Chapter  Five

Due to a set of rather peculiar circumstances an uninvited passenger was now seated to my immediate rear. Having one’s back exposed to a complete stranger on a dark night is often described as an untenable position. Gory thoughts were racing thru my mind.

The next few minutes would see a set of events so bizarre, so far removed from realities the human mind finds acceptable that readers will simply reject the notion such could happen in our “thoroughly modern world.” Be reminded though; when danger is imminent the ostrich also buries his head.

The transmission was in reverse, and my auto backed away from it’s precarious perch at the edge of a high clifftop. I’d only traveled 200 yards to the crest of a long hill leading into Rich Creek, and already the same utterance had been repeated a dozen times: “My mission is nearing completion.” The voice was machine-like, and that statement caused a proliferation of goose-bumps along my spine.

Any doubting that a madman had entered my car was erased by the chilling sound between each repetition of his monotonous declaration. A fiendish laughter which no human voice could possibly duplicate grew ever louder, the insane din filled the car with a threatening malevolence.

A sudden flash of lightning and midnight became bright as high-noon. For the first time I managed a glance into my rear-view mirror, and the sight that greeted my eyes subtracted years from an expected lifespan. In that instant I knew the true meaning of that time-honored phrase, “traumatic shock.” It was a moment in time to remain with me always--- it is a devastating memory

A mutation had occurred back there, a metamorphosis like none I’d ever heard of. It had been quick, complete---and terrible! The manifestation seated on the rear seat was not the manlike figure that had gained entrance to my car just two minutes previously. It was a loathsome sight, and caused yet another transformation--- my blood changed from a life-sustaining substance to a cold, icy slush.

Sorcery was at work here, for the hitch-hiker had somehow taken on the frightening appearance of a hideous “alive and breathing” scarecrow, grotesque far beyond my ability to describe ( looking back now, I’m quite certain that entity could’ve altered it’s molecular structure to assume any identity it desired ).

Two eyes that were as burning embers locked onto my own, and I found it impossible to tear away from their penetrating glare. His face was a sickening pasty white, leering with hatred, contorted with rage. Evil is his name, but he is known by many aliases---Fear, Fate, Doom and Destiny.

Messengers from two unearthly sources are coming to our planet with ever-increasing frequency. Representing both light and darkness, these harbingers are a clear and unmistakable signal that catastrophic events are awaiting in our immediate future ( every person I’m acquainted with feels a sense of dread when the year 2000 is mentioned. But 2010, as predicted by Arthur C. Clark, is equally frightening ).

Two sources, and there’s no doubting the origin of my “visitor.” A sledgehammer began pounding inside my chest, for you see, riding with me was an emissary from Hell…

Chapter Six

Stark terror can instantly reduce human beings into globs of pulpy mush, leaving in shambles the mental process that allows for lucid, coherent thinking. Finding yourself in company with an “unholy presence” is a shattering experience, not recommended as entertainment for a family outing. My reaction was predictable . The old panic button was pushed---but hard!

My very first thought was of  leaping from a moving vehicle which by now, visibility be damned, w2as rolling at a brisk rate of speed ( I’d pushed the pedal to the metal ). But my skin is both sensitive and delicate---numerous abrasions, cuts, bruises and bumps would’ve resulted from such a foolish action.

The frenzied laughter had ceased , and now only a heavy rasping sound of labored breathing was heard from the rear (This horrendous “scarecrow that breathed” had arrived here from across a parallel universe, a dimension totally unknown to earthlings. Evidently he was unaccustomed to our atmosphere ).

The events of these past few minutes had been terrifying, yet by a macabre twist of fate, educational as well. Human frailties were highlighted for all the world to see. We’re far more vulnerable than we care to admit, especially when supernatural forces are arrayed against us ( of course a few locals will dispute this, and argue for human superiority. These individuals hold dominance over floods, hurricanes. Earthquakes, tidal-waves, etc. How do I know this? Shucks man, I’ve heard ‘em make such claims! More’n likely at least one person in your circle of friends will fit nicely into this category ).

