the 12 prisoners

that didn't disappear during a freak snowstorm last December. But that's none of my business. Carlos did his time, and when they released him, he came to work here, cleaning the store and unloading trucks. He comes in six times a day for each of his 30-minute shifts. When I think about it, I'm not exactly sure what he does during those shifts. The store is never clean, and the trucks only come twice a week. Exclusively during the daylight hours as per an arrangement following the incident. Maybe one day I'll ask Carlos what he does for the owners.

All I know is that he's the closest thing to a friend that I have here. When Carlos approached me at my register last night, I knew something unusual was going on. He was sweating bullets, pale and on the verge of passing out. He kept glancing back at the man in the suit that had wandered into the store and was standing next to the frozen drink machine. He told me that he needed to talk. Now.

I told him, go ahead. but he refused to say anything unless I followed him into the freezer. I usually hate to leave the front of the store and watch. We have the occasional shoplifter. Plus, there was that one time Morocco got in and made off with two cases of cigarettes. But Carlos seemed serious, so I made an exception for him. Once we were in the sub-freezing safety of the walking cooler, Carlos asked me if I had seen the guy in the suit.

I said yes, I saw him. he asked if I knew the guy. I said, yes, I'd seen the guy around town. His name was Kiefer. He was running for some kind of office, and I can't remember which one, and stopped by the gas station every now and then. He drove an old black SUV that only took premium.

I didn't know much from in town, but he was definitely local. His picture was framed in my high school's trophy case for one of those sports competitions he'd won years and years before I got there. We only have so many things to be proud of, I suppose. I knew of Kiefer, but we weren't exactly acquaintances. I told all this to Carlos, who shook his head and said, No, that can't be Kiefer. I said, why not?

Carlos told me, that can't be Kiefer, because Kiefer has been dead for two days. His body's in the trunk of my car right now. And that's when things started getting weird. It was a very strange night. Between the hand plants, farmer junior, that cultist wouldn't leave me alone. I hardly had any time to collect my thoughts. Of course there was the Carlos situation.

I promise I'll come back to tell you all about it, but first I need to grab some coffee. There are times when this world drift so close to the fabric or reality that I can hear something calling me from beyond that veil. Sometimes, when I get too close, I can feel that thing on the other side tugging at the corners of my mind. I'm worried about Carlos. He doesn't seem to be taking this so well. In case you don't know, I work at the shitty gas station at the edge of our small town.

The weird thing's been happening for as long as I've been here. I finally started to tell some of my stories, and if you haven't caught up yet, then I would invite you to listen to part one and two. When I returned to work after my post yesterday, I was delighted to find a stack of receipt paper sitting neatly on the register counter with notes written in my own shaky handwriting. I don't remember writing all these notes. But then again, I don't remember a lot of things. It is possible that I'm working too hard. Or maybe the fumes coming from underneath the gas station are playing tricks on me. or perhaps it's just another side effect of my condition.

At any rate, I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, or any other animal and any other orifice for that matter. Admittedly, my handwriting isn't the best, and at times the scratches on the receipt paper become nearly eligible. So if anything herein seems unbelievable, it's probably because I copied it wrong. With that in mind, this is my best effort at a transcription.

7 o'clock. It's getting dark earlier these days. 7.30. Farmer Jr. came into the gas station at night asking about the hand plants. I told him that they weren't there anymore. He left his phone number scribbled on the back of a coupon for 15% off bulk pig feed from an online retailer. I think he's trying to send me a message.

9 o'clock. I think maybe some kids are playing a press. on me. I found a lawn gnome behind the pork rinds. I didn't think much about it. I put him in a box behind the counter. But then I found another matching lawn gnome in the soda case. I added this one to the box as well. It wasn't until I noticed the third and fourth lawn gnomes that has started to suspect something. I had taken out the garbage and found the gnomes perched at top a branch of a tree next to the dumpster, staring down at me like gargoyles. I used the and broom to knock them down, and I put them in the box with the other three.

When I got back to my desk, I found a note on my chair written in red ink. It says simply, I'm in the walls. I don't know who wrote it, but the paper smells like oranges and plumaria. 10 o'clock. There's a strange scratching noise coming from the tiles above the cash register. I fear Rocco and his brood may have infiltrated the building again. 11 o'clock. Farmer Jr. called the store. He asked about the handplants.

I assured him that they weren't there anymore, and if they ever showed up again, I would call him. I think he's beginning to suspect that I'm lying. 12 o'clock. One of the cultist recruits wandered in from the community in the woods. They hate it when I call them cultists. I know the recruits aren't supposed to interact with the outside world, but from time to time they will sneak into town. never any further than this gas station, and buy cigarettes. They aren't supposed to try and recruit new members

until they graduate to the Honorable Senior Cultist status. But this one isn't a very good cultist. I know they aren't supposed to have names, but I'm going to call this one Marlborough. I'll let you guess why. Marlborough stayed at the store for at least half an hour, trying to convince me to go back to the compound with him. They hate it when I call their home a compound.

He tried to appeal to my logical side, but I had let him know politely but firmly that I was not interested in logic. I can't remember when he left. Two o'clock. I found myself digging again. Sometimes, on slow nights, I let myself drift. My mind goes somewhere. When I come to, I wonder, where was I just now? Who was that controlling my body while I was gone?

My body did those things I've done so many times before that I guess it's learned how to do them without me. My body restocks the cigarettes. My body rotates the frozen drink machine. My body scraped the mold off the bottoms of the ice buckets. My body emptied the rat traps. Somewhere along the way, my body found a shovel, went out back, and started digging a hole. Actually, I shouldn't say my body started digging. I have been, or rather, my body has been digging this hole off and on for the last few months.

Usually I come too after a few shovelfuls. This time I added another foot deep before I snap back to reality and asked myself, What the hell am I doing? 3.30. I just noticed the door at the end of the hallway past the walking cooler. How long have I worked here and never noticed that door before? It seems disappointingly ordinary as far as doors go. go, except for the fact that it's warm to the touch and feels like it's vibrating.

I tried the handle, but it's locked. When I got back to the register, I noticed a man in a trench coat standing outside beyond the gas pumps, just outside the reach of our lights, dangerously close to the road. I can't tell if he's looking at me, or if he's looking past the building at the woods on the other side. I wish you wouldn't stand there like that, stoic and still, with his arms reaching down past his knees. The scratching against the tiles and the ceiling over the counter is getting louder. 3.45. A man came into the store, rolling a large white ice chest behind him.

He had sunken blue eyes, wiery hair coming from his nose and ears, long bony fingers and paper-thin skin revealing every blue and green vein beneath the translucent dermis. He wore a bowler cap and smelled like milk. I had definitely never seen him around before. he asked if we'd be interested in partnering up with him. He sold ground meat at discount prices. But I told him that our store doesn't do well with the fresh foods category.

Recommended he try his hand at making jerky. Before he left, he scooped about a pound or so of raw ground meat from the ice chest onto a piece of parchment paper and gave it to me as a sample. Once he'd left, I took the meat into the cup. cooler where I found another lawn gnome waiting for me. I put the lawn gnome into the box with the other seven. Four o'clock. Carlos just told me something very strange about Kiefer. 4.30. There was a kid named Spencer Middleton and went to the same high school as me and Kiefer. Spencer was just about a year ahead of me, but looked much older and acted much younger.

I live in a small town and small towns get bored. For entertainment, I'm not. For entertainment, Some turn to Gaza, some turn to more sinister pastimes. The latter often fueled a former. There are rumors around town that Spencer liked to torture and kill animals. Rumors that Spencer's parents and siblings always locked their bedroom doors when they went to sleep at night. The rumors didn't slow down any after the fire at Spencer's house, where Spencer was the only one who escaped unscathed. I once saw Spencer gleefully stomp on a lizard, throw his head back and laugh.

Some short time after his house got fired for the second time, Spencer left home. The story went they'd have gone off and joined the army. I don't know what to think about that. So I simply don't think about that. I would have been perfectly happy to never think about that, but after all these years I'm forced to. Because Spencer Middleton just came into the store and bought a cup of coffee. He's sitting in one of the booze, talking to Kiefer. Marlborough was back.

He asked if I could spare him some time to talk about his fake religion. They hate it when I call it a fake religion. I told him he had to leave. He seemed upset. 4.45. Spencer and Kiefer sat around for a while and didn't buy anything but two cups of coffee. When they finally left, I let Carlos know. He'd been hiding under a blanket in the walking cooler, although I can't really understand why.

Carlos explained to me exactly what happened. He finished his shift a couple nights ago and it just left the gas station when he saw Kiefer's SUV pulled over in a ditch at the bottom of the hill. Carlos, being the good guy he is, decided to check and see if Kiefer needed any help. He says that when he pulled up and got out of the car, he could hear what sounded like a loud crunching noise coming from just beyond the tree line. Carlos went to investigate. That's when he saw something.

When I asked Carlos what he saw, he just started speaking Spanish in a little. fast, panic sort of way. I don't speak Spanish, but I nodded along empathetically. The only word I could pick up was Strega, which is the name of a liquorly carry. Whatever it was that Carlos saw, made him race back to his car as fast as he could and back out quickly without looking,

and that's when he ran over Kiefer. Carlos is a good guy, but here wasn't a bad situation. He stopped long enough to get out, check on Kiefer and confirm that he was definitely dead. There was nothing he could do that would change that fact. It was an accident. Carlos was on parole.

There was that thing in the woods. Carlos had to make a decision. So, he heaved the body into the trunk of his car and drove off. Carlos took me to his car and showed me the body. I can confirm 100% that it was Kiefer in the trunk of his car. not just because of his unmistakable face, but also because of his phone and wallet that were in his pockets. I finally got tired of the scratching and pulled our ladder out of storage to see what the raccoons were doing in the ceiling. But when I pushed back to tile, the only thing that was up there was another gnome.

That makes one dozen so far. 6 o'clock. The man in the trench coat is still outside. The cultist came back in, demanding an audience with a lot of the court. me, insisting that if I would just listen to him, I would see that his reasoning is superb and flawless and that it would be a fool not to join him in the perfection of logic and and Hervana that is his belief structure. I agreed to listen to his pitch if he would agree to ask the man in the trench coat to leave.

Our hasty verbal contract in place, I steal myself to listen. Honestly, he did make a few good points. But I suppose that's to be expected from a viral thought experiment strong enough to convince perfectly normal people to abandon their real lives and go live in a commune in the woods past a shady gas station on the edge town. They call themselves mathematicists. They believe that humankind exists to fulfill two moral imperatives, to decrease suffering and to increase happiness.

