Gramps always had a story. Always. We’d lived out in the sticks long as I could remember, on the ass end of Culver Road, not far from the bombed out-looking-but-still-functional gas station.
Not many people out this way, not much life at all really. Occasional big rig speeding by , stray car here and there. And tons and tons of roadkill. Pasty, mashed animals usually littered the road far as the eye can see.
Most days I didn’t usually pay it no mind, but this wasn’t most days. It was hot as hell, my body slick with sweat as Gramps and I fruitlessly worked away at his decrepit caddy. The car had sat motionless on the front lawn long as I could remember. I was bored.
I surveyed the road beyond our farmhouse , the sizzling black top seeming to stretch endlessly in either direction. You could hear the faint buzz of flies feasting on the squished piles of animal guts and gore.
I turned to Gramps, wiping my head of sweat with the oily rag I then stored in my back pocket.
Gramps always had a story.
“Hey Gramps.” The skinny old man’s weathered face seemed to permanently squint, deep grooves of wrinkled age plastered across his visage. He spit a wad of chew and said nothing to acknowledge my call.
But I knew he’d heard, and I knew he’d want to spin his yarns.
“What’s the deal with all these dead critters? Doesn’t seem like enough cars even come ‘round Culver Road to squash this many animals.”
Gramps sighed deeply, tobacco juice leaking from his lips.
He snorted and cleared his throat.
“Well fuckface,” he said. “You ever think that maybe, just maybe , some questions’re better left un-asked?”
Fuckface had always been a term of endearment among our wild family. Gramps had christened me with that nickname from eight years old when I tried fueling the tractor with syrup and coke.
I smirked, knowing that Gramps never begrudged a chance to answer the un-askable.
“You know that ol’ ruined farmhouse miles down the road, one with the caved in silo ‘hind it?”
I nodded. The place had been derelict and abandoned long as I or anyone under the age of nine-hundred could remember.
“Well,” Gramps continued, leaning forward in his chair to command my rapt attention. “Folks say that somethin’ ain’t right about that land. ‘Bout that silo. Said no good happened there when the farm was healthy, and even worse happens now that it’s dead. Hear stories folks go missin’ round that silo. City slickers mostly. Lost travelers, don’t belong on this road in the first place.”
I sat cross legged now, listening intently. Gramps had me totally hooked, as usual.
“Fact,” he continued, “Heard tell recently ‘bout one particular greenhorn who found himself well-acquainted with that awful place.”
Gramps’ eyes took on a mischievous glint as the story began.
"Fuck!" James yelled as he accidentally stepped in the red, greasy mound of burst guts and matted fur next to his broken down car. As if being stuck in the middle of nowhere cooking in the oppressive summer heat wasn't bad enough, James had just stepped in roadkill. He lifted his foot out of the pile of viscera, shaking loose tiny bits of gore from the sole of his shoe as he did so. The stench of the rotting, pancaked creature wafted up to his nostrils as a result of this action, and James retched. He silently cursed himself for not getting that check engine light looked at sooner.
The self-reprimanding moment didn't last long, however, as James remembered that it wasn't his fault the check engine light wasn't looked at. He didn't have any extra money to get his car looked at these days. Barely had money to pay his rent and keep his cupboard full of instant ramen these days. Every dime he had went to Amy. That cunt, James thought. Their divorce had not been an amicable one, and Amy had gone through the legal system to ensure that James would be supporting she and their son Tyler for many years to come.
James could sense himself growing angry, and tried to calm himself down. He was already in a bad enough situation without losing his temper. Even though it was that bitch's fault he was even on the road in the first place. If she hadn't been so insistent about him taking Tyler this weekend, he never would've made this trip.
She fought so hard to get sole custody, why the fuck did she care whether or not he skipped a visitation day?
