Molly had become someone boring; she’d wrapped herself in a cocoon of solitary shadows, separate from the world even when they moved in tandem. It happened in increments. One day she was in the middle of it–it being anything new and exciting. The next, premature departures became her signature move. She cited a sudden headache or an impending workday as her escape route.
Soon enough, the tedium of social niceties weighed down on her. That’s when she started stepping out for fresh air and just not going back inside. The phone buzzed with concern—friends and family wondering where she’d vanished. But Molly had shed the guilt, layer by layer. No longer polite, no longer accessible, no longer the life of the party. She had become a ghost, drifting through her own existence.
That’s the only reason she’d found herself sheathed in this car, her hands cramping around the steering wheel. Megan said she was boring now, and Megan said she needed to get out into the world again, and Megan said she should come to the retreat, just the girls, and re-enter the world she had shut the door on. Megan said a lot of things over the years. Things that made Molly act without thought.
Following whatever Megan wanted was a character trait etched into her bones before she could walk. It wasn’t her fault. Megan, born first, exactly thirteen minutes before, became the compass of their shared experience. Yet, the cliched and supernatural bond attributed to twins never existed for them. No secret language. No mystical thread connecting their perceptions. Only one who shined and one who stood in shade.
Now, here she was, lost beyond the reach of satellite signals, the stupid map app rendered useless in these backwoods. Molly had hoped to find a semblance of civilization by forging ahead, but that optimism had faded an hour prior. Now, retracing her steps seemed futile. The path behind had diverged shortly after the internet disappeared, and everything went wrong from there.
But Molly knew better. The true divergence happened much earlier in life. It all went wrong right about the time their egg split, cleaving them into two separate beings sharing the same face. Megan and Molly—so alike, and still so opposed.
Having two girls to dress up like dolls filled their mother with ecstasy. A rarity to add to her collection of things unloved. Her touch was ownership, her will indomitable. She’d dress them up in matching frocks and parade them through dinner parties, corporate picnics, and lunches at the country club, where they were to sit ornamentally and try not to stare too long at the other children allowed to play.
Molly once made a bid for freedom when she asked to use the bathroom and instead ran through the posh playground area with a group of girls before her mother found her. “Filthy,” she’d said, but there was only a smudge on her shoe. She’d been so careful. The ladies at the table eyed her with disdain. Later, Megan said, “I can’t believe you embarrassed us that way,” as if she were forty years old and not seven.
“Why can’t you be more like your sister?” Mom regularly asked, and Megan would smirk behind her, a small clone of the tall brunette with perfect nails and the right-length hem. It took several years of this before their mother felt there was no hope for Molly and released her into the wild, otherwise known as the cul-de-sac at the end of Maple Street and focused all of her attention on Megan and her perfection.
It’s not as if Molly never tried. She was still trying to this day, in this car, in this endless stretch of trees. Oh my god, why is there nowhere to turn, at least? I will run out of gas at this rate! It was about another hour into her progression inside an obvious wilderness that the radio stopped picking up stations. Where could I possibly be that even the radio stops getting a signal?
It took another hour for her gas to run out. Molly pulled as far to the side as possible and let dread seep over every other sense she possessed.
Megan said there’s no reason to panic. Everything has a solution. Molly, however, couldn’t think of a single one. There was no reason to hope someone would drive by, as she hadn’t seen another being in hours. It would be foolish to set off on foot, as there was no way to know what was up ahead—or what lurked behind the wall of trees that lined the road on both sides as far as the eye could see.
Once, when they were ten, maybe eleven, they’d gone on a camping trip with the Sunshine Girls Troop 1180. It was exciting for Molly and, surprisingly, for Megan as well. They’d hiked in their khaki uniforms, which were terrible for hiking through woods since they protected nothing and allowed scrapes and scratches to appear on every young girl’s legs. Tabby even ended up with thorny little balls all over her socks and had a thirty-minute meltdown. Megan said it served her right for pushing her way to the front to begin with. On the bright side, at least now the rest knew where they should not step.
Later that night, they’d rested on logs and roasted marshmallows over a fire that blew all of its smoke over Molly. They’d pitched tents and pulled the food high above the ground so bears couldn’t get to it, which Megan said was stupid since there weren’t any bears in Delaware. Troop Leader Becky shot Megan a side eye and informed her that the skills they learned in Sunshine Scouts would serve them all over the world, no matter where they wandered.
Molly shivered and wondered about bears in Virginia. Were there bears ready to open her car up like a tuna can and slurp her out like a sardine? The sun was nearly gone, and the air took on a chill felt from inside the vehicle. Once her stomach grumbled, she realized hunger trumps fear every time and reached behind her for her backpack. She peered inside and counted three water bottles, two of which were half empty, and a collection of squashed granola bars, breath mints, and a stick of gum. I can’t be here for too long. This is America! Surely, this will last until someone drives by.