The successful life increases happiness more than suffering. A decent life decreases suffering more than happiness. How good a person is can be determined by the spread between the happiness increased and the suffering decreased. obviously if the individual has a negative spread, that is, if they've increased happiness less than they've increased suffering, or if they've decreased suffering less than they've decreased happiness, then that means very simply that the individual is bad. Therefore, if an individual causes a tremendous amount of happiness and suffering,

one can simply determine which was higher, and use this perfect rubric to determine whether that individual was good or bad. Simple, right? The mathematicists believe that the world has been going about good and bad in the wrong way. For eons, we've been attempting to increase happiness when instead we should be focusing on decreasing suffering. As happiness is a fluid concept, and the more happiness you create, the harder it is to sustain, as happiness has a clear set of diminishing returns. Suffering, however, is constant. Suffering results from happiness coming to an end. Suffering is pure and eternal. For a mathematician,

be supremely good, they must simply end all suffering. That's why the mathematicists are working on a bomb to destroy the entire planet. By ending all life on Earth, they end an infinity of suffering into the future. With every life they avert, an entire lineage of people that will be born to a life of suffering will no longer. Every death is a preemptive mercy killing. Every happy moment that will no longer occur pales in the face of the sad moments that are likewise prevented. And so, as Marlborough explained, their murder cult believes that killing is a kindness. I told him that his ideas were stupid and he was stupid, and now he had to go tell the man in the trench coat to go away.

6.30. The phone rang. This is strange for two reasons. First, because it was not the landline. It was a cell phone, even though we do not get cell phone service wait out here. And second, because it was... The cell phone. The one that I took off Kiefer's body. I'll admit, I was stuck in a bit of a moral quandary

ever since Carlos confided in me. On the one hand, Carlos had killed someone. On the other, it was an accident, and Carlos' parole officer may not see it that way. I thought I'd have more time to figure this out. But when the cell phone started ringing, I knew I had to make a decision. I answered it.

I didn't speak first. The voice on the other line was one that I recognized. It was Spencer Middleton. His cell phone and wallet, I answered. He was right. I did. It was an accident, I explained. Can we do that?

7.30. Carlos came in for a shift an hour ago, and I explained the deal to him. He wasn't thrilled, but as I laid it out very clearly, he didn't have a choice. We parked Carlos' camry behind the gas station near the growth of handplants and made a point to stand far enough away as to not get our ankles grabbed. Kiefer's SUV drove up a few minutes later. Spencer was driving. He and Kiefer got out without a word, sized this up, and opened the back of their vehicle.

Carlos popped his trunk. Kiefer and I stared at each other, keeping eye contact the whole time while Carlos and Spencer transferred the body from one vehicle to the other. Spencer had a tarp and blanket ready to wrap every. everything up. When it was over, Kiefer put a hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, You done good. Then they left. Collars started crying when I went back inside the store. It was almost daytime, and that's when the new part-timer was supposed to take over. Eight o'clock. The new part-timer's late, and I'm overdue for a lunch break. I made the best of my extra time

here by putting price stickers on all the lawn gnomes. We're ringing them up as miscellaneous. grocery for $9.99 each. And I've already sold a couple. I'm a really good employee. 8.30. I went to the bathroom and saw a man standing there with his jeans of his ankles. He wore red and white checkered boxers and a cowboy hat. He smiled when he saw me and simply said in a somewhat sing-songy voice,

Come on, man. Come on with it. I took the opportunity to ask him something that's been burning at the back of my mind. Do you know? Is everything going to be okay? The bathroom cowboy took a second to think. Then he pulled up his pants, fastened his enormous belt buckle, and walked past me. Spurs clinking against the bathroom tile.

He stopped for a second when he was right next to me and said plainly, I appreciate it. Then he left. I honestly have no idea what that means. These are the entirety of the receipt paper notes. But I did make a point to continue keeping this journal. I think this will be a healthy way of chronicling the weird events at the gas station. Maybe this will help with my condition.

I don't know. The next time something strange happens, maybe I'll come back and write more. Until then, I guess this is to be continued. Edits. Sorry, upon further inspection, I realized that some of the scribbles on the receipt paper may have been transcribed incorrectly. I also made some adjustments to the spelling and, fix some typos. While I was added, I added another typo just for the observant reader.

Lastly, upon the advice of some of my readers, I removed the part where I listed Farmer Junior's social security number and address. Also, thanks to the reader that pointed out that Strega isn't even a Spanish word. I asked Carlos about it when he came in for his fourth shift today, but Carlos simply looked at me blankly and told me he doesn't speak Spanish. I should begin this entry by saying how truly sorry I am to anyone who read part four. I had no idea that was going to happen. The agents have assured me that every trace of the story has been removed from the internet and that there is nothing to worry about. If you were unfortunate enough to have read part four, I beg you for your own sake. Try to forget everything. If you experience nosebleeds,

dizziness, migraines, or hallucinations, go immediately to the emergency room. If you have a recurring dream of an island made of song, under no circumstances should you approach or attempt to open the blue door with the painting of a crow on it. If you do not read part four, there was no part four. It does not exist. Forget you ever heard of it. By now, you probably already know that there's a shitty gas station at the edge of our small town and that weird things have been happening there. The city council has personally asked me to stop talking about it, as there have been some astute readers

that not only track down our small town from the brief descriptions I've given, but actually come and visit me at work. I heard that one of them has joined the mathematicists, and as far as I know, the other two are still missing. Once again, I am sorry. I'm not working right now. It's the first legitimate breakup had since I first third.

I started writing my stories on receipt paper all that time ago. Time moves funny here. It's slowing slow and fast all at once, like molasses out of a shotgun. It's a good thing I've been keeping a journal. I've got a few moments before my laptop dies, and I think now it would be a perfect time to transpose my journal entries, before the battery runs out or the blood loss gets to me.

Right now it's a race to see what happens first. Before any of you worry, I've already called. called Tom. He said he's on the way, here to give me a ride to the hospital, right after he picks up dinner for the Ledford orphans, John Ben, and little sister. Tom and the other deputy has been taking turns checking in on and bringing them food in an attempt to make the whole thing less tragic. They've been living on their own ever since the incident that totally did not happen. Anyone who says otherwise is a damn liar. There I go again. Off on another tangent. I guess I'll get to it and type up my journal entries while I still can.

11 to 2017. 9 p.m. So much has happened since the Halloween incident that we aren't allowed to talk about. I've been much busier than usual, dealing with the aftermath as well as the cult. The mathematicists have been cleaning out our inventory on a daily basis, planning ahead for some kind of secret event that I only hear about and hushed mutterings and whispers. nights coming earlier and the weather's getting colder 113, 2017, 2 a.m. A man in the trench coat's back.

He's standing just outside the gas station door staring in. Been there for almost an hour now. On the bright side, I haven't had a customer coming in since he showed up. And the not-so-bright side, I can't help but feel he's trying to put thoughts into my head. He won't be able to, though. I've had way too much practice. Kiefer came in earlier today, before the sun went down, and sat in a booth drinking coffee for a while. Eventually Spencer Middleton showed up.

Spencer had a word with Kiefer then came storming up to my register, screaming at the top of his lungs. He grabbed the display of Lotto scratch-offs and threw it across the room. It was obvious that something had upset him. That's when I took the earplugs out. Everything okay? I asked stupidly. I knew damn well everything was never okay. Did you hear a word I just said?

Spencer asked. I explained to him that I'd taken wearing earplugs in an effort to drawn out the sounds of screaming that periodically radiate through the air vents. I guess his screams must have stopped a while ago. But maybe I had imagined them. Neither way. I don't need the earplugs anymore.

At this point, Tom walked into the store. his white hair looking even whiter than normal. Spencer, I could see, became instantly aware the deputy's presence. Where is he? He half whispered, half growled. Where is the other one? Carlos? I asked.

Spencer sighed. Sure. Carlos. He's not doing for another 20 minutes. When he gets here, tell him we need to have a chat. With that, Spencer Melaton let out a shrill whistle and left the store. Kiefer jumped out of his seat and followed forth behind. Tom helped me pick up the mess and put the lotto display back together without asking a single question.

I wish more people could be like Tom. When Carlos got to work, he told me he'd been having strange dreams. Dreams of something enormous, living, breathing, underground. The dreams always end the same way, when the gas station collapsed into a giant sinkhole. I told them that Spencer was looking for him. It's when Carlos grew solemn and asked me if you could show me something. In the freezer, find a stack of boxes labeled non-aprear. Whatever the hell that means.

They've been here as long as I've worked here. There's a moving blanket. And inside that blanket is another kefir. My first question for Carlos was, You stole the body back? He looked at the ground and shook his head sheepishly like a toddler, just got busted for cooking meth. You killed another one?

I asked. Carlos explained it was an accident. Again, 3 a.m. The man in the trench coat is finally gone. He left claw marks on the glass of the front door. I checked the security footage. to confirm my suspicions. He always stays just outside the range of our cameras.

Why can't I remember what his face looked like? 3.30 a.m. Marlborough was the first customer in the store after the man in the trench goal left. I told him that I was surprised he was still alive. He mistook this for a compliment and said thank you. I asked him if he was ready for the big event. But then he just stared at me blankly.

I could tell you I had no idea what I was talking about, so I filled him in on how I'd put it all together. The unusual cultist activity, the whispers, the buying up of all our supplies. I could tell that something was about to happen. Marlborough went pale in the face as I was talking, then ran out the gas station before I could finish, the 99-cent frozen drinks still in his hand.

I know I should write up an inventory loss slip for the theft, but I just can't bring myself to do it. As hard as it is to explain, there's just something about Marlborough that makes me genuinely feel sorry for him. 6 a.m. Caught myself digging again. I don't know how long I was out there. Who was running the store while I was gone. The hole's so deep now I nearly couldn't climb out on my own.

I should maybe think about considering the possibility of one day asking a doctor if this is normal. 8 a.m. Marlborough is currently crying in the drive. storage closet. Through his sobs, I could barely make out the story. Marlborough was sent on some kind of vision quest for the last week and had no idea what the other cultists had been stocking up for. When he went back to the compound earlier tonight, he found the whole place completely deserted. Beds were left unmade. Some plates had food on them. A fire is still burning in the fireplace. Everyone's clothes were still in their personal milk crates next to their sleeping bags.

but the people, all of the people, were simply gone. Marlborough isn't taking this very well, but I have a business to run. So I asked Carlos to help me carry him into the dry storage area. I figure he can work through some stuff in there and then maybe when he's done he'll just... I don't know. Go home. 114, 2017. 9 p.m.