James covered his nose with the back of his hand and inspected the bottom of his shoe. Though now stained a bit brownish red, he had managed to shake most of the mess off. He peered down and inspected the carcass. It was impossible to determine what this animal had once been. It was now little more than a crushed mass of brownish fur and bright red chunks. It looked like it had been run over again and again. James guessed they didn't do much cleaning on this road.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around. No cars seemed to be coming from either direction. James knew this road was isolated. All that surrounded either side of the offbeat highway were acres of empty farmland. A sea of dry grass with the occasional scattered pile of hay or large bush, surrounded by rotting and broken fence posts. In the distance, James could barely make out a presumably long-abandoned farmhouse opposite what appeared to be a silo with a caved in roof. No one had tended to this farm in a long time.
James stopped daydreaming and came back to his current situation. The sun beat down on the back of his neck. He had been so close to his destination when the engine gave out. Only 10 or so miles. He needed to get there. Things would only get worse if he kept Amy and Tyler waiting.
James pensively pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Though he was trying to stay calm, he couldn't help but open his voicemail and listen once again to the angry message he'd received from Amy earlier that morning. "Be a fucking man for once in your life and come pick Tyler up like you're supposed to. Jesus fucking Christ James you only get him one weekend a month and you're trying to get out of it?"
Her voice erupted from the phone's speaker, and James quickly exited the playback. That wasn't the reason he'd pulled his phone out to begin with. Why was he torturing himself listening to what that stupid whore thought? He'd already played it repeatedly throughout the day, his rage simmering.
James gripped the phone tightly as he thought of Amy living it up on the gorgeous property just outside the city that he'd worked so hard for, while he wasted away in a shitty apartment. Probably fucking a different guy every night, trying to find a new daddy for Tyler.
James remembered the point. A tow truck. Was it worth it? Never mind paying for it, he couldn't afford to stand around for hours waiting. Walking was out of the question, the nearest civilization was still miles away. There was no way he was leaving his car on the side of the road for that long. The stench of the roadkill that had become acquainted with James' foot wafted up to him yet again, and he wished the car would turn on so he could sit in the air conditioning.
James' mind drifted to dead things again, and he recalled the sheer volume of roadkill he'd seen on the drive before his engine had died. It had seemed like piles of gore littered the road every few feet. Mashed up corpses of small animals, driven over again and again into a hairy paste. James knew that he couldn't sit here all day. Apprehensively, he resigned himself to the fact that calling for a tow was his only option. James dialed the number and waited, again wiping his sweat-slick forehead. Nothing. James had no reception on this stretch of road.
"FUCK!" James yelled again. He kicked the passenger door of his beige sedan, causing the propped up hood to wiggle dangerously. He stomped his feet on the hot asphalt and swore some more.
I am well and truly fucked, James thought. He put his head in his hands and leaned against the car. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, and left a faint moist streak on the door as James slid to sit on the sizzling black top. James wished he knew the first thing about cars. Wished there was something he could do besides stare impotently at the guts under his car's popped hood. He looked at his watch - 6:45. The hot summer sun would be setting soon.
James was contemplating cutting his losses and walking to the gas station he had passed a few miles back when he heard the first thwack. James' head snapped in the direction of the sound. In the distance, far down the desolate highway but close enough that James could still make it out, was a massive figure. James stood to his feet, and strained his eyes to see the person in the distance.
It appeared to be a man, wearing a red flannel shirt and denim jeans. He carried some sort of bundle in his left hand, dangling from a string. Something appeared to be covering the man's face. Holy shit, James thought. That is one big fucker. James was 6'2, and even from this distance he could tell that the flannel-shirted man was far taller. Even more perplexing than the man's hulking size, however, was the action he was performing.
The man was furiously jumping up and down in place, stomping both feet hard at the same time as he came down out of the air. James heard the rhythmic thumping of massive boots on asphalt as he watched the man repeat the action again and again. Abruptly, the man stopped jumping and walked several feet forward. James had all but forgotten his current predicament at this point. He was entranced by the strange behavior of what he presumed to be a giant retarded hillbilly.