Megan said she needed to drop a few pounds, anyway.
She ate in silence and counted breaths, just like her Pilates class had taught her. They were twelve when their mother insisted they take the class because Betsy had her daughter taking Pilates, and Marilyn talked about how all the celebrities were doing it. Maybe it would help Molly learn a little grace, though ballet classes failed to give her any. Ah, well, their mother loved to throw a bunch of stuff at the wall and see what might stick. Pilates absolutely did not stick.
The shadows deepened until nothing but obsidian remained. Molly sat alone in the woods in a car in a state she’d have not entered if Megan hadn’t said it would be good for her. If she wasn’t in this predicament, she would be on the patio advertised in the pamphlet for the Moondancer Resort, enjoying a glass of wine and expressing delight at each round of tapas. Had she simply declined and chosen to stay home, she could have lounged on her couch like a Molly Burrito, enjoying a ridiculous rom-com marathon all weekend. And perhaps, had she emerged first, she might have grasped that aura of confidence, that special something Megan claimed first, before she could even reach for it.
Molly was uneasy. No one was around to judge her lack of bravery. She could let panic truly take hold if she wanted to, and so she did. These were the Appalachians, and she fell down a rabbit hole of cryptozoology years ago, which assured her no one should be alone in Appalachia, especially at night. Megan said only crazy people believe in mythical creatures. Molly laughed and feigned agreement, but that never stopped her from being afraid of the dark.
She’d worked herself into a frenzy when the headlights appeared. At first, they looked like mere specks in the night. She had herself convinced that the high beams were fireflies. The lights grew larger by the second until a rusty pickup truck lumbered to a halt beside her. Its windows, caked with layers of dried mud, obscured any view from the outside.
Several moments passed before the dirty window descended slowly, stopping midpoint, revealing a dingy red ball cap, a deeply lined brow, and dark eyes trained on her face. She hesitated at the intensity of the gaze before lowering her own window a little more than a crack. His eyes squinted at the obvious sign of distrust.
“Sorry, little lady. This is as far as it goes. Whatcha doing all the way out here?”
“Uh, I got lost and then ran out of gas. Am I close to any towns?”
“Nope!” His voice was neutral and unbothered. “But we can get you to Bluebell, which ain’t too far as long as you ain’t walking. You want a ride?”
When they were eight, a man approached the girls. He claimed he needed help in finding his lost dog. Molly advanced closer to the stranger, but her sister grabbed her hand and dragged her reluctantly across the field until they were safely near a soccer game. Megan said the man gave her the heebie jeebies, and he could find his own dog. If she were there in the car with Molly, she’d say to wait and lock the doors. To smile politely and insist “It’s okay, no thank you,” and “Have a pleasant night.” She’d tell her to reach into her bag and pull out the bear spray she carried just in case.
But Megan wasn’t there, and Molly saw a chance to get out of these woods that may or may not contain bears–or worse. The truck idling was the only sign of life in hours. So, she rolled up her window quickly and gathered her bag and phone. Her heart pounded as she stepped out of the car and faced the truck.
As he ambled out, the red ball cap came into full view, its brim unnecessary in the pitch. With a casual gesture, he held the door wide, revealing the cramped interior of the truck. “This is Darlene,” he announced, his voice gruff and matter of fact. “You’re gonna have to really squeeze in there.” The truck’s cabin was a tight fit, and she found herself wedged securely between them as they maneuvered the vehicle around. The air inside was thick with the scent of beer and something sour.
Molly didn’t know how lonely her car looked in the wake of the taillights, but Darlene watched it disappear in the mirror that clung to her door. It took another three weeks before anyone else caught sight of that car. She'd been just a half-hour drive from a little town with roughly three hundred people. When the sheriff pulled up to the ramshackle house at the end of a mile long dirt road, a man in a red baseball cap assured the officer that there had been no sightings of a young woman in the area, and it was unlikely there would be, given the road’s infrequent use. Darlene stood on the rickety porch and watched the dust kick up behind the official's car.
At five o'clock, the reporter faced the camera with Megan by her side, her voice tinged with both concern and exasperation. She confided that she'd have reported her sister missing sooner, but how could she have known? For once, her light was dim. She was almost finished stuttering excuses for not noticing her sister had disappeared as if she’d never existed; her eyes stared straight into the lens and petitioned her case. Megan said it was normal for Molly to slip away without notice and never return.
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Your story weaves a haunting tale of identity and choice. Molly’s journey, both literal and metaphorical, is a powerful reflection on the paths we take and the ones we leave behind. Brilliantly penned!
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Thank you, Jim! I hope I did Molly justice, so she had that at least once in her life.