Exterminator is just like, left. They say they got all the snakes this time. But I have my doubts. 11-5-2017. 5 p.m. Kiefer came into the store again today and made some thinly veiled threats. He asked about Carlos too, but I told him I was getting tired to be in the go-between and that if he had business with Carlos, he needed to take it up with Carlos. That's when Kiefer started getting weird. You know this place is just a big experiment and you're the little mouse. I asked Kiefer to buy something I leave, so he bought a pack of toothpaste, and started to undress in the store and rubbed the toothpaste on his naked body.

He'd tell me that something's wrong with your brain. Is that true? I tried to be polite and avert my eyes as I answered, Yeah. You have some kind of mental condition? I answered again. Yeah. That's too bad.

At this point, Kiefer was completely naked. He walked over to the frozen drink machine and filled a large cup with a sugary red concoction before turning it upside down on top of his head. Then he shook himself violently like a wet dog, flinging bits of cold, sticky debris across everything from the ceiling to the walls. Some of it even landing on my face.

But I tried not to let him see me flinch. I knew this was all just an attempt to intimidate me, and I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. What is it exactly? He asked as he crossed back to where his pile of clothes waited for him. What? I asked. What's your condition?

Schizophrenia, pronopoeia, meningitis. The gay? No? I answered. I don't sleep. You don't sleep? He sounded genuinely interested. Like, ever?

I can't fall asleep. I haven't slept a single day since high school. It's a rare genetic condition with no cure, no treatment, and one day it'll kill me. But until then, I handle the effects as best I can. Kiefer nodded. That must be it. That must be why he can't reach you. Why who can't reach me?

Right then, Spencer came into the story. He threw a blanket around Keefer and ushered him out to a waiting SUV. A moment later, he came back into the store and offered me $100 for the security tape from tonight. I wonder what I'll spend my hundred bucks on. 9 p.m. I was beginning to suspect something wasn't quite right in the store. I've been finding empty candy bar wrappers strewn about, security tapes mysteriously deleted. Strange noises coming through the walls in the middle of the night when I should be alone.

At least, more strange noises than usual. At first I assumed it was just the raccoons. But now I know the truth. Now I know that Marlborough's been living here for the last two days. He just walked out of the supply closet wearing a bathrobe, nodded to me as he grabbed a stick of meat jerky and went into the bathroom. It had not even occurred to me that Marlboro never left. 116, 2017.

4 a.m. It finally happened. Suppose it was only a matter time. I know I should feel regret or shame or any of the other emotions that normal people feel after something like this happens, but all I feel is embarrassed. I came to a couple hours ago with a shovel in my hand. I'd been digging again, and this time I'd made some serious progress.

The hole was at least seven feet deep. The steep walls made a loose red clay. It took me a while to realize that I was staring up in an inky black night peppered with uncountable stars when some of the bigger celestials started to move. I realized that those stars were actually just the soulless red eyes of the mutant raccoon staring down at me over the edge of the hole. Probably looking for food. Those shameless beggars.

I chucked the shovel out of the hole and that's when I heard it. Imagine the sound of a butcher's knife hitting a watermelon. like a solid wet thwack. Now imagine the watermelon gurgling and falling over like a sack of potatoes. This metaphor has really gotten away from me. When I climbed out of the hole, I saw the shovel standing upright. The business end firmly lodged inside the open chest wound of a still twitching keifer. The keifer was dead before I got to his side.

In a final act of defiance, he had turned both of his middle fingers up to me. I felt just the slightest amount of respect for him before I went into a mental state that I can only describe as subdued panic. The first thing I wanted to do was find something to wrap the body in because, surely, Spencer Middleton would come for it soon. When I went into the gas station, I was surprised to find that Marlborough had taken it upon himself to work the cash register while I was gone. He was ringing up one of our regulars, Charles, a great big fat man that always buys soap and boiled peanuts. I nabbed a tarp off the shelf and took it outside.

That's when I learned something. Kiefer is heavy. Like really heavy. I understand that a human body is basically just a meaty, fleshy water balloon full of guts and excrement. But nothing could prepare me for how leaky and gross and heavy a dead man can be. It was only by some miracle that I managed to drag Kiefer through the back door and into the freezer without being seen. It took all my strength to pull the mass behind the boxes and onto the stack with the other three. When I finally finished, it worked up the sweat.

And even the cold of the freezer wasn't enough to keep me cool. As I stood there letting my breath come back and the adrenaline wore off, I took stock in my situation. That's when it dawned on me. There were four keifers in that freezer with me. Four. Kiefer's. Where the hell did the other two come? come from. The freezer door opened and Marlborough entered, dragging a dead kefir by the legs.

He stopped and made eye contact with me. When he saw the kefers at my feet, I said the only thing I could think of. Well, this is awkward. Marlborough and I decided to open a bottle of straggle liquor and have a few drinks. He explained that he had accidentally killed kefir a couple times. I totally understood. That was just so easy to kill. At one point, Carlos came into the freezer to grab a box of cookie dough. He didn't even acknowledge all the kefers. My laptop battery is currently at 2%. It's obvious now that I won't have time to transcribe the rest of my journals before it dies.

I don't have time to tell you how I ended up at the bottom of this hole underneath the store with the broken leg. But I can tell you that I hear someone moving around above me, which is good because I don't think I'm alone down here. If you're reading this, it means I managed to upload my story. If you're not reading this, then... I don't know. What even are you?

Someone just called my name from the top of the precipice. I think it's Carlos. I wonder what happened to Tom. Why didn't Tom ever show up? Come to think of it. I seem to remember Tom didn't survive the Halloween incident. Wait. Who the hell have I been talking to this entire time?

I promise. If I survive long enough to return to my battery, I'll come back and tell the rest. Until then, I guess the story's to be continued. Hey, everybody. It's me, Jerry, from the gas station at the edge of town. Proud to be the newest member of the team. The owners were so impressed with how I managed to stay inside the store for several days without leaving or going insane. They offered me a full-time position while the regular clerk is out recovering from his leg injury.

Happy Monday, y'all! The other guy asked me to do him a small favor while he's getting some much needed rest and relaxation. He gave me the password to his laptop and detailed instructions to transcribe his journal entries from last week. In exchange, he agreed to keep me on as a full-time assistant after he gets back. I get to learn what to expect on the job through firsthand documentation, and he gets to continue his weird little blog thing. Now that's what I call a win-win. If I'm being honest, this is probably the best thing that could have happened

me right now. Ever since the program is seriously dissolved at the mathematician community, I've been feeling very lost and vulnerable. I've been losing weight and having trouble sleeping, and when I do, I keep having these weird dreams of some enormous being deep below the gas station, waiting to devour us all. Clearly, a mistake was made and I was overlooked. If any of my old brothers and sisters are out there and see this post, please, please contact me. Tell the seniors, they forgot me. I'm not mad. I miss you. I love you. Before I get started, some guys in suits came by and suggested that if this blog were going to continue, that I make a PSA. If there is anybody still alive that read the story about what happened here on Halloween,

don't wait for symptoms to start. Please go to the nearest emergency room or call the Center for Disease Control and tell them you are experiencing the effects of Romald's syndrome. Anyway, back to the journals. I'm going to do my best because the guy's handwriting is awful. But here's the parts I can read. 117, 2017. The man in the trench coat was standing out back when I went to take out the garbage tonight.

I don't know why the man in the trench coat keeps visiting my store or why I've never gotten a good look at him. He was standing at the tree line just beyond the dumpsters, staring at the, staring at the as he ever did. Tonight? I stared back. Hinge of his jaw began halfway up his face where his nose should have been. That just pulled back to either ear and a skeletal grin. His tiny milky white eyes were beads behind the oily black hair line that hung down straight and bangs all the way to his cheek jowl. His impossibly wide mouth bisected the head between greasy hair and wet flesh. Drewl, I'd assume. We stood there, 15 feet apart, staring at one another for what might have been 10 seconds or 10 minutes,

until finally the man in the trench coat turned away. His legs bent funny, in a way that human legs shouldn't be able to bend, and he landed on all fours before galloping into the woods. I don't know if I've seen the last of the man in the trench coat. Holy shit! Did you guys read that? Well, this is some crazy shit. Sorry, Jerry again.

I promise, I'm not going to do the running commentary thing. I just had to say, Jesus, you know? This is some weird stuff. I mean, I remember him telling me a couple weeks ago to go outside and talk to a man in a trench coat. I'm super glad I didn't now. What the hell? Okay, that's it. I'm done.

Back to the transcriptions. The next page is soaked in blood and completely unreadable, so I'm going to have to skip that part. Hundreds and hundreds of them. She'd never seen so many in one place, not even in her dreams. Before she left, she told me I would see her again.

Was that supposed to be a warning or a flirtation? 3.23 a.m. It's quiet a night than I'm used to. The package from yesterday afternoon still sits on the counter where I left it. The label's made out to me. with a return address I don't recognize. The rectangular parcel is wrapped like a Christmas present with red and yellow stripes and feels heavy.

I would say it's just about the right size for a dead cat. I can't think of any realistic reason I shouldn't open the package, but there's something in the back of my mind telling me that to open this would be tantamount to opening Pandora's box. That the contents of this little parcel will irrevocably change the course of my life in a way that may have seemed impossible before. I feel like this box is full of butterflies, ready to create tsunamis. I'm just not sure I'm ready for that yet.

I think I'm going to teach Marlborough how to clean the drink machines. 3.47 a.m. Marlborough's passed out in a hammock in the supply closet. I think he finished that bottle on his own. I guess I'll go clean the drink machines by myself, 5.45 a.m. The handplants are growing faster than I anticipated. They're now past the elbows, almost to the shoulders. I saw that the crop had caught a curious coyote that got too close.

It was not pretty. I also noticed the rock was still alive. I caught them sitting on the roof, tossing food to the crop of handplants. This is why they're growing so fast. They're eating way too much. If this gets out of control, I may have to torch this crop just like the others. I don't want to. Tends shivers down my spine whenever I hear the way they scream.

7.30 a.m. Carlos came in for his morning shift looking pretty terrible. He filled up on coffee and told me that he hadn't been sleeping too well. The bad dreams have been keeping him from getting a restful night. I wonder if I should tell Carlos about my condition. He asked about the gift wrap package sitting on the counter. I told him that it came with a post yesterday. and I didn't know who was from.

