There's an old Gas Station in the forests of the Pacific Northwest by J.L. Goodwin

#8: If you ever see it, keep driving

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Oh shit, I wrenched the steering wheel over to the right,
causing attires to scream and protest. A deep horn blared loudly,
almost rupturing my ear drums, and the interior was momentarily
illuminated by harsh white headlights. For a split second, my
life flashed in front of my eyes, and then I
felt the bumpiness of the grassy edge of the road

(00:22):
jostled me around. The eighteen wheeler, which had veered into
my lane, missed me by less than a foot, blasting
by in a blur at what had been seventy miles
an hour or more. After a split second of catching
my breath, I jabbed the driver's side window down and
stuck my hat out into the pouring rain. Asshole. I

(00:43):
screamed at the retreating logging truck, though I knew the
driver wouldn't be able to hear me. A moment later,
an outraged woman's voice tumbled from the speakers my rented
Chrysler three hundred. I beg your damn pardon. Regaining my
senses and remembering I'd been in the middle of a
phone call, I sat back down in the seat. Not
you erin, I said, apologetically, If you didn't hear the

(01:05):
commotion on my end of the line. I almost got
splattered all over the front end of some morons Peterbilt,
who wandered over to my side of the road. There
was a moment of silence from the speakers. Then my
agent let out a small snort. Well, isn't that just grand?
You gotta love idiots on the roads these days. It
took a softer tone. I'm glad you didn't get into

(01:25):
an accident. Now, I don't feel like losing my best
client and close friend in one go. I laughed. Helped
me relax to know you care, I admitted. Then, after
a moment, getting the tension out of my muscles, I
pulled the car back on the road and continued on.

(01:46):
It was the winter of twenty twenty two and I
was on my way to a book signing in Seattle,
from where I lived in Gold Beach, Oregon. I was
a writer who just broke in the New York Times
bestseller list with my debut novel, and as such I
was on the start of my book signing tour, which
would take me all around the country. Obviously, as many

(02:07):
people would quickly realize who I am if I used
my real name. I'd changed it along with others. Aaron,
my literary agent, had suggested I fly to Seattle from
the airport in North Bend. But I'm someone who's had
major anxiety overflying ever since the September eleventh attack, so instead,
I hadn't purchased a new car to replace my rather

(02:29):
shabby and broken down one. Yet she'd arranged me a
rental and i'd begun the almost seven and a half
hour drive north. I wouldn't have had to deal with
those dingbats if he Interstate five hadn't jammed up with
that accident. I muttered, well, you were the one who
wanted to drive ale. Aaron's chiding voice came to the speakers.

(02:52):
Do you have any idea where you are? I glanced
at the GPS map for what had to be the
hundredth time. The screen almost seemed to glitch, jumping as
the antenna on top of the car attempted to communicate
with an orbiting satellite above. He says, shit, no, this
stupid navigation system is apparently on the fritz. I snorted,
So much for Enterprise being a good car rental company.

(03:16):
I looked back up just in time to see a
sign with a gas symbol flash past. Thank you God
for small favors, I thought, Hey, there's a gas station
coming up. I'm a bit low. Anyways, I'll stop there,
get directions and then call you in a moment away. Okay,
there was a sign in the speakers. Okay, just please
try not to be too long. The publisher's house won't

(03:39):
like it if you show up to your very first
book signing late tomorrow. She said, Be as quick as
I can, I said, reassuringly. Then press the red disconnect
button on the steering wheel, ending the call. I let
out a sigh of relief. Aaron was my saving grace
and had been the one to orchestrate my contract, including
a very nice advance, but after a while it became

(04:02):
exhausting to deal with her. I stared out the windshield
at the two lane road in front of me, relishing
the silence save for the rain felting the car's windshield,
the windshield wipers flicking it off, and the tires on
the wet pavement. For a few more minutes, all I
saw was nothing but endless trees pushing in close to
the road, almost seeming as if they were jostling to

