Young Writers Society

(borderline R rating)

John pushed the end button on his white home phone and placed it in its cradle. It lay there, the soft buzz of static fading as it shut down. He quickly stepped across the kitchen floor, avoiding the large mass of sleeping fur splayed across the ground. The brown dog woofed quietly in its sleep, its legs moving in quick circles.

John opened the refrigerator door and removed a small, half-frozen breakfast biscuit. He made his way back to the kitchen counter, popping open the microwave door. After removing the biscuit from its wrapper John tossed it inside and shut the door. He yawned as he dialed in the numbers on the machine's screen, absent mindedly rubbing at his scruffy chin with his other hand. The microwave rumbled to life. His dog jumped to attention, its plump body wobbling on thin legs.

"You're on a diet, mister," John whispered, patting the animal's head.

The microwave stopped without a sound. The overhead lights died. The small house was left in semi darkness, lit only by the morning sun as it filtered through the cluttered blinds. John shook his head, sighing.

"Curse of living with rolling blackouts."

The dog stood still, turning away from the lukewarm biscuit, its ears pricked up. It stared off into the distance, its black eyes glistening darkly. A soft growl rose from deep within its throat.

John rubbed his hands through his uncombed hair, smoothing back the wild curls of brown. He opened the small kitchen drawer and began digging for a lighter, his hands lightly brushing over the assortment of kitchen utensils. Across his chest spilled a soft light. He paused and glanced up in the direction of the glow. The home phone blazed with the soft light of the 'on' screen.

"What the hell?" John muttered.

From the phone echoed the soft buzz of static. The phone burst into a long ring. John stood staring at it for the longest time, his hand still buried in the cache of cutlery. The phone continued to ring, droning on and on. John quickly reached across and plucked the phone from the cradle. He quickly pressed the 'talk' button and held the receiver to his ear.

"Hello?"

"John, it's me, Mark. We need to talk."

John blinked stupidly, his brain slowly registering the voice of his older brother.

"What's wrong?"

"There's been an accident..."

***

-Two Weeks Later-

It was 6:30am when John hit the black.

John pressed down lightly on the gas pedal, inching the aging convertible to a speed modestly higher than the state limit. The top was down and the soft wind blew harshly against his face.

John loved the breeze. Sometimes he'd spend hours searching for lonely stretches of highway on the days when he had no deadlines for work, hoping to experience a perfect balance of nature and speed. The average man's calamity. But today he took no pleasure in his drive. No pleasure in the open stretch of highway nor the feel of the open air on his skin.

The asphalt whizzed by, leaving a bland sight in its wake. Every now and then the mangled carcass of a jackrabbit or possum would speed by. The road was not open country, quite contrary, traffic signs littered the landscape, but no cars roamed the roadway. The highway was unusually barren, even during the early morning hours.

John glanced in the mirror, checking his face. He'd dressed quickly, packed quickly, and hurried out the door of his small house just hours earlier. He was due for a long trip and a long ride, three states worth of driving to be precise. His hands clenched tightly to the steering wheel as he steadied his car. He removed one hand from the wheel and began digging through a small bag in the passenger's seat. He pulled from the bag a silver cellular phone and quickly punched in his home number. Christine answered on the second ring.

"Hey Chris, it's me."

"Hey you, was wondering how long it'd take you to call."

Christine's soft voice spilled through the receiver. John felt his heartbeat slow under the comforting sound.

"Sorry I left in such a hurry. How's Max?"

"He's fine. He misses you already. Poor boy hasn't eaten since you left."

"I know. Look I'm just calling-"

"To make sure I'm ok? Shouldn't you be worrying about yourself?"

John sighed. His throat felt dry. He swallowed hard.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"I'm fine!" John said, more harshly than he'd intended.

The line was quiet.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Christine replied.

John smiled and glanced up at the rearview mirror.

"Jesus!" he screamed, jerking the wheel.

From behind him a black muscle car, one of those old Corvette Stingrays from the 70's, shot by, its horn shrieking, leaving a resounding shock wave of wind in its wake. John dropped the phone into his lap and steadied the car. The Stingray slowed a bit as it inched ahead of the convertible. The car was flaked with black paint, revealing a once perfect coat. It's windshields were deeply tinted, obscuring the driver. It's duel mufflers buckled as exhaust spilled forth. A thin streak of red spilled across the left side of the car, tracing a random splash of color with no particular design, almost as if the car had been doused with paint. No other area of the car beared that same design. The car began to speed up again.

