Last year, while I was writing a two-sentence horror story for every day of the month in October, I put to publication one particular experience that I denoted as being completely NOT a work of fiction. It was the closest to an actual paranormal experience as I’ve ever had in my admittedly dull and at times dreary life, and it’s something I’ve never forgotten. I wanted to expand on that experience a little, and tell it in a narrative fashion that allows me more detail than the quickie I wrote a year ago.
I had been home from college for the summer, and between school years worked a job as a host at a family restaurant. This establishment typically never closed, which meant I often ended up working the night shift. Being a natural night-owl, I had no problem with this, and often ended up working from 9 or 10 in the evening until 4 or 5 in the morning.
I had just gotten off my shift one night, at about 4 a.m. I did my typical check of the back seats of the car before getting in–not that the parking lot wasn’t well lit enough, but I’d read enough scary stories books about assailants hiding in people’s back seats that I figured it wasn’t a bad idea to check, just in case. I think by that point I’d also seen the movie Child’s Play, and I seem to remember Chuckie murdering one of his victims by stowing away in the back seat of his car and stabbing him through the chair.
So, yeah. No big deal.
I start the car, and pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway. The restaurant I worked at was nearly at the intersection of two busy state highways, so I usually got on one to turn onto the other. It’s a fairly simple, but large turn, as there are a lot of lanes on both roads.
It was as I was making this big turn that I heard a clear, friendly baritone voice speak, its two words sending ice down my stomach.
“What’s up?”
As the fear shot immediately through me, I flicked my eyes towards my rear view mirror, searching frantically for the source of the utterance. Otherwise, I didn’t move a muscle, aside from what I needed to do to complete the turn. When I saw no one there, I had a brief, panicked thought: was Chuckie about to stab me through the driver’s seat? Was there someone so small in the back seat of my car that I had missed them when I checked?
All of this occurred in the flash of an instant. As I completed the turn onto the next highway, I found the only reply I felt I could make in this situation, and turned in what I hoped was a casual motion and responded, “Not much, how are–”
That was all I got out before I was able to get a firsthand view of my back seat. No one was there. There was also no small person or thing hugging the back of my seat, either. I was alone, and as best I could tell, I was safe.
I finished the drive home without incident, but I didn’t end up going to sleep until much later in the morning.
I am not, to my knowledge, given to hallucinations of any kind. It might be easy to say that I was just tired, and that my senses were shot, but I’m both a natural night person and was used to doing my duties at the restaurant. I didn’t have the radio on before the encounter, so it couldn’t have been that either.
The only explanation I have, that makes any sense to me, is that I got a very, very brief visit from a ghost on the highway, who either vanished before I could get a look at him, or who just spoke briefly to me that one time, as if in passing.
“Don’t worry about the mess,” she said, wiping the blood off the knife as she stalked toward me. “I’ll make sure you never have to worry about it, at all.”
I adore the warm, comfortable glow of a burning fireplace. I’ve never overcooked anyone there.
I didn’t understand why my brother looked so frightened of me. I had only escaped from the asylum because I wanted to reconnect, to understand, to avail myself of the rock-solid frame of mind he had been graced with, and that I so desperately craved.
As I began to ascend the stairs, a bloodcurdling, high-pitched scream cut through the quiet from the floor above, sending a cold zip of fear down my spine. I knew the old house had been locked up tight, and no one else should have been in here.
What is it doing here? I run in the dark, frantic to escape it, but too often it appears in the beam of my flashlight, tall, thin, clad in a suit, its blank white face telling me all I need to know about the inevitability of it eventually getting me.
I heard the distinct sound of footsteps outside my bedroom door, even though I should have been home alone, but I was too scared to open the door. When my parents got home, they asked why the porcelain doll from the fireplace was sitting in the hallway, backed against my door.
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