(04:25):
see who drove up and down past them. Then, almost
as if my thoughts had summoned it, I saw the
bright lights appear ahead on the right, like a lighthouse beacon.
It was clearly one which had been there a very
long time. The overall appearance gave the impression that it
had been around since at least the nineteen fifties, if
not earlier. I grunted with surprise as I saw the

(04:45):
lid up station logo swinging around in a lazy circle
on its pole. The faded green outline of a Brontosaurus
and similarly weathered red letters spelling out Sinclair were ones
I thought I would never see in person, seeing as
how the company had gone defunct back in March. If
nobody told the owner of this one. I pulled into
the station, my tires driving over a small black wire,

(05:07):
which caused a classic bell to ding loudly twice somewhere
out of sight. Pulling up next to the green pump,
I shut the engine off and relaxed back into the
comfortable leather, listening to the tick of the engine cooling down.
As I closed my eyes, I could only hear the
loud buzz of the fluorescent lights of her head and
the rain pelting the metal awning over the pumps. I

(05:30):
opened my eyes as I heard the rain peter out
and looked around, glancing at the analog clock on the dash,
illuminated by the overhead lights. Seven thirty p m. Ten
minutes had passed. I sighed, come on, man, then quickly
tapped the horn. The blaring sound of it almost seemed

(05:50):
to shatter the stillness like a baseball bat through a
plate glass window. Still nobody, damn that, I whispered, then
unbuckled my seat belt and pulled on the handle, using
my foot to kick open the door abidingly. Cold wind
smashed into my face as I stepped out onto the
cracked concrete, causing me to flip up the collar of

(06:11):
my coat and response. I glanced around, only hearing the
sounds of the wind whipping through the trees, crickets chirping,
and it had to be the hoots of an owl
somewhere off in the forest. Beyond the garage bays were open,
and in the faded yellow light of what had to
be old incandescent bulbs, I could see what looked like
a fifties Cadillac and seventies International scout up on the lifts,

(06:34):
but no mechanic in sight. Leaning back into the car,
I leaned on the horn longer. This time. Again, the
sound reverberated off the trees and station. For some reason,
I shivered at the noise. Almost feels sacrilegious to disturb
the silence out here. I shook my head. What the

(06:56):
hell would that thought come from? I shook it away
and waited another minute or two. There was still no
sign of life. Maybe the station is actually closed. The
thoughts were worrying. I hadn't seen another sign of civilization
aside from the dumbass logging truck in two and a
half hours. I didn't know how far it was until

(07:19):
the next town or gas station, and as good as
the Chrysler had been on gas, I didn't want to
try driving further on only a quarter tank. I decided
to find out for myself, Slamming the driver's door closed
with a loud thunk. Stepping around the front of the car,
I walked across the open bays, the sound of any
footfalls echoing back at me. I glanced around, noticing the

(07:40):
spilled oil on the ground and mismatched tools. Bottles and hoses.
Heaved unceremoniously on the bench in the back. Still saw
no one. Great, I thought, looking up to see the
bright moon begin to appear from behind the clouds. I
begun to turn and stride towards what had to be

(08:01):
in office or convenience store, when the figure burst out
of the door, nearly causing me to jump out of
my skin. Nah, I involuntarily let out, receiving a good
natured laugh in return. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you,
let alone make your wait so long. Caught my breath
and then let out a strange chuckle and looked up
at the man. It appeared to be in his late

(08:22):
forties or early fifties, dressed in a green Sinclair jumpsuit
adorned with the same green dinosaur on the front patch.
The patch on the other side proclaimed the man's name
to be Harold. The remaining hair on his head was
slicked back, and he flashed me a smile with surprisingly
bright white teeth. I held up my hand, giving it
a little wobble, and gave a laugh of relief. Don't

(08:44):
worry about it, man. For a second, I thought this
place was perfanctly closed or something is that the steadiness
returned to my voice. No, sir, is the fact it's
only little on me working the night shifts, he declared, jokingly,
wiping his brow. I snorted and smiled. The man clearly
had a decent sense of humor. Guessing you need gas, yes,

(09:04):
Changing the subject to business and gesturing to my car,
I nodded, yes, please, if you could fill her up
with regular He nodded, then began towards it as I
jogged back around, opening the driver's door and pressing the
button to pop the gas cap. Harold let out a
low whistle. He pulled the pump from the cradle. Very
nice car, sir, he exclaimed, looking it over looks expensive.