John felt a soft chill travel down his body. Something tugged in the back of his mind. He shook the feeling off and retrieved the phone from his lap. Christine's soft voice, stained with worry, met his ears.

"John. John, are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Some stupid son of a bitch nearly ran me off the road," John replied.

"But you're ok?"

He laughed.

"I'm fine, Chris. I'm coming up on a tunnel, I better go. I wanna have two free hands in case the jerk tries something else."

"Fine. Give me a call in a few hours," she said.

"Stop worrying, Chris. I'll be fine. I love you."

"I love you too."

John punched the phone and the line terminated. He tossed the phone back in the bag and drove on. Up ahead a large tunnel stood. No lights graced its insides. A pure darkness lay ahead as far in as John could see. He couldn't see the other side.

"Great," he whispered.

The black car continued on, slowly accelerating.

John observed the tunnel as it grew closer. The sun shone brightly yet its rays seemed to die as they touched the entrance to the passageway.

Passageway? It's just a tunnel.

The structure towered at least thirty feet tall, John guessed, yet it cast no shadows. His foot lifted slightly from the gas.

The Stingray continued on. Its owner didn't bother to flip on his lights. The car passed silently into the darkness and was gone.

John realized his car had slowed to a roll.

"It's just heading through the tunnel. Just put your foot back on the gas and go. Just go."

John breathed out and slowly pushed down on the gas. His car quickly advanced upon the darkness. John closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he was inside. The darkness surrounded him, enveloped him. He drove on. Like a silent cancer, the darkness became more and more absolute. The absence of light did not seem normal. John's eyes did not adjust as he continued driving. The tunnel did not seem to be light or dark. It seemed black. Empty and desolate. Black.

John quickly switched on his headlights. The beams pierced the darkness a few feet, but they reveled no road beneath them. The light seemed to be swallowed by the darkness, eaten and prayed upon by a savage beast in the form of the night. As he drove, the light seemed to fade, to almost be dying. John flipped the switch a second time. His brights flashed on. They blazed for a moment. Then they died. They didn't fade into nothingness. It was as if something had shattered the bulbs inside the lights. They blinked and were gone.

John pressed his foot harder on the gas. He could tell his car was gaining momentum, but his engine gave no sound. His top was down but he could neither feel nor hear the wind. He could not hear the Stingray ahead of him. Eventually he could not even hear his own breath. His heart beat against his temples. He breathed in and out rapidly. From the darkness there came a sound. The only sound. A soft whisper. John could not understand what it said. Soon a second voice joined and the two merged as the harsh sounds of their tongues grew louder. John shoved his foot as far down on the gas as possible.

More voices joined. The convertable sped along with silent fury. The voices entertwined into piercing shrieks. John began to scream with them. Far ahead a blink of light arose. The exit. The exit from the black. The car's engine roared as the exit grew closer. His lights flashed back to life. The blinding light ahead arose to a peak and his car broke through exit and onto the highway. John slammed his foot on the brake and sat there, his body drenched in cold sweat, his breaths coming to him in harsh rhythms. He glanced down the endless road. The Stingray was no where in sight. It hadn't been going fast enough to go beyond his sight. It had vanished in the black.

John laughed, knowing it was crazy, but it was also true. The Stingray had never exited the tunnel. The black had swallowed it.

John needed to help the driver. He placed his hand against the door handle and stopped. The black would try and take him.

No. Just a tunnel.

The black would take him if he approached it.

No. It couldn't.

But it would.

John shoved the door open and stepped lightly upon the hot concrete. He glanced down the road, his hand still resting on the door. He could still hear the shrieking voices swimming in his mind. He finally turned.

John glanced upon the darkness and screamed.

From the top of the structure a small rope extended, dropping down half a foot. A man hung from the rope, his limp body swinging back and forth with the wind. His eyes bulged in their sockets. His tongue, bloated and purple, stuck out from his wide mouth. His face, stained a shade of dark violet, had been morphed in death. His pants were stained from the excrement left behind in his final moment of life. From beneath his tangled and stained hair, John could recognize the face.

