The Hitch-Hiker
Chapter One
For a prolonged period of time I’ve been reluctant to make this story known. But following many months of weighing the possible consequences a steadfast decision has been reached---the public should know! Certainly no person, myself included, wishes to be branded an “alarmist.” In these uncertain times our populace is distraught as never before, beset with a constant barrage of hearsay, half-truths, third person reports, and reckless gossip. This tripe runs the gamut, touching on (but neverexplaining) every conceivable topic under the sun. Such rumor-mongering succeeds only in instilling added fears to an already befuddled mankind. Mass hysteria on a grandscale is what’s happening around us today. It’s an ugly scene, and this person doesn’t wish to contribute added fuel to the all-consuming flames of confusion. Yet I must inform (or warn ) you that a “high strangeness factor” pervades throughout this spine-tingling incident. You also oughta’ know this story will end without a plausible explanation. It happened some ten months ago---July,1984. I’d received a late-night telephone call from an aunt who lives in Rich Creek, just behind that Hop-In convenience store down there. This kindred said she and her family were leaving at daybreak the following morning for Syracuse, New York to visit her daughter who lives in that Empire State metropolis: “We’ll be away two weeks,” she stated , “and I was wondering if you could come down tonite and get your Mom’s coat ?” Aunt Maycil had finished making some alterations to that article of wearing apparel. The clock said 11:20 P.M., way past my bedtime. “Be there in about ten minutes,” I said to my mother’s sister. Opening the door for a quick weather check, the rain was falling in sheets. Monsoons over Asia don’t spill water from the heavens in greater volumes than what was cascading down on Southwest Virginia that night. Frequent lightning streaked across a menacing sky, providing the only light in an otherwise pitch-black night. The elements in all their fury were being unleashed against a defenseless humankind. For both man and beast---an unfit night. I was a drowned rat even as I settled behind the steering wheel, and as the smooth engine purred into action a deep sense of foreboding swept over me (a warning I should’ve heeded ). In a matter of minutes I found myself on the paved lanes of route 460---headed west. This motorist, had he known what waited just two miles down the highway, would’ve made a hasty U-turn and returned home…
Chapter Two
About a billion years ago, give or take a few hundred millennia, a titanic struggle between two of natures most powerful forces took place in our immediate area. A river and a mountain went after each other in a monumental battle that lasted thousands of centuries. The river was a clear-cut winner, as evidenced by the gap through that mountain range, and a deep channeled gorge which allows New River to wend it’s way northward to the West Virginia border. I’m not sure how historians and geologists have it recorded in their books, but no matter. When one gazes upward to the top of East River and Peters Mountain it’s fairly obvious what happened here aeons ago. Viewed from Gobblers Knob where I live it’s “plain as the nose on yer face.” From a point about 2 miles away from the gorge, each of these mountains begin their descent to “the Narrows of New River.” The gradual erosion by time and relentless waters actually terraced those rugged crests, creating the visual effect of two giant pairs of steps leading downward into a gaping chasm. The end result of that long-ago bout is a scenic “design of perfect symmetry,” on a scale man can never hope to equal. All this didn’t happen just last month, of course. It occurred way back before that first dinosaur hatched from a leathery-shelled egg to start gobbling down everything that moved. Tell ya’ one thing pal---New river did us a great service by creating that escape route to the northwest. Otherwise we’d be hemmed in, and would find it necessary to travel up yonder to Rocky Gap to “git outta’ here.” But no need to dwell on a hypothetical situation… The westbound lanes of route 460 from Narrows to Rich Creek is a lonely, desolate stretch of highway. The lone motorist traveling thru that gorge late at night might well find it deserted, a most unsettling place to be. He can easily imagine himself all alone, facing the stark landscape of an alien planet in some faraway galaxy. It is a road fraught with danger. Steep banks on the left can cause apprehension to even the most experienced drivers. On the right is wild and rugged Peter’s Mountain which will someday come avalanching down in a billion ton rockslide. And now another peril, far more terrifying than dangerous road conditions, lurks along route 460 between Narrows and Rich Creek. Maybe you’re not familiar with this one, but regular commuters along that road will sooner or later meet---“HIM!” These unfortunate motorists will rue the day, their lives forever changed. For surely this “something” is not of this world…
Chapter Three