(09:29):
I shrugged my shoulders. It is a nice car, christ
through three hundred s, but unfortunately it's not mine. He
looked up at me and cocked an eyebrow as he
slid the nozzle in and pulled on the handle. It's
the rental, I added, quickly, realizing it sounded like I
jacked it or something. He seemed to relax. Now that
makes sense, he said jovially. It's nicer and newer than

(09:50):
anything we normally see. I hear, I jerk my thumb
at the open daze. Say you have people with good
taste around here, seeing as how that's a fifty five
coup de Ville back there, I said, He laughed, nodding improvingly.
See you know your cars, he said with an impressed tone,
glancing at the readout on the pump. I do I
love him, I replied. He looked back up at me.

(10:14):
There's some kind of auto collector race car driver, then
he asked. I shook my head and afraid not. I'm
a writer. He jerked his head up, his green eyes
seeming to twinkle with fluorescent lights. Rider don't blow me down.
I never thought i'd get a god Donna's rider in
my station, he exclaimed, smiling. I nodded, feeling a slight

(10:36):
sense of uncomfortableness wash over me. I still hadn't gotten
used to the reaction people had when they learned of
my profession. He pressed forward. What kind of books do
you write, he asked, excitedly. I write in the horror genre, honestly,
I admitted, causing him to smile widely at the news.
Horror is my favorite style of the book to read, he said.

(10:57):
I love everything in the old classics to Stephen King.
He looked at me quizzically. How many have you written
so far? It held up a single finger, Just one published.
I'm actually on my way up to a publicity signer
right now. He nodded approvingly, then looked back at the
pump before speaking again, have you ever seen anything like

(11:20):
truly scary? I raised an eyebrow at his question. That
came completely out of left field. What do you mean
by that? I asked him return. He still watched the pumps,
but replied, how many horror writers I heard about talk
about how they had their own frightening experience, whether it's

(11:41):
a plain old scary even the supernatural experience is what
helps him write truly horrifying tales. Now he looked back
at me. His face held a smile, which caused me
to inwardly shudder a little bit. It almost seemed far
too wide for a moment. Then blinking, I realized it
was just a regular grin, if not just a bit

(12:04):
of an odd one. And the lights must have caused
you to see things, he finished, So I'll just asking
if you ever had a scary experience got you in
the right and horror for a moment. There was silence
between us as I pondered the question, only broken by
an owl screech somewhere in the gathering darkness. Then I shrugged. Honestly,

(12:30):
I hate to disappoint you, but no, I admitted. They
gave me a slightly surprised expression. Really, I nodded, deciding
to be honest with him. Really, Yeah, to be completely
truthful with you, Harold. As much as I love horror,
both writing it and reading it and watching it, I
stopped being scared of it a while ago. The surprised

(12:51):
expression seemed to grow on its face. Really, he repeated,
then looked down at the pump again. That's a shame,
he said, his voice almost holding a trace of sadness
in it. I nodded, having to agree with him. Yeah,
it is. I used to love getting scared by a

(13:15):
good horror film or a book, but as I got older,
it just seemed to, you know, drift away. Now I
just write what I know others are afraid of, like
I did with my first book here. But honestly, when
I write, I don't feel fear in me at all.