The man stopped, a bit closer to the side of the road this time, and grabbed one of the items dangling from the bundle. He raised it above his head, and slammed it hard into the ground. THWACK. James winced at the closer, louder sound. It sounded like wet meat. The ritual was repeated as the man spent close to a minute jumping up and down on the object he'd thrown. James saw bits and pieces flying into the air as the man's jumping forged a misshapen lump beneath his feet.
The stomping stopped, and the man began walking even closer to the broken down car. All the color drained from James' face as he was able to better make out not only the physical features of the man himself, but what dangled from his left hand.
Though the man had looked pale from a distance, close up his skin was a downright pallid, creamy grey-ish color. Deep, poorly healed scars ran up and down his muscular arms. The tattered and filthy sleeveless flannel left little of the man's hideous physique to the imagination. What was left to James' imagination was the man's face. Over his head, the man wore a beige burlap sack, tied tightly around the neck with a thin piece of rope. Two jagged eye holes were ripped in the rough material.
As much as the image of a seven foot tall, grey skinned hillbilly wearing a potato sack mask terrified James, what the man grasped in his enormous gray claw was even worse.
Hanging by their hair were two human heads, the skin of their faces removed to reveal the wet, red muscle beneath. Their eyes were removed, leaving only gaping black sockets. There didn't seem to be any teeth in their mouths either. Everything but the hair had been carved away.
James was trying to process the horror in front of him as the man raised one of the severed heads, appearing to belong to a woman judging by the long blonde hair, above his own. He slammed it on the ground with another loud THWACK.
James' eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen. The bag-faced man leapt up in the air and brought his enormous, crimson-stained boots down hard on the head. Immediately, the skinned face caved like a rotten watermelon. James heard the cracking of the skull much more clearly now, and could do nothing but watch as the man reduced the head to a mashed up pile of hair and gore.
A sickening thought crept into James head as he slowly gazed down at the pile of roadkill near his car, the one he had stepped in just minutes ago. Slower still, he looked back the way he'd come before his car had broken down, faintly making out the piles of days old roadkill that littered the highway.
Before the next thought could enter James' head, he heard the loudest THWACK yet. He looked back to see the masked man standing mere feet from where he sat. As the man reduced yet another human being's violated skull to a heap of mush, James slowly slid to a standing position, his damp shirt clinging to his back.
Frozen in fear, James could do nothing as the man performed his morbid exercise. Once the final head had been suitably crushed, the masked man turned sharply to face James, apparently aware of his presence all along. The man pointed a massive finger to the pile of face at his feet. He pointed at the roadkill near where James stood. He turned and gestured toward the miles of highway ahead.
James' terror turned to confusion. This maniac was creating the roadkill, using human heads. Now he was trying to... Show it off? James shrugged his shoulders confusedly, careful not to make any aggressive movements. The bag faced lunatic grunted, and pointed at the roadkill again, the motion seeming sharper and more aggravated this time. James was lost.
The man moved his face inches from James, yellow eyes set in jagged holes staring deep into James'. He grunted again, louder and now clearly agitated. "I don't..." James trailed off. "What the fuck do you want me to do? Don't fuckin' hurt me man, I won't tell anybody about this shit-" the grey man interrupted James by suddenly grabbing him with a ragged hand.
Effortlessly, he swung James to the ground, nearly sticking his face in the pile of gore. James gagged as the stench invaded his nostrils. He tried not to think about what the roadkill had been mere minutes before. After a few moments holding him near the mess, the man yanked James back to his feet, and tossed him towards the hood of the car. James stumbled, steadying himself against the front bumper.
Again, the man stared at James almost expectantly. Now sick to his stomach from the smell and unsteady on his feet due to being physically manhandled, James was even less sure what this behemoth wanted. The two stared at each other for a long moment.