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Once again, LeeAnn, a very well-thought out tale with so much impact. You made me cheer for Molly and hope she breaks out of her sister's shadow. Splendid flow, great descriptions. Lovely work !
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I've been away, so I apologize for the delayed response. I'm looking forward to catching up with everyone again.
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Well, LeeAnn, here goes. With all the suspense and tension in this story, there ain’t one drop of blood. That’s what Edgar Allen Poe did so well.
This is a dark, creepy, horror story. Very real. A tragedy, with a moral.
But this story may be hard for fans of WWE to appreciate because it’s so deeply disturbing, so plausible, and… (I’m no big fan of horror so maybe I’m wrong, but…) What you’ve done is revive that morbid sense of dread and foreboding that makes people in a theatre verbally urge the onscreen characters to yell ‘no, don’t go upstairs.’
What you haven’t written gives this story its class. In essence, you’re doing a forensic, genetic reading on why Molly ended up on that road. Leaving the reader to imagine for themselves what might have happened to Molly.
Let's all take a moment to physically shudder.
Maybe I could write this story from the mountain people’s point of view. Hah! That. That would be hilarious. I would make it hilarious. I wouldn't be able to help myself. Would you mind? Would you sue me? Send one of your thugs to break my leg? Both legs? Yikes. And you’d hate me too, I’ll bet. Secretly. Why? Because secretly is the worst.
Nope, It’s not worth it. Not if you’re gonna hate me. Especially secretly. It was such a great idea too. Dammit. What were their names? Darlene and Ferd McKillakenney? Too long. McDunt, McDorn, Dorn. Dill Dorn and his wife, Darlene Dorn. I’m just jokin’ around now. Don’t take me seriously, LeeAnn. Well, not too seriously. I swear though, I could seriously write a humorous satiric conclusion to your beginning.
Anyway, I like that you’ve essentially told the story in flashbacks too. And it’s a story about fate as well. And the whole story makes me wonder, wasn’t she on the right track, withdrawing from functions she did not enjoy? When her sister intervened one final time? That’s the way it seemed to me. She was on the way to being herself… She should have been true to herself.
And of course the ‘coup de gras’ is that her family doesn’t even realize she’s missing until it’s far too late.
This story is reminiscent of ‘The Cove.’ A story that takes place during WWII, in an area near Mars Hill, NC. Square in the middle of Appalachia. Written by a professor who teaches at WNC. It’s an incredible read for anyone, it’ll blow away someone interested in history, mythology, and anthropology. I will offer one spoiler, it incredibly, does not have an unhappy ending. The book is filled with unhappiness, but the ending makes it worth it. I believe you would love that book. If you don’t love that book, LeeAnn, I will eat a banana through my ear. (I am not at all worried.) A small banana. No. I think, based upon the few stories I've read, you would love that story.
I've noticed that you don't make any mistakes. None. None.
On the other hand, this story here, could just be about bears and pigs in the heart of America. And the real moral of this story is that any one, at any time, could disappear forever, if they ain’t careful, and lucky. That’s a big part of the scare factor.
Either way, your writing is exceptional. One minor thing, I wasn't sure somewhere down around the eighth or tenth paragraph, who the narrator was, Molly or Megan. I had to stop and go back and make sure who was telling the story. And that's important. Maybe you only tell us once and you need to tell us twice.
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I don't like horror any longer, but I cut my teeth on King and Rice and Poe and Loveraft, so it's just a part of my growth. I'm relieved Megan Said flowed as well as it did. Hopping back and forth in the timeline can sometimes trip me up. I wanted to show Molly on two journeys, both of which ended differently than she'd hoped. I didn't want to show what happened after she climbed into the cab of that truck, but I wanted to make it clear that it wasn't good.
I think Molly was on the right track and was from the moment she was born. I think she didn't have room for her own growth, and whenever she showed signs of being her own person, her mother-and often her sister-stopped her dead in her tracks until she had no sense of self beyond the belief she was not good enough.
I sincerely wish Molly had stayed home and become a Molly Burrito for the weekend, ignored the phone calls and texts, and woke up Monday morning in her own home and in her own bed. I wish she had the nerve to defy her sister, who she idolized and resented in equal measure. And I wish that since she went against her own wishes, her gas had lasted just another half an hour.
I appreciate the compliments, but I can assure you that I make lots of mistakes as I write lol. A very common phrase at my desk is, "What idiot wrote this? Oh...I did." Then I try to fix it as well as I can, and then I let it ride so I can see what happens when others read it.