He asked if I was going to open it, and I told him that I had a bad feeling and pretty much decided to never, ever open it. 10 a.m. I decided to open the package. Without any fanfare or drum roll, I'll just tell you that what I found inside was a brand new laptop computer.

I've never owned my own laptop before. And the only computer that ever belonged to me was a crappy little Tandy 1,000 that I put together as a kid. I've always used a library computer lab or the browser on my phone to access the internet. This could be a game changer. The box also contains a signal repeater and some other gizmos. I know this is crazy, but I think I may actually be able to access the internet from the gas station now.

There's also a handwritten note at the bottom of the package. Hello, I left this on your comment page. There's something I want to tell you. I'm enjoying reading these stories you're writing, but I think if you actually sit down and write out one story at a time that you'll get a lot more upboats. It's very good. I'm not saying it's bad. But it right now seems like a lot of half stories thrown together. I think you do great if you actually write out one whole story at a time. I bet you really could get a lot of upvotes and attention.

It gets kind of confusing right now. Maybe start with when you got there and work your way up to now. I bet that would be super awesome. I'm so fascinated, but a little muddled as well. I can tell you have a great talent for writing, but I just thought maybe I'd offer a suggestion to help. Please do not take offense. It's just something I was thinking.

Hope all is going well for you. Great. Another one of my readers track me down. I'm going to have to figure out how people keep finding me and put a stop to this. Thank you, whoever you are, for the laptop. I'm definitely going to keep it. 10.15 a.m. I turned on the Wi-Fi card and noticed that for some reason there are dozens of secured networks around the gas station.

Most of which have four or five bars. The names for their networks are pure gobbledygook like this one. I.E7G7-C-7-T-A-1-1-G-A-Y-2-3-33-13-4. Who the hell is transmitting Wi-Fi? out here. 11 a.m. A man came into the store to buy a gas can a couple hours ago. I didn't think much of it at the time, but he came back asking if I could help him out

with something down the road. I never got his name. But it was a big guy, tan skin and thick beard. He said he was having car problems. I told him I wasn't a car guy, but he insisted that he didn't need a car guy. He just needs someone else to see what he was seeing. Marlboro agreed to watch the counter, while Carlos and I followed the bearded man down the hill and around the curve, close to the spot where Carlos saw that thing in the woods. He couldn't remember what happened that night.

After we got everything sorted out with Spencer and things started to get back to normal, I asked Carlos what he saw in the woods that sent him running in such a careless panic. But he just shook his head and said he didn't know. The mind's a funny thing. Memories aren't the most reliable. I realize that I'm not the only person from the gas station with a list of try and forget stories. The man's car was parked on the side of the road, close to the same spot that Kiefer's SUV was broken down.

So my car started acting funny. The guy said as we neared his vehicle. I began to wonder why we walked this whole way. When our own vehicle would be quite useful in case of a dead battery or random bear attack. The guy kept going. I pulled over onto the side of the road when all my electricals started going haywire. I killed the engine. Then when I tried to turn it over again, nada.

I could see at this point that the hood was open. The man was driving a big black SUV similar to the one Kiefer owned, but newer and shinier. I don't know what's so weird about that. You need us to call a toe or the man cut Carlos off. rudely, I might add. I popped the hood, but everything was in order. I thought maybe it just needed some gas. So I went up to the station.

Then when I got back, I saw this. We rounded the front of the car and saw the this, who's being so vague about. A small oak tree, maybe four or five years old, was growing up from the ground beneath the car, threw the engine, and stretched upward at least nine feet. The trunk of the tree had swallowed a decent portion of the engine, and from the looks of the car had been parked there for years.

Interesting, I said. And you're sure that wasn't there when you started driving? Before he could answer, he spun his head around and looked at the forest. You boys hear that? He asked. We stood there and listened, but I couldn't hear anything. No, I answered. Carlo shrugged.

You boys know when an angler fish is, The bearded man asked as he walked through the back door and opened it. Yeah, I guess, I answered. The bearded man pulled up a secret compartment from beneath the floorboard and retrieved a large automatic rifle. I'm not a gun guy, and I can't tell you what kind of gun it was, but it was big and impressive and cool looking. The guy checked the clip and clicked something on the gun that could have been the safety.

Again, I'm not a gun guy. But it sounded super cool. Carlos put a hand on my shoulder and slowly backed away from the man with a gun, pulling me with him. But the man didn't seem to mind us one bit. He was focused on whatever he heard in the woods. If I'm right, you boys have an angler fish in them woods. It's putting something out there to lure me in. Make me think I'm hearing something that I'm not.

Then when I go out there looking for the one thing, bam! It attacks. Oh. Like a siren? I asked. The man looked at me over his shoulder with a smirk and said, Yeah, like a siren.

Y'all may want to get out of here. This could get dangerous. Don't worry about me. I've dealt with these things before. I'll be fine. The man pointed his gun and marched into the woods while Carlos and I made our way back to the gas station. 2 p.m. It's time for me to go home. I haven't used a laptop yet, but maybe tomorrow I'll start to type up these journals.

11.8. 6 p.m. It's getting dark so early these days. I notice that the bearded man's SUV is still at the bottom of the hill with a tree growing through it. I wouldn't call that a good sign. 11. I burned the rest of the handplants. I finally know what's going on. A long time ago, I noticed what looked like strange mushrooms growing in a patch near a dumpster

behind the gas station. I didn't think much about them, except it was strange that Rocco's brood wouldn't go near them. When I took a closer look, I could have sworn that they looked like baby fingers poking out of the ground. As the weather got warmer, I kept an eye on the crops. They started getting longer and looking more and more distinguishably similar to humans. human fingers. I swear they even started growing fingernails. Sometimes I would see them bend at the digits, squash a bug that wandered too close. Eventually the mushrooms started sprouting

leaves and the finger sections continued to stretch out, creating what could only be described as hands. Human hands. They would ball up into fists during the daytime and open up in the moonlight. I dug one of them up one day when we were really slow at work and I called Farmer Jr. to ask for his professional opinion. To the untrained eye, a handplant looked just like a regular human hand. Smaller than at adults, but larger than a child's. Adolescent, teenager maybe. At the wrist it turned into a gnarled root that smelled like sassafras. And throughout the plant, tiny leaves were sprouting. Farmer Jr. stood in the gas station looking it over for a while before asking me if we had any more of those things.

I lied and told them no. I asked the owners what they wanted me to do. They thought it over for a couple of days and then told me to keep them. I think they expected to make money off them somehow, but eventually everyone forgot they were there. Everyone but me. And from a junior, of course. I was thinking about the bearded man when I first heard the sound of a baby crying somewhere

outside. I was alone in the store, and my first instinct was not the heroic one that most people may have had, to run outside and see where the poor baby was. My first instinct was more callous and rational and in the form of a question. How the hell did a baby get way out here without me hearing it coming? Something wasn't right. The sounds of the cries, which I could deduce for coming from the tree line, were getting louder and louder and more and more desperate. I looked around for Marlborough but couldn't find him anywhere. If I was going to investigate the potential forest baby, I was going to have to do it alone.

I remember the bearded man hearing the siren call of the thing he called an anglerfish. I remember Carlos's sound of crunching in the straga. And absolutely no part of me believed that I would be safe if I went into the woods or that there was really a baby crying out there. But what if? I grabbed a flashlight and went out back.

The crying seemed to be moving deeper into the forest, quickly, like the crying baby was being carried off by something that didn't have to stop and move around trees or physical barriers. I walked into the forest just far enough to find the last thing I ever expected to find. It seemed that the handplants had extended slightly further than just a little patch outside the gas station. Those plants that I'd been watching and burning whenever they got too aggressive were not as controlled as I'd previously believed. Because out here, just a few steps into the woods,

was a handplant that I'd missed, that I'd never trimmed or culled or burned, that was left free to grow as large and wild as it possibly could. Out here was a handplant that had grown so large it had fallen over. It had grown past the shoulder. It had grown its own head and torso and crotch and legs. out here was a full human body covered in tiny leaves huddled on the ground and attached the soil by thick talons of brown ruts

and the weirdest part of all? The body was one that I recognized. The body, the fully grown handplant, was keifer. I don't know what possessed me to touch him. Maybe I just wanted to make sure it was real, as if touching him would prove that one way or the other. When I did, the eyes opened and he cracked a smile.

It cannot move. The roots had him firmly stuck in place. But this keifer plant could talk. And talky did. We stayed out there talking for over an hour. I won't go into everything the keifer plant said, but I will say this. There is something under the gas station. Something big and powerful.

Something plotting. and I've been working for years in a cloud of this dark god's farts. I felt extra terrible setting the fully developed kefir plant on fire after I'd burn the rest of the crop of handplants. But honestly, what choice did I have? When I got back to the gas station, Spencer was waiting for me. He knew I knew, and I knew he knew I knew. I was half expecting what came next,

but not expecting him to enjoy himself quite so much. Spencer locked the front doors then proceeded to beat the crap out of me I'd say I got a few good hits in as well but that would be a huge lie I don't think I'd lay a single finger on him although I did mess up his knuckles pretty good with my face

so I have that going for me Spencer dragged me across the gas station in the hallway past the bathrooms past the walking cooler that big strange door that I'd only just noticed a couple weeks ago If it were possible for me to pass out, I'm sure I would be unconscious right now. Why are you doing this?

I asked as he banged down the door three times. There was a sound from the other side, and then Spencer yelled, Open up, it's me! The door cracked open and Spencer dragged me into a room I'd never seen before. It looked like an old office. There was a desk next to the wall monitors with security feeds from all over the the store on the perimeter. Security feeds from cameras I never knew existed.

In the middle of the room was a large hole that looked like it had been created with the team of jackhammers. It's time for you to meet my boss. Spencer said as he draped me to the edge of the hole. Kiefer, I said, to which Spencer let out a hearty laugh. No, not Kiefer. My boss put Kiefer out there and hired me to watch him. my boss is much bigger than some idiot politician.

I have expected Spencer to go into the cliche movie villain exposition rant, but instead he sparted me right into this hole. I think my legs broke. At least I assume that's what the bone poking out means, but hey, I'm no doctor. I'd be really worried right now if I weren't for the fact that I stole Spencer's cell phone in the scuffle. Just as I expected, Spencer had the same network as Kiefer, which means he somehow has service. I put in a call to Tom's direct number, so I'm sure he'll be along shortly. Until he gets here, I'm just passing the time, updating my journals.

Somebody just dropped a laptop in his hole with me. Maybe he was Spencer. Maybe he thinks I'm dead. Maybe I am. Again, I'm not a doctor. Whoever it was, I think I might have heard the sound of boot spurs quinking against the tiles as he walked away. I guess I'll boot this thing up and start transcribing my journals before it's too late. Okay, so this is the last of his journals.