After some time had passed, the masked man reached behind his back and produced a large rusted blade. James jaw dropped. The grey man took a step forward, and James' brain turned back on. He turned and made a beeline for the decrepit farmland opposite the highway. Fuck Amy, he thought as he weaved around the car and attempted to steady his shaking legs. It was her fault he was in this fucking mess, being chased by a masked lunatic in the middle of nowhere.
He heard a deep, guttural roar of anger from behind him as he broke into a sprint. James wasn't sure what he'd accomplish by reaching that old farmhouse in the distance, but he figured it was better than waiting to see what the man was going to do with that knife.
James had been an athlete in school, but years of a sedentary lifestyle had caught up with him. He was already starting to feel winded and the farmhouse still seemed miles away. James didn't have to look back to know the man was close. He could hear the heavy footsteps, the almost inhuman grunting. He had caught the man off guard running in the first place but he was already losing his head start.
As James was trying to formulate the best plan to avoid having his head chopped off and the skin removed from his face, he tripped. Tumbling head over heels, he skidded to a halt in the dry grass a few feet from the object that had caused him to fall: A weather worn metal pitchfork, discarded in the past by some unknown hay baling farmhand.
The masked man had not been far behind, and James looked up to see him casually walking towards James' prone body. Thinking fast, James grabbed the pitchfork and stabbed forward hard with it as he rose to his feet. The man hadn't seen what James tripped on, and was surprised by the rusted blades piercing the flesh of his abdomen.
An inhuman howl of pain escaped the man's covered lips as he staggered backward. James stabbed the pitchfork again, this time striking higher up on the man's chest and digging the farm tool deeper. He tried to yank it free to take another jab, but it was stuck, jammed in the man's grey flesh. The masked man slashed with his dagger at James' arm, cutting deep into his wrist. James screamed and fell back, crimson blood gushing from the deep gouge. If the blade had gone any deeper, James wondered if his hand would have been severed from his forearm.
James lay there clutching the wound, expecting the killing blow to come. Instead, he heard soft whimpering. He slowly stood yet again, and saw the grey man on his knees, blood seeping from the two pitchfork inflicted wounds, the weapon still jutting from his pectoral muscle. He was injured. James knew he had to think fast. The car was still no good, and he doubted he could make it to that gas station in this shape. The house was still his best bet. Maybe he could dress the wound.
Slowly, putting as much pressure as possible on his wrist, James half-walked, half-ran toward the dilapidated farmhouse. He took the occasional glance back at the masked man, still kneeling in the grass, breathing sharply. Eventually, James reached the front door of the farmhouse. It was already hanging off its hinges, and even in his wounded state James kicked it open easily.
The inside of the house was as run down as the exterior. Peeling paint, holes in the walls, and piles of garbage and other debris littering the floors. James noticed a large mass of trash and what appeared to be cushioning from the inside of a mattress in the middle of the floor. A nest? Jesus fucking Christ, James thought. That fucking maniac lives here.
James remembered his slashed wrist, and began looking around for something to dress the wound. Everything in the house looked unsanitary, but James decided he would rather survive the night and deal with any potential infection later. Near the base of the stairs, James found a slightly less disgusting table cloth. With effort, he was able to wrap it around his wrist and tie it tightly. His entire arm ached. There had been rust on the blade. Hopefully this would get him through.
There didn't seem to be anything in the living room that James could use to defend himself in case the masked man had survived, nor in the filthy kitchen. Apprehensively, he decided to head upstairs. The sun was beginning to set, and James didn't want to be stuck in this house in the dark on top of everything. The stairs looked about as well maintained as the rest of the house, which wasn't saying much. But it was worth a shot.
Carefully, James started up the stairs. There had been a slight stench in the living room, and the smell only amplified as James made his way to the top floor of the house. Originally thinking it to be the garbage that filled the living room, James now recognized the smell as that of dried blood and rot. Based on the day's events so far, James had a bad feeling about what he was going to find up there.
Much like the downstairs, the upstairs of the farmhouse was torn apart and strewn with garbage. There was a room with a closed door at the end of the hall, the other rooms only had open doorways leading to the mess within. James took a quick look inside each, finding only more disarray and detritus.