(13:38):
I hated admitting it, even when I'd given my first
online interview with a magazine about my novel. I'd lie
about it, saying that my own work could scare the
hell out of me. But in a way, I feel
good to finally admit the truth to someone, even just
a stranger i'd likely never see again. I looked up
to find him giving me a rather intense and honestly

(14:00):
extremely creepy stare. His green eyes almost seemed to glow
in the lights, and his smile had completely disappeared. I
took a step back the abrupt change in his demeanor,
but just as quickly, it too was wiped away or
replaced by the smile I'd known since he appeared. Oh,
I'm sure if you search hard enough, you'll find that
feeling again, he said, his voice filled with what sounded

(14:21):
like genuine empathy. I nodded, looking at the woods. I
hope I truthfully admitted. Then heard the sound of the
pump finally clicking off. All done, Harold said, happily, pulling
the pump out of the car and replacing him back
in his cradle. He looked at the readout. That'll be
twenty three seventeen. I started slightly on twenty four bucks

(14:44):
for three quarters of a tank and I heard a
guess this jeep, since I was at least a teenager,
But at the same time I wasn't going to look
a gift horse in the mouth. I reached in my
back pocket, pulled up my wallet from it, and gave
him my credit card. Do you have to accept credit?
I asked, half afraid you tell me you didn't, but
he plucked the card happily out of my hand. Of
course we do, mister h He looked down at the

(15:07):
name on my card, mister Damascus, the credit card reader.
However's back inside the main building. He gestured towards the
door that he'd exited from. Do you mind if I
take it back in there and run it? It shook
my head. No, by all means, go right ahead, I said,
and he turned away and strode back across towards the building. HI,
back out with your receipt quicker than you could say.

(15:28):
Bob's your uncle, he called. I led another laugh at
the phrase I hadn't heard in years, and I noticed
something I hadn't seen the man's back since he appeared,
and this was my first time. The back of his
jumpsuit was the same stained green as the front with
the red oil rag peeking out from the back pocket,

(15:51):
but my eyes were drawn to one thing. It looked
like a large tear in it, just below the large
logo patch durning the back, almost as if he'd been slashed.
He could see an equally stained white shirt underneath it.
Uh hey, I called out to him. He stopped and
turned back to me, still smiling. Yeah, he asked. I

(16:13):
pointed to my own back. Your Ah, your jumpsuit has
a huge tear in the back of it. Just I
want to tell you in case you didn't know. For
a moment, the same funny look came over his face,
and then he waved his hand dismissively. Oh I know,
I haven't had to just demand it yet, he said,
then folded up a finger, pulled open the door, causing

(16:35):
the bell to ring from inside, and stepped inside. I
was left alone again, with only the buzzing sound of
the lights, almost causing my ears to ring in sudden silence.
Not wanting to seem rude but waiting back in the car,
I instead walked to the front and leaned against the hood,
staring out into the night. My eyes absent mindedly drifted

(16:55):
off into the gloom as I waited for Harold to return.
That's when my eyes finally glanced over at the large
sign directly ahead of me. It was the one which
advertised the price for gas by the gallon, And as
I pulled in from the other way, not to mention
getting too caught up talking, I hadn't even looked at it.

(17:17):
You could easily tell it had fallen into a bit
of disrepair. There is the light inside, which allowed you
to see the prices at night, flickered on and off, precariously,
seeming as though it would burn out any second. They
could even hear it flickering loudly in the silence. That
wasn't what drew my eye, though. Now what drew my
eye was the prices displayed on that flickering sign. Absolutely

(17:42):
no fricking way, I whispered to myself. I scanned down,
but kept looking at the top two figures eighty eight
cents a gallon for regular. I felt a small wave
of confusion fall over me. No matter how in the
middle of nowhere the station was, there was no way
that it would charged that little for gas. Not to mention,

(18:02):
it showed prices for both unleaded and leaded gasoline. Something
that had been banned since at least the mid nineties.
As my mind attempted to process this, something else finally
snuck in the entire forest around the station had fallen silent.
You're not talking about normal silence either. The crickets, the owls,

(18:23):
the rustling of what I thought were deer or elk
in the trees had vanished. Even the wind seemed to stop.
That almost unearthly stillness, as if the entire forest were
holding its breath. It was beyond unnerving and eerie, to
say the least, and it caused a shiver to shoot
up my spine. The only sound I could hear was