You're probably wondering to yourself, where was Jerry while Spencer was beating the crap out of poor old Jack? Well, I'd gone into town to see a movie. Yes, I went and watched Thor Ragnarok. If you haven't seen it, go see it. It was awesome. I guess I'm lucky I went when I did. Otherwise, the Spencer guy might have tossed me to that hole as well.

I was the one that found Jack. When I came back to the gas station, I couldn't find anyone anywhere. So I went searching until I noticed the door at the edge of the hall cracked open slightly. I also found a really poorly made bomb behind the register, but it didn't take long to disassemble. You can thank the mandatory bomb building classes at the Mathematist program for that. No big deal. Just me being my typical heroic self.

I asked Carlos to help me haul Jack up out of the hole, and then Carlos moved into an undisclosed location for a few days while his leg mends. And he gets back, I'll let him have his laptop to continue his little block thing. Until then, it's just me, Carlos, and the raccoons. How does Jack usually end these things? Oh yeah. To be continued. Edit.

I just caught my... myself digging. Recovering from an injury sucks. Recovering from an injury you can't fall asleep sucks worse. Recovering from an injury you can't fall asleep while simultaneously being hunted by a psychopathic lackey of a dark god with a personal vendetta against you sucks even worse. But what sucks even more worse? Is having to do all the above and still being called into work because, as the owners put it,

the new guy is, quote, a complete and total moron with willful and malicious idiocy that borders on the criminal." And so I am here. Against the doctor's advice at the shitty gas station at the edge of town. Only a little worse for the wear. What's incredible is that I've only been back for one day and there's already a body count. More on that later. My right legs in a cast from ankle to thigh and I've elected to use crutches because,

unsurprisingly, the gas station is not wheelchair accessible. The cast has several signatures and messages, which is very strange because I have no memory of anyone signing it. But that could just be a result of the pain meds. Looking down now, I can see that Carlos scrawled this message. Try and stay out of trouble. See. There's also a message in red crayon. Jerry was here.

A few signatures scribbled in Sharpie and a little further out my leg. I have to pull my pants way up to read it. This note. R-T-R-A-T-C-Xclamation point. Well, that's annoyingly cryptic. I checked the tape logs to see who I let get so close to my delicate area, but the owners had every camera in the place removed. I guess there was something about finding that secret room full of security camera feeds

to bring personal privacy into the public discussion. I feel like the act of removing all the security cameras was a bit of an overreaction, especially with Spencer still out there. The police took a statement and confiscated the remains of the bomb. They're taking this whole thing very seriously, and an arrest warrant sought for Spence from Middleton, should he ever show up again. As for Kiefer, things get a little more interesting.

The police were unable to find any evidence if he ever existed. He had no property in his name, no driver's license, no public record of any kind. The only thing even linking him to this town was a grainy picture in an old, yearbook photo. It would seem that Kiefer was living off the grid ever since he graduated high school. And now that Spencer's attempt to blow up the gas station failed, Kiefer suspended his election campaign and simply disappeared.

The sheriff's been sending a new deputy, Arnold, to check on me once or twice a day. Arnold isn't from around here, which is probably why he agreed to replace Tom as a new gas station babysitter. He's about six to, dark-skinned, with a mustache thick enough to plant a yardful and go in. He has eyes that constantly telegraphed the sentiment. Knock that nonsense off. And I've yet to see him smile.

I don't know if Ronald will become the next time or the next Spencer. Right now, he could go either way. Arnold was the one that dropped me off at work today. I'm not supposed to get behind the steering wheel for a while, which is fine, I guess. It's not like I'm going on in road trips anytime soon. On the way to work, we passed the, SUV of the man with the beard.

The one staked him place on the side of the road by the tree growing up through its engine. I asked Arnold about it, but he just shrugged it off and said I shouldn't worry myself with other people's business. I asked him about the owner of the vehicle, and Arnold said that he thinks he got lost in the woods just like those hikers last fall. The search and rescue effort was underway and he was confident that they would find him, quote, one way or another. After Arnold dropped me off today, I went about my regular shift starting duties.

I reconciled Marlboro's Till, not at all surprised to see he was somehow $150 over, or that the surplus was entirely in $1 coins. I logged all the invoices that had piled up while I was out, and I emptied the trash cans. I was hoping that I might run into the cowboy, but the only thing in the men's room was an obese Hispanic trucker punishing the toilet and surrounding air with an unholy fury that deserves its own scary story. The sun was starting to go down when I hobbled out to the dumpster, balancing garbage bags against my crutches and probably looking like a baby deer learning to walk. You know, if that deer were drunk and two-legged carrying several bags of garbage.

The scorched earth near the dumpster was the same as I'd left it, blackened down to the subsoil. Somewhere just past the start of the trees was another patch of smold of remains, one that I neglected to mention in the police report. one that might look to the casual observer like the remains of a human body. Before I turned to go back in, I noticed something odd on the side of the dumpster. At first I thought it was a child's toy, stuck to the dirty outside wall. Then I realized that it was moving, breathing, crawling slowly, and eating the gooey drippings off the rest of the dumpster. The thing looked like a giant tomato caterpillar. About eight inches long, and as the sun went down, I swear,

I could see the thing giving off its own light source. This squishy caterpillar thing didn't seem to mind my presence. And even let me feed it in old starbursts that I had in my pocket. A yellow. Because like all people, I hate the yellow starburst. The critter bioluminescent a little brighter as he ate ataffy and gave it a gentle pet. A tide wasn't as what has it appeared. In fact, it seemed to be covered in tiny clear hairs.

You're not so. So bad. I said while it nibbled at the candy. Not everything out here needs to be scary, huh? It wiggled and crawled away to a place on the back of the dumpster with more gung. And I went back into the gas station. Marlborough was taken up smoking again. He'd quit for a while and then explained that the suffering he was causing himself by not smoking

grossly outweighed the suffering that he was causing us through secondhand smoke and, mathematically speaking, it didn't make any sense for him to quit. I'd hope that he was beginning to shed its cultist philosophy after the entire compound mysteriously vanished, but now I'm staring to fear that he can't be rehabilitated. Oh well. Today was a pretty normal. Well, not normal, but average day at the gas station. We had some strange people visit.

We had some normal people visit, too. And along the way, I zoned out. Finished a book I've been reading. Made some boring journal entries. even got online to browse the internet for a while. There's another package sitting under the counter addressed to me from a return address I don't recognize. I took a gamble with the last package,

and it turned out to be something great. But that was before Spencer tried to kill me. Once again, my guts telling me not to open it. I got a phone call today at the store just a few hours after sundown. It was pretty late. Hard to say it went exactly. Marlborough was asleep in his hammock in the dry storage room, and I couldn't remember the last customer.

This was somewhere in that temporal wasteland between dusk and dawn. Hello. Rules to your survival. One, go outside under any circumstances. Two, do not drink the tap water. Don't even touch it. Don't smell it. Don't look at it.

It's bottled water from here on out. Three, don't trust your eyes. Hang on, hang on. Where'd you say the pen was? He sighed. My right or you're right? Right then I heard a car horn honk. It was the old widow, Miss Sistrunk.

She's another local, somewhere in the area of a hundred years old, if I had a guess. And at this point, not so much more than a skeleton wrapped in an ill-fitting skin suit with vibrant lipstick smeared all around the general mouth area. After her husband died, Miss Agatha Sistrunk had taken to buying and collecting sports cars and oversized trucks and racing them around the outskirts of town at all hours of the night. Her most recent purchase was a brand new Ford F550, with a painting of the Hulk in all his green smashing glory along the side. In person, she was a sweet old lady, no taller than four and a half feet.

She wore special shoes to reach the gas pedal, and always came into the gas station to fill out because she knew I'd help her pump her gas, something she'd never done before and wasn't interested in learning how to do. One sec. I said to the voice on the other end of the phone. Be right back. Miss Sistrunk means me to top her off. Listen to me.

The voice growled. I hear what you're saying. I said as I grabbed my crutches and got ready to leave. But I don't work for you. And with that, I hung up the phone and went outside to help Miss Sistrunk. Old Agatha was happy to see I was back at work. Apparently Marlboro made her nervous. She said he was flirting with her and wouldn't stop smoking while he pumped her gas.

Before she left, she gave me a case of empty light beers and asked if I would, quote, be a lamb and toss these for her. I can't say no to Agatha. When I got around back to toss her trash, I noticed something incredible. The glowworm from this morning had formed itself into an enormous cocoon against the back of the dumpster. I can't explain why exactly, but this filled me with some sort of... I don't know. What means the exact opposite of existential dread? Euphoria?

Existential hope? Is this what optimism feels like? Again, I know it doesn't make any sense. But seeing the weird garbage-eaten caterpillar thing began the brave journey of transformation gave me this tingling feeling in my soul. Like this was some kind of sign. Just when a caterpillar thought his world had come to an end,

he became a butterfly. My world just felt like it's coming to an end for a while too, little buddy. Maybe I'm also on the verge of a metamorphosis. Maybe the world doesn't have to be strange and scary. Maybe it can be strange and cool. I decided that whatever hatch from the cocoon be a butterfly or moth or monster, I was going to name it Starburst. I hobbled myself back to the gas station and toss one last look over.

my shoulder at the dumpster. To see one of the raccoons with stuffing the cocoon into its mouth. Devoured the whole thing in a couple of bites before making eye contact with me and dashing off into the woods. Carlos came into the store for his late shift and asked how I was feeling. I told him the pain was tolerable. He nodded like that was the kind of answer he was looking for, and I went back to reading my book.

A few minutes later, the man with a beard came into the gas station. I almost didn't recognize me as the same man that went into the wood. after the creature he called an angler fish. He lost a lot of weight. His beard wasn't nearly as well kept, and he smelled like he bathed in a tub of pee that someone farted in. Hey, I said when he came in, you're still alive.

Cool. Did I mention that the man was holding a pistol when he walked in? The thought crossed my mind for the briefest moment that I wonder what happened to his big gun. I didn't have time to ask. He quickly found the locks on the door, door, used them, then covered the short distance to my register, then extended and aimed it at my face. I told you not to go outside. You're lucky you're even alive. He screamed before grabbing the

store phone and yanking it out of the wall. He threw it to the ground with a loud, satisfying smash nest. Who else is in this building? Let me see, I sad, thinking. There's you, me, and probably the other cashier unless he went into town again. I saw one other car out there. Toyota. That yours? No. It's got to be Carlos.