John tried to tell himself it wasn't true. That it couldn't be. That his father, who had hung himself from the second floor rafter of his retirement home two weeks ago, was not hanging before him. That he wasn't here, instead waiting for him in a funeral home two hundred miles down the road. John ran his hands through his hair, moaning in silence.

From beyond the hanging man, from deep within the black, the whispers emerged, shrieking and piercing the air. From deep within the shadows John could see flutters of movement. He moved quickly, stumbling back.

A set of set of massive hands bent and shaped like rakes jutted forth. Their fingers, abnormally long, were scabbed over, the same color of a severe burn victim's ruined skin. They flexed slowly, uncurling with sharp, cracking sounds. The wrists and arms, pale and bony, twisted in odd angles with wild momentum. They wrapped themselves slowly around the hanging body, carefully caressing the dead man.

John tried to look away as the creature's face emerged. Slick sheets of skin lay stretched over it's ragged face. It had neither ears nor hair. Long sets of black stitching had been used to sew its eyes and mouth shut. Its nose breathed in and out violently and loudly, as if it were smelling the air, searching for John's scent. The creature glanced in his direction as it began to slowly pull his father away into darkness. It's mouth stretched wide as it tore at the stitches, black blood spilling down its lips.

"There's been an accident," it shrieked, in its whispering voice.

From within the black, more creatures began to emerge. They quickly stepped out into the fading light towards John.

John glanced back wildly, but the darkness had already began to surround him. His breathing faded into silence. The roar of his car's engines died. The wind ceased to blow. The black finally swallowed him. The whispers rose. John shut his eyes and prayed.

***

"He's awake. He's awake."

John opened his eyes. The shine of the sun momentarily blinded him. He lay on his back. He tried to sit up but a man dressed in white appeared, pushing him back down. His hair was the brightest shade of blonde; shimmering gold.

"Lie still. Mr. Klement. Lie still," the man whispered, glancing at the second paramedic, "let's get him on the stretcher."

John felt himself lifted from the ground and onto the wheeled stretcher. He watched as he sky moved above. He groaned as the men pulled him into the back of the ambulance.

He lay there in silence, listening the rhythmic beat of the heart monitor beside him. The engine of the ambulance roared to life. They were moving.

John glanced around the vehicle. A small, portable TV stood on a side table. John stared at it for the longest. The second paramedic looked back.

"Looks like our passenger wants to watch the news," he said with a chuckle.

"Turn it on then," the first paramedic replied.

The man reached over John, his slender, tanned finger pressing the power button. The TV blazed to life.

"Enjoy."

John watched as a news reporter holding a set of papers spoke without words. She pointed at the side screen. Suddenly an overhead view of a car crash appeared, shot by chopper cam.

"There's no sound. Can you take it off mute?" John croaked, his throat burning.

The paramedics did not reply.

"I said, can you-"

John stopped. His eyes widened. On screen a close up of the wreckage was shown. A small blue convertible stood in ruin, crumpled like a tin can. Buried in its side was a black Corvette Stingray. A splash of red was tossed across the passenger's side. A small arm poked out through the driver's side window. It was twisted and broken, stained red.

"It wasn't paint..." John whispered. He began to shake.

The sound of the ambulance siren had faded. The TV camera focused for a close up of the totalled convertible. A twisted body lay within its frame, its body mangled beyond recognition.

"No. No. No," John muttered, shaking his head.

"Sounds like he's seen enough. Switch it off," the first paramedic whispered, his face locked upon the road.

John began to rock back and forth, his body tied down against the stretcher. The paramedic stretched across him and switched off the TV. This time, the hand wasn't tan and strong. It was burnt and misshapen, cracking in the air.

The creature let the paramedic's hat fall away as it hovered over John. It's mouth stretched against its stitches.

"We wouldn't want you to miss the show."

John shook his head, fighting against his restraints. Shining tears spilled down his cheeks.

"No. No God. No. Please God, don't let it be. No"

A deep gash opened across his head, blood spilled down his face, the first of his bones began to break. He screamed, but there was no sound.

The ambulance drove on along its journey, travelling down the empty road. It passed under the archway of the tunnel and vanished into the black.