There was no rhyme or reason to the mess. It was a mixture of random objects - things like torn up books, broken children’s toys, empty takeout containers and cracked computer monitors. Each room looked like someone had sliced open several trash bags and poured the contents onto the floor. Inside the bathroom was a cracked porcelain tub overflowing with some sort of stinking soupy black liquid, and a medicine cabinet filled with expired pills.
The smell of death grew even stronger as James approached the closed door. James knew that he had to go in. He pushed the door open.
"Fuck..." he whispered, too shocked to even react to the oppressive stench of decay that now blasted him in the face. The room was filled with corpses in varying stages of decomposition. Women, men and children alike. Most were headless, leaning against walls or stacked in piles. Dried blood caked the floor, and chunks of gore were scattered everywhere.
Under a large curtained window on the far wall was a wooden table, upon which laid a body that still had its head attached. On the floor next to it was what appeared to be a bucket of carving tools. Unable to stop himself, James covered his nose and slowly walked into the room.
Upon entering, James noted a crude bookshelf against the east wall, lined with severed heads. The roadkill supplies, James thought. Trying not to step in any of the greasy viscera that covered the floor, James stopped at the table, looking down at the corpse. It was a young red headed woman. Her skin was pale, lips purple. She hadn't quite begun decomposing yet. How new was this one? James noticed the large gash on her freckled chest between her breasts, and his eyes wandered down the rest of her body. She was covered in bruises and gouges. She had suffered. He thought of Amy. The rage he'd felt towards her that day couldn't escape him, even in a life or death scenario.
He looked once more at the ghoulish bookcase, and saw what appeared to be the head of a young child. A dark haired boy. He thought of Tyler. He thought of his wife and son in a room like this. Suddenly, James heard footsteps below him.
He froze. There was only one person those heavy steps could belong to. How the fuck was that goddamn freak still alive? James needed to think fast. He reached into the bucket and pulled out a bloodstained meat cleaver. He stepped past the table and drew the curtains. The window oversaw a small portion of the roof. James wondered if he could make the drop from roof to ground without shattering his ankle.
James heard the man's footsteps clomping up the steps. It wouldn't take long for him to be found. James opened the window, straining to exert any energy with his injured arm. As James was halfway out the window, the grey man's massive frame filled the doorway.
James turned to stare at the man, who let out a primal scream as he charged toward the carving table, blood still oozing from the wounds on his abdomen. James flung himself from the window, barely managing to land on the rooftop. He looked over the edge. The drop was several feet. James hesitated. He turned to see the grey man reaching through the window. "God fucking dammit!" James yelled. He jumped.
James hit the ground with a thud. He attempted to roll and hold onto the cleaver at the same time. As he tumbled, the cleaver flew out of his hand. James rolled over his bad arm and screeched in pain. James looked around desperately for the cleaver. It had gone flying. There was no time for him to search any longer. He had run. James took off in a mad dash back the way he came.
Maybe he could get the old piece of shit car to start? Maybe he could outrun the maniac behind him and get to that gas station. Maybe he'd get reception on his phone and be able to call... He was unable to finish the thought as he heard a series of grunts and screams behind him. James didn't need to look back to know the masked man was on his tail again. He tried to increase his speed, while also taking the occasional glance at the ground in front of him so he wouldn't trip again.
It was dark out by now, but James could still make out his car shining in the moonlight. James knew the grey man was right behind him, but his body was on fire. Out of breath, he attempted to catch his wind by leaning against the trunk for a brief moment. He heard the scream, and got out of the way just as the masked man slammed his enormous fists in an attack aimed at James. The man missed, and the impact of the blow caused the car to shift and bounce off the pavement, denting the chassis of the car where the hit had connected.