Right on cue, Carlos walked out of the back and froze at the side of the bearded man still pointing a gun at my face. Carlos might have been tempted to take action if he hadn't been carrying a 50-pound bake of corn over his shoulder. Instead, he just raised his free hand and said softly, Hey man, we don't want no trouble. If you're after cash, go ahead and take it. Ain't no heroes here. The bearded man laughed in an obnoxious way and said, Well, at least there's one.

My name is Benjamin, and I'm here to save your sorry asses. Carlos and I made eye contact. A lot can be conveyed in just an instant if you know the person you're looking at. He was trying to see what I wanted to do. I was trying to tell him to relax. This was neither the worst nor the weirdest thing that's happened in that room. Okay, I said. What do you need us to do, Benjamin?

There's something evil under this gas station, and nobody is leaving here until I understand what it is. Because I know that someone is working with that thing. I've seen it in my dreams. I know you have too. Well, he was wrong about one thing. Right then, Marlborough walked out the dry-sword closet, stretching and yawning. Benjamin snapped him in a chokehold before he knew what was going on and jammed the gun against the side of his head.

Are you listening to me? Benjamin screamed. I just told you that the world as you know it is just a facade. There's a devil here, and one of you is working for him. He looked at both of us for some kind of reaction, but I don't think he got the one he was looking for. I just shrugged and said, Neat Right then

Marlboro surprised the pants off everybody by half yelling half laughing Do let's do this! I'm not afraid to die! Before reaching up, grabbing the gun pressing it against his head and pulling the trigger. I've seen a lot of weird stuff working at that shitty gas station. I've been nearly killed once or twice. I've watched the same guy die over

and over in front of me. I've seen things that may or may not be real because I can't dream and sometimes I wonder if my mind is making up for that in other ways. I've seen Ball Leitner, people with blue skin, a man with two heads, a talking dog, an Elvis impersonator that may have been a little too convincing. I've seen so much weird stuff in that room. But this was the first time I ever saw a look as surprise like that on anybody's face. and that was absolutely priceless.

What? What the hell is wrong with you people? Benjamin said backing away from us. Ain't nothing wrong with us. Said Marlboro, relieved to be free from the headlock. What the hell's wrong with your gun? How did you know I was out of ammo? I didn't.

There was a loud thought as Carlos dropped a sack of corn. He was the next to talk. I think maybe you should get out of your pill. Well, you still can. Afraid I can't do that, Benjamin responded. Not until this thing is dead. And not until I... I heard a wet thunk before I saw anything.

Before Benjamin went limp and hit the ground, when my eyes caught up to the situation, I hoped that what I was seeing was a hallucination. But the look of fear on Carlos' face told me this wasn't the case. The man standing behind Benjamin, holding a bloodied shovel. The man that just saved our bacon was smiling a toothy-delighted smile that he only ever made after inflicting the kind of pain he'd just inflicted.

Hey Jack, said Spencer Middleton. You miss me? He stuck Carlos and Marlborough in the walk-in freezer. Marlborough is and always has been to go with the flow kind of guy, so we went to the freezer voluntarily. Carlos put up a fight, which is why he ended up bruised and bloody and barely clinging to consciousness. us. From what I could see, Benjamin looked like he might be dead. At best, he was out cold

in a slowly spreading pool of his own blood. Spencer pulled a couple of chairs out of storage and placed him both in front of the cash register facing one another. He made me hobble over and sit down in one. Then he spun the other one around to sit on it backwards like a cool school teacher from the 90s. I just want you to know, he said, I'm not mad at you. And neither is he. He wanted me to relay that message. Spencer's face had specks of blood on it from where he'd beaten the shit out of Carlos. Your boss? I said.

Yeah. He was upset at you for what you did to Kiefer and wanted me to show you what happens to bad children. You were supposed to meet him. But then that got all cocked up, huh? Guess it just wasn't my time to die, I answered. That's when the smile faded from Spencer's face. He shook his head at me and said, No, no, no.

You weren't supposed to die. You can't die. We need you. I saw some movement behind Spencer, but tried not to break eye contact. It was Benjamin. He was alive. And right now my best shot of getting out of this.

He was moving slowly on the ground, regaining consciousness, but miraculously not making any noise. I tried to keep Spencer distracted. Your boss? Tell me your boss. more about him. How do you find you?

Who is he? Spencer chuckled. Oh, he's got a lot of names, but you'll meet him soon enough. And this time, we will not be interrupted. And my friends? I don't care. They can join us, they can die. Makes me no difference.

By the way, Jack, I wanted to ask, Did you guys ever figure out who placed that bomb? I laughed softly. Yeah, the police took it. They know it was you. They know everything. Well, almost everything. Okay, in the grand scheme of things, they know very little.

But they do know that you tried to kill me and put a bomb in the gas station. Spencer shook his head again. Wrong on both accounts. If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. and a bomb? Seriously? Not my style. I think he had more to say to me, but I'll never know,

because right then Benjamin yanked his head back and wiped in a knife blade the size of a large, to all walk crosses off, neatly slicing his head halfway off. Blood erupted out in a couple spurts, and stopped, and Spencer Middleton was no more. That's what you get, taunted Benjamin as he flung Spencer's lifeless body onto the floor,

his blood pouring out and mixing with all the rest, I was going to suck for whoever I had to clean all this up. When we opened the freezer, we phil Marlborough had gone all bad nurse on Carlos, sticking clumps a frozen meat all over his face. Quote, for the swelling. I made us a fresh pot of coffee, and we took seats around the table by the window.

Just in case a nosy passer-by decided to pass by, we put a tarp over, Spencer, and then moved the wet floor sign next to it. For about half an hour, we all just sat and drank coffee in a pregnant silence. When we were all done with our third cups, Carlos finally spoke. His jaw was swollen to hell, but he was still able to pronounce his words with only minor difficulty. So, why haven't we called the cops yet?

This was clearly self-defense. I've got the face to prove it. Yeah. So Benjamin, after some lengthy deliberation. Yeah, let's call them. That would be good. But tomorrow, you will. and me need to have a serious talk, Jack.

I called Arnold from the only phone in the building with any reception, Spencer Sell. The deputy listened to what I told him, just the most basic and simplified version of what happened that night, and he said he'd be on his way right after he got out of bed and put some clothes on. I called the owners next, and they were not happy. They told me next time I should call them first. Next time. Right now, the others are in their booth. staring out the window.

I'm sitting on my laptop, documenting the night while the memories are still fresh. I know this isn't over yet. I think the gas station's going to have to close for a day or two. But when it opens again, I'll be here, writing my journals and doing my best to ignore anyone to walk through those doors. I guess that means this is to be continued. It's been about an hour since my last post. We haven't had any customers yet, and if the gas station weren't at any...

active crime scene, I might have asked one of the other employees to squeege you the large pool of blood into the drains by the cooler. For those he ought to the loop, you may want to catch up by listening to my earlier posts. I don't know what Arnold's personal grooming routine looks like, but I have to assume he spends at least 20 minutes a day in mustache prep. But even factoring that in, he should have made it to the gas station by now. I called him a few minutes ago to make sure he hadn't gone back to bed and to make sure I hadn't imagined the phone call in the first place. The conversation went something like this. Hey, Arnold? You on your way? Okay. Okay. Which one? You said you heard from Spencer Middleton last night. Has he made any other contact? Well,

actually, he's here. He came in and some stuff happened and now he's dead. I already told him all this. I really miss Tom. Did you not realize that? I'm sorry. He answered. The phone rang earlier. I'd just woken up from this world into a realm of higher existence. Okay.

I said. I guess I'll see you when you get here. I handed the call and checked the charge on the phone. The battery was sitting close to 50%. What's the deal, Lucille? Asked Benjamin. Arnold's on his way here on foot, but we might have another problem.

Holy shit, you guys see that? Carlos asked, pointing out the window. I couldn't quite make it out from where I was seated behind the counter, and I didn't feel like hobbling over a corpse just for a look. What is it? There's a bunch of naked people on the road walking this way, Carlos answered. The hell you say?

Said Marlborough, who had suddenly taken interest. I pressed his face against the window for a better look. Those aren't just any people. I know them. That's Marla and Tyler. And there goes Fred. Well, at least those were the names I gave them. Benjamin crossed to the frozen drink machine, throwing over his shoulder a quick. They friends of yours?

Family, actually. Well, they were anyway, before they disappeared. But I don't remember them looking like that. Like what? I asked. starting to get an uneasy feeling. Like... He took a second to find the words,

but all he came up with was... Well, they look funny. They continued walking closer to the gas station. Close enough by now that I could see them. At least a dozen people, stark naked. The closer they got, the more detail I could make out, and the more I wish I couldn't. Their eyes were milky and pale.

May gets crawling out of infested crevices all over their bodies. Their skin dirty and covering lesions and bruises. Marlboro was certainly not wrong. They looked funny. I'm sure you know the Hollywood-style zombie walk. The shuffle of an undead body with impaired motor skills. The scariest part of these people approaching the front of the gas station was that they were walking 100% perfectly normally.

Just a bunch of decaying nudists out for a stroll. There's a loud, crash that snapped us out of our probably rude staring. We all turned to see Benjamin to pull the frozen drink machine to the ground and was attempting to drag it over Spencer towards the front door. The sticky syrup concoctions spilled out all over the ground, mixing with the congealed blood and coating the floor in a red and brown and purple viscous soup. There was no way we wouldn't have an insect problem after this.

Marlborough and Carlos didn't have to ask what was going on. He instantly knew the plan and began yanking down whatever fixtures weren't bolted in place and piling them up in the barricade against glass doors. I would have helped if it weren't for this broken leg. Besides, look like they got this under control. You boys think you can stay alive long enough for help to arrive. Benjamin asked.

We've got almost 90 years experience staying alive between the three of us. Carlos joked. Benjamin directed his next question to me. You got any weapons in this place? I told him no. The only thing I had. have is a half-empty canister of gasoline in the supply closet and some really hard jerky, but he was welcome to whatever he could find.

That's when he started MacGyvering some spears out of chairlegs and broken glass from the drink case. About 10 minutes ago, the gas station lost power. Now, it really would be a great time to have a giant pet glow in the dark butterfly. Stupid raccoons. It's been pretty quiet, save for the wet gutteral whispering coming from those people outside. Benjamin's still searching for weapons while Carlos finds things to push up against front door

and, assuming he hasn't fallen asleep, Marlborough has taken the back door. I was feeling pretty useless after Benjamin confiscated in my crutches, so I figured I'd take this opportunity to type up the account of what happened. Just in case Arnold gets here too late. And in the spirit of preparedness, I should say a few things that whoever finds this message. Or is it whomever? I never could get that right.