(18:45):
the almost maddeningly loud buzz of the overhead lights, which
seemed to drone like that of a growling creature. I
realized every muscle in my body had tensed up, though
I couldn't understand why. Sure, the silence is eerie, but
it's nothing to be truly afraid of, I thought. As
much as I repeated that thought to myself, I couldn't

(19:05):
help but feel increasingly on edge in the stillness. Okay, okay,
fuck this, I said. Finally, this sound of even my
own echoing voice sounding just off to me, pushing myself
off my hood and beginning for the door Harold had
gone through. As I walked, I looked at the watch
on my wrist, seeing another fifteen minutes had passed since

(19:26):
he left. What the hell is he letting out a sigh,
both of frustration and to try and relieve some of
the odd sensation forming in my gut. I finally reached
the door and reached out, grabbing the handle and felt
almost shockingly cold in my hand, and I quickly twisted it,
opening the door and causing the bell to jingle, sounding

(19:48):
too loud in the quiet. I stepped inside and allowed
it to swing shut behind me, the bell giving another jingle,
this time muted building's interior. I looked around. Aside from
an old Coca Cola machine in one corner of the room,
there were no food or drinking here. Instead, the two

(20:08):
or three aisles taking up most of the space, we
were filled with what looked like older style cans of
motor oil and other assorted automotive bits and bobs, all
adorned with dinosaur logo. I drew in a breath and
coughed a little. It felt more than a little musty
in here, so if it hadn't been aired out a
long time. Looking directly ahead, I saw the calendar that

(20:31):
Harold must usually be stationed at. An older style cash
register sat atop it, and behind it lay an open
door marked employees. Only. Beyond was a long tiled hallway
which stretched out for a while before disappearing around a corner.
I stared at the cash register. I haven't seen one

(20:53):
of these old jobs since I was a kid in
the nineties. I thought she nostalgic emotions, breaking through my
other emotions and tugging in my heartstrings. But it was
just as quickly showed away by the uneasy feeling that
was settling over me like a cloud of dust. This
whole thing's, whole place just seemed wrong. I couldn't tell why,

(21:14):
but it was making my arms and legs feel as
though insects were inching along under my skin. After a
moment's hesitation, I opened my mouth. Hey Harold, I called.
My voice seemed muted, just like the bell had. I
waited no answer. Hey Harold, are you back there? I

(21:39):
called again, Still nothing. Feeling increasingly on edge, just the
fluorescent lights in here sounded like they were also buzzing
too loud. I craned my neck to look down the corridor.
Just barely at the corner, I saw the bright blue
sign indicating a restroom. I made my decision, calling out again,

(22:00):
look if you can hear me, Harold, I'm coming over
the counter to use the restroom. Okay, I can't hold
it until I get to the next town. It was
a lie. I hadn't eaten or drank anything in the
last two hours to make me have to go, But
just in case he came around the corner, I didn't
want to get into trouble. It's as I felt, I
still didn't want to piss the man off. Taking a

(22:23):
deep breath, I hopped the counter and stepped into the corridor.
Unlike the main room, this was lit by three or
four incandescent light bulbs dangling down from the ceiling. It
gave the hall a slightly dimmer look than behind me,
and I hesitated for a moment before starting down at
taking care not to have my footsteps echo too much.
The hall seemed to go on forever, but eventually I

(22:44):
reached the corner. Wanting to keep up appearances, I turned
the knob for the restroom and opened it. After looking
into it for a split second, I shut it quickly,
suppressing a cough and a gag. It disgusting, as though
it hadn't been cleaned in years, if not decades. Turning back,

(23:06):
I noticed a brighter light down at the end of
the next stretch of hallway. I debated for a moment,
then began down it. All I wanted was to be
out of here. I passed another open door. Glancing through it,
I saw two garage bays and the view of outside.
The blast of cold, fresh air relieved me somewhat, and
I continued on. As I reached the doorway, I looked around,

(23:28):
seeing it was an old office. Two desks stood inside,
each with name plates on the edge of them. Despied
Harold's name on the far one. I also saw my
credit card sitting in the middle of the table. The
bright blue stood out amongst the dark wood and white papers.
Letting out a relieve sigh, I crossed to it quickly
and picked it up. I decided I'd just leave it