The repulsive monstrosity was again spewing forth it’s vehemence. With maddening monotony an alien voice was proclaiming: “Wrong one, wrong one---pusher, pusher.” A subtle clue was contained therein, providing a possible key for unlocking this perplexing mystery.

A workable plan to extract myself from this crisis was desperately needed. That goal did, in fact, hold number one priority in my thoughts. Star Wars, acid rain, Colonel Khadafy, Ayatollah Khomeini, even the United States Congress seemed relatively unimportant at that moment.

This stuff about “self-sacrifice in the interest of others” is a bunch of hooey, and don’t you forget it! When demons threaten one thinks only of self-survival, meaning he looks out for his own scrawny neck. That’s a fact of life my friend, a fact of life.

Thankfully, an idea was quick in forming. That Hop-In convenience store in Rich Creek---it would seem to offer the best, perhaps my only hope. The whole world, excepting the night-clerk on duty there, was slumbering, oblivious to the peril close at hand.

Only two rubber tires were in contact with macadam pavement as I careened off route 460 at the first exit leading into Rich Creek. Neon lights loomed just ahead, a most welcome sight indeed.

The parking lot was well lighted, and Richard Petty would’ve envied my driving maneuvers as the Matador skidded across the rain-slicked surface of a convenience store property…

Chapter Seven

I’d been wrong. There was life other than a store-clerk and myself on that storm-tossed night.

Half a dozen “night people” were congregated under the projecting eave of that business establishment, shielding themselves from powerful and destructive forces of nature suddenly turned loose. Some folks never go to bed, and I was glad these “human owls” had stayed up as observers to watch as clouds gave Earth a sod-soaker drenching.

Braking to a halt, I was outta’ my sedan in a flash. The gap between vehicle  and the late-night crowd closed in a hurry ( I definitely sought the company of  “normal humans.” ).

I suppose it was my disheveled look that told them something was haywire. “What’s wrong man?,” one of the lads asked. With machinegun-like delivery I spilled out a brief summary of the past 3 minutes. Their reaction, I now realize, was quite natural. A chorus of guffaws erupted--- to this day the derision hasn’t subsided.

Mostly that group of revelers were complete strangers. One appeared to be especially well fortified with “courage juice” (actually, he was staggering drunk ).

“Hey man, I’ve always wanted to see a living scarecrow,” he said with slurred voice. He also wanted to display his bravado, and did so by strutting pompously over to my car ( the merrymaker didn’t seem aware he was getting drenched ).

Human-beings are ill-equipped for many things this strange world can muster against them. Coming face to face with a repugnant demon is certainly included in this grouping. “Don’t look in there fella,” I pleaded. “ You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Might as well remained silent. Macho-man, with several pints of alcohol in his belly, opened the door and peered in for a close inspection, and announced to his admirers, “Man, quit puttin’ us on. Ain’t nothin’ in your car.”

Amid a second wave of laughter hi8s co0horts left their refuge neath a wooden-shingled eave and stepped out into the downpour. With considerable reluctance I joined the entourage standing at the rear door of my Matador.

His observation had been correct. There was nothing. That is, except a strong musky odor of mildewed straw…

The taunting became unbearable---I didn’t relish being the butt of a joke. Scared out of my wits, I nonetheless re-entered the sedan and drove the remaining mile to my Aunt’s home. I fully expected the re-appearance of that diabolical creature who came from the innermost bowels of Earth, but the short ride proved uneventful.

The house was aglow, many suitcases were packed, hurried activity was in evidence throughout the home. “Aunt Maycil, it’s been years since I spent a night with y’all. Welcome or not, I’m stayin’ til the sun rises high”

Her home was departure headquarters for an entire family soon to leave for Syracuse… all beds were spoken for. The couch was comfortable enough, but even so sleep wouldn’t come…

Chapter Eight

Wrong one, wrong one---pusher, pusher. I recalled those puzzling words spoken by an eerie phantom who came in the night, rendered himself visible for a few terror-filled moments, then de-materialized into nothingness. And something else, There’d been mention of a “mission nearing completion.” Ominous were the implications contained in that

Statement.