First, to the owners. I'm sorry about the mass. Second, to her. I'm sorry we didn't run into each other one last time. Third, to whomever keeps dumping tar into the ditch outside the gas station. I hate you. I guess that's all I have to say. It's been over.

weird, crazy ride. This is Jack from the gas station. Signing off one last time. I didn't die! Sorry, it's been so long since the last update, I just got my laptop back from the police. Special thanks to whoever gilded me, by the way. I don't know what to do with Reddit Gold, but brings warmth to my soul. I know you guys are probably wondering what happened.

Well, last week I met a dark god. We were in the gas station without power. for hours. It's cold this time, Mears, so we huddled together around a plate of scented candles and ate pork grinds and canned beans. Marlborough almost dozed off a couple of times before Carlos decided to loot the energy pills behind the counter.

He handed them out, and we all took a few, washing them down with cold coffee and telling ourselves it was for alertness. But all they did for me was create a heartbeat arrhythmia. That sure would be funny. If those things finally broke in here just to find the four of us dead from heart attack, Well, not funny.

But, you know, Carlos tried to strike up a conversation with Benjamin a couple times, but the bearded man wasn't very social. You army? Nah. I knew a guy. He was a ranger in the army. You remind me of him. All right.

Those things out there. Any idea what we're dealing with? You ever seen anything like that before? Nah. You got any family? I checked Spencer's phone throughout the day. I wasn't getting any service anymore. I tried 911 a few times, but even that wouldn't go through.

When the battery got to 5%, I turned it off. We might need it later for an emergency call. Eventually, the adrenaline and pills started to wear off, and I remembered that my leg was still healing from a complex fracture, and maybe I shouldn't have agreed to come back to work so soon. I did the cripple walk back to the front desk to grab my meds. While I was there, I spotted the still-unop-giped package on the shelf beneath the register. I decided to ignore it, and instead grabbed the employee whiskey bottle that was behind it.

We told ourselves it was for nerves. But all it did was give me an even worse heartbeat arrhythmia. A few hours passed. After we killed the first bottle, we opened another. Then Marlborough got into the energy drinks because we needed mixers. At some point, the former cultist pulled out his stash and lit a joint. and, without asking, I might add, turn the whole station into a hotbox.

I couldn't remember if I'd taken my pain meds yet, so I went ahead and took them. As the sun started to set, I had two thoughts competing for first place in my mind. First, sure is it getting dark these days. Second, I think we might be getting a little too fucked up to handle what's about to happen. Time became even more illusory than,

normal once the laptop died and we had no way of knowing how long we'd been waiting. We started measuring the time and candles. Our snack food and morale raised each other to depletion. At some point, Carlos got me away from the others to ask what I thought about Benjamin. I told him I thought he was the nicest guy that had pointed a gun at my face all week. Carlos told me he had a weird feeling about him. I reminded Carlos that he'd killed Kiefer a couple times and maybe he should get off his high horse. Benjamin yelled at us from across the room.

What are you two talking about? Anime. I lied. I think he bought it. Get back over here. I don't need any more dead bodies piling up tonight. Benjamin was in the corner, warming his hands over the candleplate. It was the only source of light in the building.

He was casting shadows that could maybe be described as spooky. If I weren't in such a serious life-for-death situation. Some of those shadows look like faces, smiling, laughing at us idiots. One of our two look like old presidents. One of them asked me what time it was, and holy crap, I was tripping. You okay, man? Carlos ass snapping me back to reality. I honestly have no idea, asked Spencer Middleton in the gurgle.

What do you mean? I thought you did it. Hey, where's Marlboro? I asked. Benjamin picked up his spear, formerly my crutch that he had paracorded his knife to, and asked, Who the hell is Marlboro?

Is there someone else here? Marlboro, the other employee. I looked at Carlos who just shrugged and said, I don't know no Marlboro. How many of them pills did you take? Had I imagined Marlboro this entire time? Did I just Tyler Durden this guy into existence? I tried to sit down on the tarp, but it turned in me lying on my back while the room spun.

I could feel the human debris squished beneath the tarp fabric as I rested my head. How much of any of this was real anyway? I know. All those years ago, the first doctor tried to prepare me for life with my condition, so they didn't know exactly how everything would play out. But every case had a few of the same side effects. Of course there'd be weight loss, fatigue, headaches, all the signs of normal physical illness early on. As a condition developed, there would be more interesting side effects.

Hallucinations, memory loss, the works. And, of course, I can't be properly anesthetized. They tried in other cases to induce medical comas, but that just messed things up further. I'm always wide awake and half lucid during surgery. If you want to know what it's like, I'll tell you the truth. It's boring. They gave me a couple of years' tops.

I haven't been keeping track of time. Right then, Marlborough walked into the room, zipping up his fly. Presumably, he'd just come from the bathroom, but who really knows. I pointed at him and yelled, That guy! You see him, right? That's Marlborough. It's Marlborough!

Carlos looked where I was pointing them back at me. What? You mean Jerry? That's right. He has a real name. I hate it when he calls me Marlborough. Benjamin set the improvised spear down and turned his attention back to the fire. You better get him under control, said Spencer.

Hey, wait a sec. Aren't you supposed to be dead? He said back. Tusha, Spencer. Who are you talking to? asked Carlos. Spencer, we'll stop that. It's freaking us out.

Two candles burned from start to finish before Benjamin decided that help wasn't on the way and her best chance of survival was to fight it out with the things outside. I disagreed, but Benjamin informed me in his own polite way that it wasn't up for a vote. You peel back the layers of the barricade just enough to get a view of the outside. Once we knew what we were dealing with, we could come up with a better game plan. Only he couldn't actually get a good look because something was blocking the view. Something just on the other side of the glass doors. Benjamin yanked the rest of the barricade down and took a few steps back to marvel at it. Well, you don't see that every day, said Jerry.

Nope. I can't do it. I'm sorry. His name's Marlborough. We were trapped there, inside the gas station. On the other side of the doors, a network of trees had grown together, twisted and knots and pressed against a glass. They were so densely pressed into a single wall of tree trunks that not even light could get through. for all we knew it could have been daytime outside.

We have to get out of here, said Benjamin. We checked the back door, but it was the same thing. I often wondered how long a person could survive inside the gas station without any new supplies coming in. I'd run the scenario in my head a million times. Boring nights, what else is there to do? I'd run the thought experiment for countless different contexts. How long could I survive if the gas station were transported back in time? to another planet, if there were a zombie apocalypse, etc.

What I'd deducted was that, under ideal circumstances, I could live off the supplies on hand for four years if I could find a source of water, six weeks if not. These were not ideal circumstances. We'd already smashed up, weaponized, or eaten almost all our supplies. If we were trapped here, it wouldn't take this long to all Donner party on each other. While I was pondering this in the hallway by the cooler, we heard the sound of glass shattering from the main room. Benjamin raised his spear and led the way back.

The wall of trees was still there on the other side of the doors. A mess was still there. Everything was where we left it with one exception. The tarp was pulled back, and Spencer's body was gone. A series of footprints coagulated in the blood leading from where he should have been to the shattered glass of the front door. Like he'd just gotten up, walked over, and was absorbed into the trees. I need you boys to think real hard.

Benjamin's hat. Is there any other way out of this place? Well... Marlboro started. I shot him a look and shook my head, but I guess he couldn't see in the dim candlelight. Or maybe he was just too dense to understand. There is that hole.

Hole? What hole? The hole in the secret room back here past the cooler? Secret... Room? Yeah, right over here. Marlborough pointed at the blank space on the wall where the door used to be. The owners had decided that the smartest thing they could do when they found out about the secret room was to remove the door,

build a good old-fashioned wall and forget all about it. But that only works if everyone agrees to forget about it, Marlboro. You're telling me that there's a secret room behind there and a hole in that room that we can maybe fit inside and escape? Why didn't you boys tell me about this earlier? He didn't wait for an answer. Benjamin went straight to the wall and started smashing it to pieces with his spear and then, after he got it down a little, his bare hands. After a minute, the wall was once again a door.

While Benjamin lit and placed a few candles around the giant hole in the door, I grabbed Carlos and pulled him aside. Hey, I said, I should tell you something. I opened that package. The one that looked like a present? Yeah? He said. Yeah?

I said. I'm not sure at what point I'd finally cracked and opened it, but I've been carrying around the content of the box in my pocket for at least one candle. Just like the last package, there was a note with this one. It read. I didn't expect you to use my letter as part of the story, but thanks, L-O-L. I didn't mind you using it. That was very neat.

I liked it. I was very surprised. Thank you. I enjoyed your story and knew it could be really great from the beginning. That's why I wrote what I did. I was surprised, but in a good way that you use my letter, L.O.L. Thank you. I'm honored.

Really honored. Underneath the letter was a small handgun. I knew enough about pistols from playing video games to know to check the clip, and sure enough, it was loaded. I showed the gun to Carlos, who said, That's a Ruger 380. Is that good? Well, it's a gun. So it'll probably have more stopping power than a chair leg.

Why didn't you give it to him? Carlos gestured at her fearless leader. I don't know or trust him. Good point. Here, I said trying to hand it over. I'm not a gun guy. No way. You keep it.

I got both legs. you need it more than me. Benjamin yelled at us from the secret room. Y'all ready or what? Time to see what's down here. Then he jumped in. I may have neglected to mention that it was a 10-foot drop to the cave floor below.

I also may have taken a little pleasure in the sound of him crash landing and the pained moan that followed. For the rest of us, we rolled up the tarp and put some knots into it like a poor man's rope ladder. I have to give credit to him. to tarps. Those things are incredibly useful. We had spent hours above ground in a room with a dead body, unrefrigerated food, Benjamin's body odor. We were all eating canned beans and I think

somebody threw up in the garbage can. My point is this. We were all smelling pretty bad. To the point where I was doubting that I still had a sense of smell. But once we went into that hole, I knew for a fact that we hadn't. The smell down there made our gas station. and funk seemed like Cologne. The very worst putrid odors from the storm drains around the station were nothing compared to this. Is it possible for a smell to be heavy? Because that's the best word I can think of for it. Not thick, just heavy.