(23:48):
twenty and ten and cash on the desk, and then
get the hell out of here. I didn't know where
the man had gone to, and every fiber of my
being was telling me to leave. As I reached for
my wallet, my eyes caught a plaqum wall behind the desk,
the faux gold glinting in the low light. I stared
at it. The photograph was clearly Harold's, looking almost the

(24:12):
same as I'd seen him, just a lot cleaner. Below
that was a declaration etched into the fake gold employee
of the month, Harold Zinkowski. It couldn't help but smile
a little. How hard he must have been working for it.

(24:34):
Less than a second later, the smile dropped in my
face as I read the inscription underneath it, August nineteen
seventy six. I shook my head, hoping I was just
seeing things in a low light, hoping it would be
changed back to two thousand and six, or hell even
nineteen ninety six. But no, it remained the same. What

(25:00):
the fuck? I breathed out, feeling under the shivergo down
my spine. There was absolutely no way that if he
looked to be in his forties or fifties in the
mid seventies, that he would still look the same way
forty six years later. He'd at least be in his
eighties or his nineties. By now, I would very much,

(25:21):
not still be working here? The hell's going on? I
whispered again, feeling like tendrils of dread were reaching out
of the gloom and jamming themselves in me. I turned
to book it out of the room and out of
the station entirely, but I froze as I saw Harold.
He sat in an old style black swivel chair, his

(25:43):
back to me in the next room. I couldn't tell
what the room was, as it was lit only by
a single, very dim bulb directly over him, but the
room was giving me truly creepy vibes. For the first
time in years, I felt the first inklings of fear.
Before I had a chance to over say anything, he spoke, Well,
mister Damascus, he said, his voice almost inflectionless. I began

(26:08):
to speak, Look, I'm sorry, I barged back here, it's
just I was cut off as he continued, well, mister Damascus,
how do you feel? My shoulders slumped as I felt
a wave of confusion enveloped me. Excuse me, I managed out,
how do you feel? How do you feel? He repeated,

(26:29):
then continued, his voice, finally seeming to gain some cadence
to it. Do you feel afraid. Do you feel fear?
He let out a low chuckle, one that almost seemed
different from the happy one I'd heard outside. I didn't
know how to respond. Finally, he spoke again, that's okay,

(26:52):
you don't have to tell me. I know I can
feel it. He let out another chuckle, and I multiple
shivers shoot up my spine, and frankly, mister Damascus, I'm
happy about that, he said, standing up but still keeping
his back to me, because you all taste so much

(27:14):
better when you're afraid. This time, I did manage to
say something, the fuck. It wasn't the most eloquent response,
but apparently Harold found it funny, as he let out
another low, creepy chuckle. He finally turned towards me, and
I jumped backwards, slamming into his desk and causing his
nameplate to fall to the ground. The man still smiled

(27:35):
at me, his smile now holding a very definite wideness
to it, holding an almost pants pissing wickedness in it.
But he didn't seem alive, his previously sparkling green eyes
and not seeing glassy and unseeing. To put it bluntly,
he almost more resembled a ventriloquis dummy, a puppet than

(27:59):
any thing. He seemed to lean towards me, and finally
he spoke. I'll make it sporting, though you have twenty
seconds to run, he said, swallowing hard. I looked around
and saw a tire iron on his desk. I snatched
it up, ready to club the man over the head
if he made a move towards me. That's when he
simply dropped forward onto his face. He fell halfway forward

(28:23):
into the room and didn't move. I looked down at
him and gasped as I realized what I was seeing.
The man looked nothing more than like a deflated beach ball,
as though all the organs and blood in him had
been sucked out. I saw the tear in the back
of his jumpsuit again, this time much more pronounced. Behind it,

(28:48):
his dirty white shirt had been torn as well, and
it revealed, uh, fuck me, sideways, a hole in his
actual back. I'd see the white of his spine clearly
visible in the yellow light. As I stared down at him,
I heard a voice. This one, though was not Harold's.
It seemed to come from everywhere, nowhere at once, much