I had just driven past the road that connects with route 460 and begins it’s steep climb up Wayside Mountain. About 300 yards west of that junction is a slight upgrade before 460 curves around a sheer precipice of limestone cliffs, then drops sharply into Rich Creek, the town formerly called “Gateway to Celco.” The biggest plug in an ominous sky above had been pulled. Incessant rain pelted at my windshield, making it all but impossible for wipers to perform the important task for which they were designed. Of all living creatures on planet Earth that miserable night 10 months ago, only ducks were a happy and contented lot. Visibility was almost zero, thus a goodly amount of concentration was required to keep macadam under wheels that were rolling only at a 25 mph clip. This was hardly the time or place for speed, nor for allowing one’s mind to wander off on topics unrelated to careful driving (at this particular point was a sheer drop of 100 feet straight down to the eastbound lanes of route 460). A mistake here could well prove hazardous to one’s health and well-being. And yet a question kept churning in my thoughts: “Just why in hell is anyone out on a miserable night like this?” Surely running this errand to fetch a coat was a lame excuse. Jagged lightning flashed across the heavens, the gorge between Rich Creek and Narrows shook with a deep bass rumbling of rolling thunder. Awesome forces of nature were putting on a dazzling spectacle for one puny human. I was quickly made aware of my proper place on the totem-pole, a stature that really is inconsequential. It was nearing midnight, and that ungodly hour doesn’t belong to mere mortals. This time-slot is reserved for uh---well, you know. Here and now a certain matter needs a bit of clarification. Many people are saying to me: “Damned if you don’t see an unusually high number of anomalies!” Friend, rest assured such is not the case. I spot only an average number of these “deviations of nature.” You see, countless other folks are telling me (in private, off- the- record chats) they too are seeing large concentrations of “unusuals.” But there is one marked difference between those sensible people and this foolish person. Others remain silent about such “sightings,” fearing persecution from friends and neighbors. I became immune from ridicule 45 years ago, thus have no qualms whatsoever about going public The smooth running Matador was halfway up the slight grade when I first spotted the “figure” standing by the road. High on those desolate, windswept cliffs along route 460 an unspeakable horror was making it’s initial presence known…
Chapter Four
The tall darkened figure had an arm extended and thumb hoisted in that familiar “give me a ride” gesture. Except for one thing he projected an image of normality, and seemed human enough in appearance. Perhaps recent hard times had contributed to his undoing, as it appeared fate had been most unkind by dealing a severe blow. From all indications well-balanced meals weren’t being served on his table with regularity---he was extremely thin, disproportionately so. My impression was, so help me, that I was looking at one of those “stickman” caricatures. Hey---a real, real oddity here! A hitch-hiker on this damnable night, at this forsaken place? Not all was right, and I had a premonition about the situation confronting me---something was definitely amiss! And yet I sensed the forlorn, rain-sodden wayfarer and I had at least one thing in common---there was no doubting we shared the same level of de-humanizing level of poverty. An added note; that level is also a de-moralizing one. With startling agility “HE” leaped to the pavement, directly in the path of my fast-closing Matador. Coming down hard on the brakes, a sideways skid halted with bumper just mere inches from a flimsy metal guardrail. Might as well be dropped from an airplane as to plunge over here. I suddenly found myself at the place you’ve heard so much about ---“extenuating circumstances.” Rusted hinges of a rear door creaked. A gaunt figure rendered almost unrecognizable by a wide-brimmed hat and loose- fitting clothes was seating himself just an arms-length away from my back. The dim domelight was on , offering just enough illumination to note the sickly pallor of his craggy features Listen here pilgrim, motorists can ill-afford to pick up hitch-hikers in these enlightened times. All sorts of “crazies” are hoofing it from one point to another along our highways, and acting the good Samaritan can lead one into a whole heap of trouble.. In those rare instances when a helping hand is offered, I want that dude sitting up front, not in a darkened interior at my exposed back. Just thinking of that gives rise to dreadful thoughts; Jim Bowie knives, machetes, .45 caliber automatics, .357 Magnums! The rear door slammed shut with dynamo force. “How about a ride to Rich Creek?” It was spoken in a monotone voice, one with no variance of pitch. That voice from the rear was shrill, piercing---inhuman! The request was repeated, over and over and over. Like a broken record.
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