The Long Drive
Horror adjacent - means whatever you'd like it to. Prompted by my friend @leestackhouse for a 500-word post. It's 577. First draft
I travel to Oklahoma for Christmas.
The drive is long and beautiful.
There are no towered mountains nor cascading rivers.
Though there is the sweet Mississippi just out of reach to guide you there all the way.
I leave at 5 am on the solstice - the longest night.
It was easy to get out of bed. I love the drive and I’m excited.
There is a fog as I get my bags in my car. The old SUV roars to life to break the solstice quiet and I cower inside huddled into a ball in the driver seat, the old leather cold to the touch.
The drive is quiet.
The hush of tires on the road.
The passing of a semi.
I see her standing under a lone streetlight along the Mississippi highway. She watches me pass. Just stands there.
She does not feel the cold anymore. She just looks for me.
I do not look and I keep driving.
The sun does not meet me until 7:30 - it finally breaks the frost on my windshield and drives the fog from the roads.
I take a breath to myself for a moment. I have to pee and it’s just me so I pull over.
There are cows. I like the cows each time. I stop and let the cold hit me full-force. I feel it deeply and let it hurt. I can stand it. The cows watch me.
“Hello cows!”
They keep watching.
I look up and down the highway. It is empty. I see no one.
Mississippi back roads take me to Arkansas. The new state brings lakes and rivers, climbing hills and orange leaves.
I feel her everywhere. I think that I see her sometimes but that is only in the darkness. Or in dreams. I cannot tell the difference.
My dreams are 5 am and the car is roaring to life and the fog and she watches me put my bags in my car and she watches me shiver in the front seat and I don’t look at her anymore and I’m not scared anymore but she watches me and she’s there and I feel her.
Now it is sunny. And the rivers and hills and leaves.
And I feel her and I cannot stop it and I’m not scared anymore and it’s sunny.
She’s in the backseat.
She is an echo.
I cannot put myself there anymore. I don’t remember it vividly. I don’t remember it because I did not like to think about it because she scared me and now I cannot put myself there if I try.
It’s hard to feel anything now. I stand out in the cold and let the wind attack me to see if it makes me feel again. I smile. I say hello to cows.
She stares at me and she will never leave me.
Oklahoma now.
The kids run around and never stop. They smile and climb on their uncle until they fall and I catch them.
My sisters are here and their husbands and my dad.
And the rest.
And they can’t see her and they want me here and they do their best to convince me.
And I let them for as long as I can.
And she watches all the while. She is next to me. I play with the baby and maybe she smiles. But I don’t look. I am not scared. I don’t look.
This feels thoughtfully made—like someone trusted the reader to keep up, linger, and bring their own weather to the page. I appreciate that kind of writing more than I can neatly explain.
I was going to say this felt thoughtful and pondering but someone else beat me to it! It's a little eerie, but mostly it feels peaceful, which might sound odd!