(29:10):
lower than I'd ever heard a human speak, and it
alone almost caused me to piss myself because it held
truly evil, sadistic tones to it. Twenty nineteen, eighteen seventeen.
I looked up and into the darkened room herald had
fallen out of, and finally, for the first time in years,

(29:32):
I screamed. Hovering just in the darkness beyond the edge
of the dim light's gaze were two enormous, glowing green eyes.
They were larger than a human's eyes ever could be,
and in a very inhuman shape, looking like crescent moons.
They held the most evil, sadistic glee I had ever
seen in my life. Had my scream, the voice stopped

(29:54):
counting down, and it finally laughed, a great booming laugh
that sounded like nail on a chalkboard. And then it
began counting down again, the malicious excitement in an audible
sixteen fifteen fourteen. I didn't wait any longer. I didn't
want to see what the eyes belonged to. I turned
and I sprinted out of the office, running down the corridor,

(30:16):
my footfalls and panic breathing echoing behind me in like
a gunshot. The corridor seemed to go on forever, and
I couldn't understand why it was taking so long to
reach the corner. Finally, though, I reached it and I froze.
I was back at the entrance of the office with
the fuck behind me. I heard the voice reaching ten
and I again sprinting again down the hallway. It seemed

(30:38):
to take even longer to reach the corner this time,
and I reached out to grab the corner edge with
my hand, only to grab the wooden edge of the
office door. My eyes white and I I felt tears
beginning to fall from my eyes as I ran again.
The voice continued as I dashed far down the ever
increasing corridor seven six five. I let out a strangled
sob as I grabbed for the tiled corner, pushing off

(31:00):
the edge of the corridor to snatch at it. Instead,
I smashed into the wall next to the office. I
fell in a heap, trying to force myself up when
I heard it finished three two, one ready or not,
mister Damascus, here I come. As it finished uttering the

(31:22):
last word, the voice dropped even lower, as if I
were hearing the voice of the Devil himself speak to me.
I realized if I looked behind me now I'd see
it standing in the middle of the office over its
human puppet. I refused to look back. I knew it
wanted me to. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks, mixing
with the blood from my head where I'd slammed it
into the wall. Every horror movie death in movies and

(31:44):
books flashed through my mind, and I knew all of them,
all of them weren't even remotely as horrible as what
that thing had planned for me. And that's what I thought.
Just a tiny glimmer of hope flashed through my mind,
something i'd seen as I walked down the hall to
the office. I felt adreadaline course through me. I might
die trying to do this, but I had the try,
I thought. I heard the floor behind me rattle and

(32:06):
felt hot, stinking breath fall across the back of my neck.
For a microsecond, I felt paralyzed with fear, and then
I let out a strangled cry, exploding in the motion.
I heard a bellow of frustration behind me, followed by
a laugh. It knew once I reached the end of
the corridor, it used whatever power it had to bring
me right back to it. It had power over this corridor,
but it it doesn't realize it left a weak spot open.

(32:28):
The thought still echoed in my mind. I ran, unable
to keep myself from screaming this time. As I dashed
down the corridor, it seemed even longer than before. But
as I reached the halfway point, I saw what I'd
been hoping to spy. The door into the garages stood open,
almost hidden out of sight behind a shelf of oil.
I let out another cry, this one of determination. Behind me,

(32:49):
I heard the creature stop laughing. Now it let out
a bellowing cry of rage. Realizing what I intended to do.
I felt it begin to thunder up the corridor after
me to snatch me up, feeling of something sharp slicing
in my back, and then I was leaping for the
doorway and through it. I landed in a puddle of
still sticky oil underneath the Cadillac. What I saw now

(33:12):
was rusting away with decades of despair. Not wasting a second,
I jumped to my feet and ran for the open
bay doors. Behind me, I heard a louder bellow, but
I didn't look back. I burst out from inside the
doors and into the night, now laden with the sounds
of the forest again. I dashed in my car, almost
flying over the hood and ripping open the driver's door,
crashing into the seat. I stabbed at the start button