         I’m a little slow; my theory was weeks in coming. It is, however, one that offers a solid explanation for that unreal incident on a deserted highway.

         My luck has never been good, and fate dictated the sorry streak would remain unchanged. This person was once again in the wrong place at exactly the right time.

         You see, the evil forces of  Purgatory made an awful mistake that awful night. I was not the intended victim , or “target”, of the Satanic demon from Hell. He goofed, and inadvertently forced my car to a halt.

         Pusher, seller, dealer---drug trafficking! Why sure, it was all so very clear. Almost certainly a drug dealer was a passenger in the auto preceding mine thru the gorge that night, or else that “peddler of human misery” drove the car following.

         That fellow is extremely lucky; due to error he escaped, but only temporarily. A leering, supernatural “hunter of men” stalks the night---lurking, waiting, biding it’s time. No quarry ever eludes him!

         The Creator who made us all looks down with great favor on children.

Of all his creative works, I think HE derives the most delight and pleasure from watching HIS youngsters. It is said this omnipresent Creator is wrathful---vengeful. I don’t believe its advisable to arouse that ire!

 This Creator is a book-keeper who stays busy entering items into a ledger. He’s a “grader”, pre-occupied with filling out report cards. Persons guilty of abusing HIS youngsters get bad, bad marks.

         Hardened criminals might be getting D’s. If that’s true, then chilling news for people who sell drugs to youngsters---they’re getting straight Z’s. Man I’m tellin’ ya’, I wouldn’t walk in their socks for their shoes!

         A person on the local scene is deeply involved in this mucky business of selling drugs to kids. Unfortunately or otherwise, there’s a bad moon rising in his near future. This subject had better get himself  braced, as he is scheduled for a premature viewing of Hell ( that individual has been granted a temporary gift of precognition, thus is well aware he’s being singled out for something very, very special.).

         The worst of all omens, a black cloud descending down around head and shoulders, is the picture being projected of this person---a sure sign of impending doom!

         All demonic factors are in conjunction, wheels of destiny in motion, their turning irreversible. An unenviable trip awaits this chap, and the landscape to his destination is arid and ugly…

Chapter  Nine

Getting any story off the ground, be it fact or fiction, is relatively easy. One opening line, “once upon a time,” has been used a zillion times in pushing imaginary tales off to a good start.

But a dreaded time of reckoning , those final few paragraphs to end a story, comes all too soon. Actually, concocting a proper ending for a fictional tale doesn’t require a lot of expertise ( a wild imagination helps tremendously though ). Again an old standby, “and they lived happily ever after” is always available.

Ending a true story, such as this one, is an entirely different matter. A wide range of nonsensical material can’t be used here, only hard facts are appropriate. So this one ends on a “moral of the story”note…

I believe each and every person has a pre-conceived notion of what Hell is like…I certainly do. I believe those fiery furnaces burn at varying temperatures. Liars and petty thieves might be tossed in cooler ovens…violent, hardened criminals are gonna’ find theirs somewhat warmer. In a manner of speaking the toasting will be of two shades…dark, and burnt.

But a really deluxe treatment is being readied for those who sell dope to young people. Thermostats on their sulfuric infernos are, even now, being revved up thousands of degrees hotter than all others. The Creator looks down on “pushers” with a scathing frown--- their eternal future is bleak indeed.                                                                                                  

You youngsters experimenting with drugs should heed this bit of advice. The vibes surrounding one of your “suppliers” are extremely bad, and you’d be well-advised to get yourself far removed from that scene.

A demon moves in this circle, watching, waiting---ready to pounce. He has already spoken; his “mission is nearing completion.” Kid, you’re about to get caught up in something you can’t handle.

“Messengers” from two sources are among us. One is a Goat- headed figure who walks upright on cloven hooves…evil personified, horrible beyond human comprehension.

And the other? Well, that’s a cherubic Being dressed in white, with body appendages that enable it to soar as the eagle.

The End

M. L. Wilkinson

May, 1985