James turned to run again, sticking his foot in a pile of greasy gore as he did so. Unable to control his momentum, James slipped on the roadkill, landing hard on the ground as he lost his balance. Before he had a chance to react, the grey man picked him up and tossed him hard at the trunk of the car.
James bounced off the broken down vehicle and hit the ground with a thud. The grey man picked him up by the neck and began repeatedly slamming James' face into the already dented trunk. Blood erupted from James' nose and he saw white. He thought he felt a tooth go loose.
The repeated impact eventually caused the trunk to pop open, and the grey man threw his broken victim aside as he noticed the trunk’s contents.
Inside the trunk were two corpses: A middle aged brunette woman, and a young boy. The stench of hot, decaying meat wafted from the trunk, escaping into the night sky. The grey man focused his yellow eyes on the bodies. They both wore dark ligature marks around their necks, their eyes cloudy.
"I had to..." the delirious man spoke from the ground. He spit out a glob of blood and coughed. The grey man turned to face him as he spoke. James wasn't speaking to him, though. He wasn't speaking to anyone. "That fucking cunt was stealing my money... Stealing my life.... Making my fucking life miserable. She deserved it. She deserved it..."
A lot of things had gone wrong for James that day. Losing his cool at the house after he'd arrived to pick up Tyler had been the beginning of a long day of fuck ups. Before he'd realized what he'd done, he'd strangled his ex-wife and unfortunately had to do the same to silence his screaming, traumatized son. His biggest regret was his car breaking down BEFORE he'd made it to the even more isolated patch of farmland where he'd planned to dump the bodies.
James was losing consciousness. He heard a ringing in his ears, and every part of his body throbbed, especially his bleeding wrist. The last thing he saw was the grey man standing over him. Those cold yellow eyes held his, as the artist drew his rusted blade and went to work.
+++++++
Dale was pissing into a bottle as he and Earl soared down the highway in their tanker. "Careful fuck nuts," Earl said. "Don't get any piss on the seat." Dale rolled his eyes. He glanced out the window. "Sure is a ton of roadkill around here, huh? I didn't think many people really drove on this road." Earl took a quick glance out the window himself. He had to admit that the road was absolutely swarmed with pulpy piles of gore. He shrugged.
"I wonder what all different animals there are out here," Dale said, his eyes still glued to the window. As they passed a junked out beige sedan in a field a few yards from an abandoned farmhouse, Dale noticed an odd cluster of roadkill. Three small mounds of flesh, red gory paste mixed with matted brown hair, arranged in a straight line.
"Looks like somebody hit a whole pack of squirrels at once or something right there," Dale said, pointing as he shook the last few drops of urine loose.
Earl didn't take his eyes off the road. "Squirrels don't run in packs, fuckface."
Gramps leaned back silently, his tale told.
My mouth hung open , slack-jawed in disbelief.
“Gramps…” I trailed off.
I stood and steadied myself against the caddy, stretching and trying to gulp in the hot summer air.
Gramps stories’ were typically a little strange, and many of them even had a sort of horror bent to them. But he’d never told me any story this bizarre, this visceral and weird.
Most importantly , even if he exaggerated slightly, Gramps’ stories were always true.
Where had he even heard of a story like this? How could he possibly think this was happening, miles from our home? Hell, right in front of our home! A crazed serial killer? A man with the bodies of his murdered family in his trunk?
Unexpectedly, Gramps spoke again.
“It’s bad things happen to the ones don’t mind their own business. The strange and awful things, they love the dark. They feed off the badness and the evil. Our family, we don’t bring no badness, we don’t bring no evil. We keep to ourselves and keep to our own.”
The worn old man’s eyes had taken on a hardened look, as he locked his steely gaze with mine.
“Don’t we fuckface.” Not a question, a command.
The two of us surveyed the landscape once again, my gaze lingering on the mounds of rotting and ruined meat that suddenly didn’t look so much like dead animals anymore.
I turned back to the car and silently resumed my Sisyphean task of repairing the junker.
Gramps was right. Some questions are better left unasked.
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