(33:33):
for a moment, terrified that like the typical horrior cliche,
it wouldn't start, But to my surprise and gratitude, it did.
The roar of the V six thundering out. As I
grabbed the knob to jam the drive. I wrisked one
glance up, and I couldn't help it scream out again.
The entire gas station had gone dark, the inside, the
overhead lights, everything. I could see the outline of the building,

(33:55):
but that was it. And the eyes, the eyes glowered
me from inside, the bays of absolute rage and hatred,
Still screaming and staring at them, I slammed my foot
down onto the accelerator. The tires screamed, and the car
shot forward like a rocket, tearing out from under the
awning and out into the road. I refused to look

(34:18):
into the rear view mirror. I knew i'd see those
eyes one final time, and I didn't want to. I
just I just kept my eyes on the road in
front of me. As far as my head lights reached,
my knuckles white as I gripped the wheel and roared
away from the helm behind me. I just about never

(34:38):
let up my foot from the gas pedal, taking the
corners far too fast, until the warm lights of the
next town finally came into view. One I can't recall
the name of. I felt myself begin to cry, this time,
tears of happiness and relief. I drove straight through to
the police station. I knew I could never tell them

(34:59):
what it actual sally happened to me. They'd think I
was utterly insane or on something. But I could tell
them that I'd been attacked by a crazed, lunatic old
gas station, and that's exactly what I did. I burst in,
begging to speak to someone. The officers of the desk
called me down, took my statement, thinking it all very seriously.

(35:20):
When I showed them my back, which as it turned out,
had three deep slashes in it, that when I told
them where it happened, confused looks came over both their faces.
As paramedics rushed in from outside to check my wounds.
One of the officers walked into the back, returning with

(35:42):
a sergeant on duty, an older gentleman in the sixties.
Please tell me again what happened to you? Yes, certainly
I did, And when I finished, he shook his head. Son,
it couldn't possibly happen at Sinclair Station, ten or twelve
miles back, he said softly. I stammered, why not, still

(36:05):
struggling for my words, because he began. It closed back
in nineteen seventy nine after a huge fire gotted it
killed everyone inside. It's been almost half a year since
that incident. Now. I never made my book signing, which

(36:27):
earned me a furious phone call from Aaron. Her fury
dissipated when she'd heard that I'd been attacked. I told
her it had been from someone i'd pulled over attempting
to help on the side of the road. I didn't
want to repeat the same conversation I had with the police.
They said they'd try and find whoever attacked me, but

(36:47):
I know they never will. Not if they showed me
a newspaper article and yellowed with age showing the burned
out husk of the gas station I'd been to, along
with a familiar photograph of a smile man next to it.
I'm still a horror writer. The horror I saw that

(37:08):
night didn't stop me from writing. My second novel is
do out this year. But now whenever I sit down
on my computer and begin to write a truly scary scene,
I feel the chills of fear for my own creation
jolt up my spine, because I know true horrors lie

(37:28):
in this world, and I hope I never come across
them again. He either, kids, it's me, mister creepy Pasta.
I just want to say thank you guys for watching
Connect video listening to tonight's episode of the podcast. Also,
I want to give a huge thank you to everybody
on this list of patreons. If you'd like to join

(37:49):
this list of names that I frequently mispronounced, you could
check the description in the link down below, which I
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(38:11):
nephew Himbo, Jerry how I Am Minute, Second Time, Inger,
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Zubub and Shadow Gardens. A huge thank you to you guys,

(38:32):
everybody who shows up in the description down below, and
honestly anybody who can pledge even just like one dollar
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just subscribe, those guys out there who are just listening
or putting on the NonStop Radio live stream while it's

(38:52):
running in their sleep. I appreciate you guys greatly, especially
during this kind of rough time for me having you
guys around, and I mean this whole hearted. It is
incredibly so heay, thank you, thank you for being here,
thanks for being a part of this, and as always, folks,
sweet dreams.