Thanks to everyone who submitted to our Spooky Story/Poem Contest! Here is one our two awesome runners-up! Check back tomorrow to read the other one, and then on Halloween to read the winning entry!
Rest Area?
by Jake Kemman
The whine of old tires over slick concrete pierced through the cacophony of silence surrounding a worn and pitted highway. The air dripped with fog.
A royal blue flash in the highbeams marked the passage of a rusting, tortured sign nearly obscured in the mist.
“Good, it’s here today” noted Custodian Michael, as he turned into the rest plaza.
The little man’s stout figure looked about 50, his eyes to be 25, his ghost white hair, slicked into a short ponytail, to be 70. A creaky smile wormed across his face as he tapped the brake on his squeaky little antique pickup.
It did nothing. But he didn’t seem to be concerned as he coasted off the exit ramp precisely into the 3rd parking space. This was where he always parked.
Custodian Michael took a breath and stepped out onto the surface of the otherwise empty parking area. The air smelled as it always did.
Mothballs.
Michael waded through the closeted air towards the tiny information center.
A young man with close cropped hair wearing a state-issued custodial uniform stepped out from behind the information counter when Michael entered. His skin was paler than death.
He looked Michael in the eyes with a pair of gigantic pupils and nodded slowly.
Michael smiled in return, and without a word the pale boy turned and stepped out into the fog. Michael watched him glide down the sidewalk out of sight.
“Must be new…” Michael thought to himself.
An analogue clock behind the counter read 5:30. Michael made a note of that before walking to the custodial closet across the lobby to ensure it was still locked.
It was.
As always.
Nobody knew where the keys were.
Rumor had it that Frankie knew where they were, but Michael doubted it. Frankie was Michael’s closest friend; he knew Frankie would tell him if he knew where the keys were.
Not that it mattered.
The bathrooms were always pristine anyway.
Michael spun and walked to the map dispenser.
It was full.
As always.
Nobody ever took any of the maps.
A sudden whirring sound alerted Michael. He turned quickly to face it, just in time to see a 20-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew fall into the drawer of an antiquated vending machine.
“Oh, It’s just you, Frankie. How long have you been awake?” said Michael.
“You woke me up with your relentless humming!” said the vending machine.
The voice was soft, and charming. Hints of a Carolina twang were noticeable on the ends of his words.
Michael hadn’t realized he was humming again. He usually only hummed when he was feeling especially inquisitive.
“Say, where did you go last night? I came out to see if the new kid was on duty, but the sign was gone and I had to find a place to turn around on the other side of the ridge,” said Michael.
“Just a little bit of sightseeing,” Frankie chuckled.
Michael sighed.
The dented snack machine showed no emotion, but Michael could feel the disembodied voice beaming at him from beyond the gritty folds of reality, just as it had when they first got to know each-other, so long ago. Michael still taught saxophone in the basement of a local community college.
That was before The Reassignments.
Michael sighed again, longer this time.
That dingy little music room in the damp basement of the art building was like a second home. He missed the evening walks down the musty stairwell and past the custodial closet to the stained and battered soundproof chamber at the end of his hall.
He missed his frequent stops at the code-mandated vending machine that lived in the moldy corner next to the heat plant across from his door.
He missed the one sided conversations he would use to pass the time as he would decide on his order; he always took forever.
Michael knew every inch of that machine, every quirk and malfunctioning button, every item; they never changed.
They still haven’t changed.
Michael remembered the day The Reassignments came down; he was slotted among the first to go.
Michael remembered his solemn walk down the musty stairs after the form-printed letter showed up in his post office box, freshly stamped with the seals of the college president and State Inspector’s office.
Michael could do nothing. Nothing but shuffle over to the vending machine, and go about his usual routine, pretending that everything was fine until his travel authorization came through.
He remembered inserting a rumpled dollar bill and blindly dialing a number on the faded keypad. Something he never did.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Defeated, he turned and slumped against the dented frame of the machine. It was too much.
“I’m not giving you popcorn until you tell me what’s wrong.”
Michael nearly blacked out when he first heard the voice.
Frankie’s words echoed through the cavernous memories Michael had accumulated over the years. The rolling tongue snapped him back to reality.
He realized Frankie had been off on another rant while he’d been caught living in the past.
“The highway inspector has to learn sometime to stop screwing us over by sending so many new janitors!” Frankie grumbled.
He was serious.
Frankie was never serious.
If Frankie was serious?
Michael never wanted to see a day like that again. His pickup still smelled like bleach from their frantic overnight trip. He laughed, briefly, at how much Frankie hated riding in the back. “At least he was thorough,” Michael thought. The exasperated inner tone threatened to leak out of his mouth.