Carlos Marlborough took turns barfing. When they were done, Benjamin handed out torches he'd made from gasoline-soaked rags and chairlegs. I don't know what that guy's deal is. but he sure is crafty. The cave was a straight tunnel, starting underneath the gas station and heading away from town. It was plenty tall enough for all of us to stay comfortably,

and there was a slight incline, taking us downhill as we walked further into the hole. What the hell is this? Benjamin asked after about 20 feet. He waved his torch at the wall, and I saw that someone had spray painted a message on the cave wall in red. It said in shaky handwriting, Rita the raccoon ate the cocoon.

I said it a few times in my head and was pissed off at just how close it came to rhyming but didn't, like a song slightly off key. The handwriting was eerily familiar, especially the capital R. I couldn't remember why. There was another lawn gnome on the ground beneath it. We continued further into the cave,

Benjamin way ahead of us, me bringing up the tail, hobbling along the best I could with just a single crutch. The deeper we went, the narrower the cave, the stronger the smell. Nothing about being down here away from the gas station felt like an improvement from our previous situation. But it wasn't until we made it to the tree that I really decided we had messed up.

I don't know how long we've been walking down there. Maybe a half mile or so. Crutch miles feel a lot longer than normal miles. But we eventually came upon an enormous black tree taking up the width of the cave. It looked like one of those thousand-year-old sequoias, being up to put a two-lane road through. Holy shit!

Enunciated Benjamin. I was the last to see what everyone else was wide-eyed and gawking at. The tree, in addition to being enormous, had some characteristics you wouldn't expect a tree to have, specifically human body parts. A few arms and legs poking out of random spots. and right at eye level, a human face. Hey, said Marlborough.

I know that guy. It's Patrick. He touched Patrick's face and he peeled off and plopped to the ground like a wet Halloween mask. I don't think he's going to make it. Benjamin said as he pulled something out of his jacket pocket and stuck it to the tree. What is that? I asked. Surprisingly, it was Marlboro who answered. That looks like. C4 plastic explosives to me.

Benjamin chuckled. Wow. You win the prize for that one, great man. Yeah, it's the last of my explosives. I've been trying to kill this thing piece of a time for the last week, but it just keeps growing back. I have to kill the root system. Blow it up and kill the brain, so the rest of the network will die. That was you that put that bomb in the gas station, I said.

Yeah, well, back then I thought the building was the epicenter of this whole thing. Hey, interrupted Carlos. Jack was still in the building when you planted that. I know. Um, guys? Maro tried to get their attention, but it wasn't working. You knew? You would have died if that thing went off. Guys?

Look, assholes, this is war. And in war, there are always casualties. You can't make... peanut butter without smashing a few nuts. Hey guys, what? Screamed Benjamin. I'm a little busy. Marlboro pointed back the way we came.

We all turned to see Spencer standing in the middle of the path. We could smile on his face. Hi. Miss me. Carlos screamed at me. Jayah, the gun! I pulled the weapon out of my pocket and chucked it as hard as I could. Smeked Spencer right in the face and he fell over.

I was very proud for the two seconds it took me to realize what I'd done wrong. What came next almost happened too quickly for me to comprehend. Something burst out of the wall next to us. An enormous object, the size of a car, and mostly handling it. It wrapped its giant fingers around the other three and pulled him into the wall. The earth had opened up below me and I was sliding through a dark tunnel. I was being pulled, more like swallowed, really. It went for a while.

dirt filling my nose and ears and mouth and then whatever it was spat me in a pitch black room on a rocky wet piece of brown I landed on my bad leg and probably broke it again well I thought at least this time I managed to hit Spencer as far as the last moments on earth go this one was a slight improvement over last week the room I was in was cool not cold and cavernous I could hear my echoing off the walls. I could also hear something else breathing. All at once I became aware of another presence down there, an entity in the room with me. It's hard to explain, in the same why I remember being really hard to explain a dream right after you wake up. It's something you have to experience to understand, but the feeling was something like being plugged

into a shared consciousness with another intelligence that was putting thoughts directly into my head. of course it might just have been all the drugs Welcome to my home Came a loud voice from somewhere in the pitch black room I'm sorry it's taken this long Press to meet ace to face I can't see anything

I'm the throne room of a dark god And he sounds like an internet troll I guess that makes sense I just want to get this over with Do you think you could maybe turn on some light So I could actually see who I'm talking to He let out a very human-sounding sigh and exclaimed, Fine.

Out of nowhere, the entire room turned into an intense, furious, bright white. All I could see was pure light. I covered my eyes, but even then I could see the bones of my hand through my eyelids. Even with the Mets, that shit hurt. Too bright, too bright! I yelled. Split the difference! Wow

Responded the voice I didn't realize we were going to be such a big baby And then Just as suddenly the brightness relented After a moment my pupils adjusted And I could see what I've been talking to It exclaimed And tremble before

He If it was a he I'm just going off the sound of his voice It's about the size of an elephant Swollen and round With a tanned yellow hide The best animal I could think of to compare him to is an enormous tick With six rows of stubby arms on either side

Six rows of sagging breasts And a human-sized head on top The head contained a somewhat human face and no neck The body connected to the earth at the widest point of its stomach Like it was half buried And to top the whole thing off He had a red mohawk He smiled at me

About what? My hair. Isn't that amazing? He looked up at his mohawk. I guess. Guess? Do you be any idea how much effort I put in to do my hair like this? I wasted my time trying to impress you.

That's all me. Okay. I said attempting to push myself to my feet only to remember that my leg was pretty broken. I was immobilized. Underground. Hi. Without any weapons. There really was no chance of escape.

If you're going to kill me, do you just mind getting it over with? What is it with you people? So untrust in. So prejudice. Why isn't it at any time you see something you don't understand you think it's kill or be killed? I'm not the monster here. You are. No?

Why am I here? Why'd you drag me underground? You to stop killing. My children. You've burned up so many of us. What did we ever do to you, huh? The kefir plants. Yeah, just back-ups because that idiot's so clumsy.

They're harmless, though. I've been trying to put some people in office so I can get a little political influence in this awful town. To take over the world? I asked even though I was starting to see where this conversation was going. No. I want to pressure the city council to come back on logging. I'm trying to save the world. But you and your awful friends keep killing us and trying to blow me up.

But Spencer, he beat the shit out of me. That guy is awful, and he's following your orders. Well, excuse me for thinking that people have the potential to be rehabilitated. I hired Spencer because I needed someone to protect Kiefer. and I gave him very specific orders not to kill anyone, which he agreed to. But you've killed tons of people. The cultists, their entire compound. Yeah, actually, no.

I hate to be the one to say this. Those guys killed themselves. Yeah, it was a really sad mass suicide. If you listened to them, you guys should have seen it coming from a mile away. I mean, consequentialism mixed with moral obligation to end up. He waved one of his six arms in a jerk-off motion before continuing. All those perfectly good, fully formed adult bodies go to waste. Do you even know how hard it is to make one of those from scratch?

It's not easy. But you sent those things after us at the gas station. Again with the self-centered hero complex. It wasn't it for about you? I sent my children to bring Spencer's body back here. I was hoping I could get him back in time to rebuild him without any permanent brain damage. I think next time you see him, you should apologize for him. I swear, ever since Romero made zombie school, people see a dead man come back to life and instantly they get this urge to kill, kill, kill.

Whatever happened to calling us a miracle? Nobody freaked out when Jesus came back. Are you saying that Jesus was like those mathematicists? Just a reanimated corpse? Is that really what you want to talk about, Jack? But doesn't Dark God mean like evil? He sighed. The last time I was awake, Dark God had a complete...

But you can't use my branding is your excuse for burning up Kiefer? You asked me? You deserve the asswhip and you got it. But... I searched my mind for any proof that the Dark God was a monster I knew him to be. But the only thing I could come up with was a sad. bad, icy cold realization. We're the monsters?

I'm afraid so. I'm sorry. Good. That's a start. So this is it? You're the reason for all the weird stuff going on out here at the gas station? He laughed again and wiggled his head, which I took for his version of shaking no. No. I'll be honest with you. I have no clue to have.

clue what half these things are. Your gas station is weird, and I don't even know why. The ham plants and the kefir were made. The smell, I'll fess up. That's me too. But all the other stuff, man, you know that weird glowing wormbug thing? That was pretty weird, huh? So, what do we do now?

Now I send you and your friends back home and you quit killing me. That's my deal. Can we agree to that? Yeah, I think so. Should we shake on it, or... At that moment, an enormous ham burst out of the wall and wrapped its fingers tightly around me. The next thing I knew I was coughing up dirt down on all fours in the street outside the gas station. It was morning.

Oh, good, said Benjamin. You made it out, too. I looked over and saw the other three standing there, covered in black dirt. It was back where it started. The trees were all gone. leaving no sign that they were ever even there in the first place. The gas station was a wreck. The front doors were smashed out,

and the raccoons were excitedly running a loot train for whatever edibles they could carry from the front to their nest behind back. What happened, man? asked Carlos. I'm not really sure, digging the clumps of dirt out of my nose and ears. Well, you're lucky. Your friends made me wait a few minutes to give you a chance to get out. I looked at my hands. They were nearly black from all the layers of dirt coating them.

Wait for what? I asked. For this. Benjamin answered as he pressed the button on his remote detonator. Somewhere deep inside the woods came an explosion that locked the earth and sent birds flying into the sky. Carlos' car alarm went off and the pavement cracked. Black clouds slowly started to fill the sky. I felt something inside my mind scream and die. Well, said Benjamin.

My work here is done. If you don't mind, I'm going to get lost before 5-0 shows up. Then he walked off into the forest. Hopefully never to be seen again. And that's what happened. If you can believe it, I'm back at the gas station, working again. Arnold's on personal leave from the police forest, and I didn't care to ask for details.

so we have a new deputy babysitting us. I'll tell you all about her another time, maybe. The police investigated the incident and ultimately concluded that we were victims of hysteria brought on by a gas leak. And once again, there was nothing supernatural to be reported. I don't know if this is the end for the dark god. But I do know that I haven't felt any compulsions to continue digging ever since Benjamin blew up that underground tree. Things are getting back into our brand of normal. I still work way too much.

I'm still keeping a journal. And weird things still happen at the shitty gas station at the edge of town. In fact, just yesterday, people started reporting that they'd seen something in the woods that looked like an enormous raccoon with bat wings, stealing small animals before flying off into the forest. They even said this winged raccoon monster glows in the dark. Marlborough just came up to me and asked, Um, you know there's a guy in the bathroom dressed like a cowboy? I assured him that I did.

not know that. This may be the last update for a while. It's going to be a lot of work putting this place back together. And I've got a whole new crew of part-timers to train. So, until next time. Jack. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us.

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