Authorities still haven’t found the remains of the campus administrative staff.
“Frankie, the highway inspector doesn’t even know you exist! All he ever sees is a dilapidated vending machine with expired root beer!” said Michael, trying to defuse his friend.
“All he ever sees is another reason to tear us down! You know that can’t happen, Michael!” The anger in Frankie’s tone was not directed at the little man.
Before the conversation could continue, the unmistakable rumble of a late model Mercedes rang like thunder through the soggy air.
“Speak of the devil,” uttered both friends.
Frankie turned eerily silent as a pair of neon blue headlights rolled into view; the fog-refracted light cast a ghostly aura inside the tiny lobby before winking out.
A door slammed, and a short, wide man, barely of Michael’s height, in a tailored suit, hastily made his way to the lobby entrance.
Michael stared at him with a neutral expression.
“WHERE IS THE NEW CUSTODIAN?!” shouted The Inspector.
Since The Inspector took over The Department, Michael had never heard him say anything in a voice that wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the roar of a lumber mill.
Michael shrugged a response, knowing it would aggravate the stocky inspector.
“WELL?!”
“He left?” said Michael, purposefully quiet.
“LEFT?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!”
“I got here a little early, and I guess he took it that meant he could leave. So he left.”
“HE WASN’T SUPPOSED TO LEAVE UNTIL 11:00! WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HIM?
Michael shrugged again, softer this time.
The Inspector flushed red with anger. Having hated Michael with a passion since before their first meeting, he searched briefly around the room for something to pick on.
He found nothing.
It was pristine.
As always.
Nothing was ever dirty.
This time, he didn’t care. “THIS PLACE IS FILTHY! QUIT SLACKING! I’LL BET THE NEW CUSTODIAN COULD DO A BETTER JOB! I SHOULD GIVE HIM YOUR SHIFTS!”
Unfazed, Michael shrugged a third time.
The Inspector, disgusted, turned toward the vending machine nestled in the corner.
He fumbled awkwardly in his wallet for a $20 bill and presented it to the old machine. Despite the information sticker that claimed otherwise, it gladly vacuumed up the crisp note like a hungry dog.
The Inspector dialed for a bag of potato chips and leaned against the machine, trying to remember the breathing exercises his doctor had recommended.
Michael smiled as the bag stopped just short of the ledge, and $19.00 in change failed to accumulate.
The Inspector furiously pressed the coin return lever.
Nothing happened.
He slapped the side of the box with a meaty hand.
Nothing.
He shook the machine on its stubby legs.
Nothing.
He repeatedly slammed a fist against the glass partition.
It cracked.
The sound rang like a gunshot through the moist air. Michael’s previously raucous laughter immediately ceased. His face turned to slate.
“You… Shouldn’t… Have… Done… That…” Michael whispered.
The Inspector had lost any remaining vestiges of inner calm. He turned to face Michael, jamming a pudgy finger in the solemn face of the custodian.
“YOU KNOW WHAT?!”
“YOU’RE FIRED! FOR FAILURE TO PROPERLY MAINTAIN VENDING EQUIPMENT! I’LL BE CALLING IN A REPLACEMENT THE MOMENT I GET BACK TO MY OFFICE!”
He stormed out, unconcerned with the damage he had caused.
A car door slammed, and the ghostly headlights resumed their shine.
Michael turned to face Frankie, ready to plead with him to find a different solution.
It was too late.
The lights in the display case flickered angrily, the previously serene white now a crimson scream.
The machine shuddered, Frankie’s voice no longer emanating from within. The pencil-thin LCD display above the coin slot scrolled furiously, it’s welcoming message gone.
“N0T AG@1N!!1! NEV3R @GA1N!!1!”
Michael turned back to the front windows and stared into the fog. The shadowy outline of a Mercedes teetered on the edge of invisibility.
Michael walked to the front door and flipped the lock.
He never locked the door.
There was never any reason.
The Inspector eased out of his double-parked space, mist billowing and dancing around him. He was oblivious in his rage.
A massive shape disturbed the fog behind the silver Mercedes, eyes glowing acidic green.
Michael knew it all too well.
The Inspector tore off through the parking lot, the mists of anger clouding his already poor vision. The towering quadruped bounded after him, a flash of rippling muscle and bared teeth. The mountains surrounding the little parking lot echoed with the yowling of a thousand wounded lions.
It didn’t take the brief sound of a warbling car alarm, or the screams of rending metal for Michael to know: The Inspector never found the exit ramp.