America is easy to get lost in. Any of us can disappear at any moment with just one wrong turn or foolish decision. I've been lost like Molly, almost exactly, and had fortune on my side to barely scrape by on the gas I had until I could find a safe place. I've been trapped on the side of the road more than once thanks to poor planning. That was back in the days when we printed pages from mapquest off our computers and rode off into the unknown like swarthy pirates on an adventure. And I've been in many areas where the cell towers couldn't reach, the radio stopped playing, and the sun was setting. It's an eerie and unsettling feeling to experience. I'm not certain how I've made it out of so many dire situations relatively unscathed, but I'm glad I did. I could have been Molly at any point in the last couple decades. But for the grace of God, am I right?
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Hi again, LeeAnn,
What d’ya mean you don’t like horror? You just wrote some. No, no, I know what you mean (I think) this story was more about fate than horror. Your story ends just before the horror begins. I can just imagine what Stephen King would have done with this story.
I enjoy the way you refer to your characters as discrete individuals. I made the mistake in one of my previous comments of equating one of your characters with you. Sorry. A ridiculously simple-minded error, (even for me) it’s very rare for our characters to represent us, if ever. If they were parts of us, they would lose their autonomy, which they clearly do not. Still, it was refreshing to hear you discuss your character’s decisions in such a way that supported your character’s independence from the author.
While reading it I kept thinking, ‘Molly, ever hear of a crowbar? It’s time for YOU to be the psycho, Molly. That was my initial take on this story. A couple of foul country low-lifes tangle with a completely deranged female escapee from prison. That would turn the tables on the reader. It’d have to be her against a clan, several families living on one large tract of land. Otherwise it would be over before it started. She might be insane and gets the drop on them, but they would be familiar with the area, and they would know where all the traps and pitfalls were.
Of course, it would also be a completely different story with a completely different outcome.
Continuing to drive into a more and more remote area, low on gas… Molly clearly made several dumb horror movie moves, but that’s who she was.
I hear you when you say you’ve done similar things. Kim and I had the strangest feeling of being lost in a hospital once, up in Indiana, below the ground floor. We were going around in this great rectangular loop, looking for the way we’d entered from, and when we passed the same window a second time, we definitely felt the onset of panic. It was creepy. Really creepy, and not even supernatural. There wasn’t a single human in sight, the heating system and its blowers were loud enough to blanket any other referencing sounds, and we were stuck in the hallway anyway. All of the doors were locked. There was nowhere else to go but forward or backward down the hallway and around this big continuous square loop. I think we went out through a door marked ‘No Exit.’ ‘Looks like an exit to me,’ we said. And it was.
You and I took very different reading paths early on, it would seem. I cut my teeth on pure sci-fi: Bradbury, Heinlein, Arthur C. Clark, Asimov and a lot of anthology collections by various authors on similar subjects, like dragons, or time travel. My first foray into fantasy was the Hobbit trilogy. I was already in my twenties and (What? No. Don’t be silly. Dragons aren’t fantasy. What gave you that idea?) it took me two tries and an afternoon stranded with no car or bike to induce me to get to page two of the Hobbit, (hairy feet?) but I found it thoroughly enjoyable from that point on.
I never really got into Poe, even though he was way ahead of his time. Had to read him in high school and college. (Quoth the raven, ‘It’s twenty past four.” Never read a word of H.P. Lovecraft, to this day, (even though his name is constantly popping up in various forums and threads of knowledgeable people.) I don’t even know what I’m missing. Maybe some day, one of his books will show up in our little free library, or my mailbox. If God wanted me to read H.P. Lovecraft, he would have arranged it by now.
I can say the same about Rice. Is it Ann Rice? I never read anything by Rice. (I should look it up right now and quit flaunting my ignorance.) Of Course!!! Anne Rice. Vampire Trilogy, Vampire Dialogue’s or Trials, or something like that. I just saw a ten-minute bio of her on Booknotes, or 60 Minutes a week or two ago. She’s wildly popular, a prolific writer and disgustingly rich and successful. And she dresses like a nun. (Jesus, how could I forget her? Simple, I never read any of her books. That, and I’m old.)
The only one of those writers I can comment on is Stephen King. I was not aware of his stories until twenty-four years ago when I met Kim. My erstwhile wife. She calls me her husband, never married me though. It’ll be her loss when I finally find my dream woman. Who will then promptly reject me. “You’re too old,” she’ll say. “You were supposed to find me thirty years ago.”
“Well?” I’ll say, “Where were you hiding? In a book, I suppose? How was I supposed to find you in a book?”
And she will sigh and say, “Men.” But she’ll say it dreamily, as most dream women do. (I’m a Ken. What can I say?) Would you believe me if I told you I cried at the end of the Barbie movie?
I think it hit a little too close to home.
So, back to Kim. She was a big King fan, so I read a few of his books and I felt that they were crap. I was familiar with all of his early movies. The Woman, The Dog, The Car. (Carrie, Cujo, Christine?) Never watched any of them, but later on, his movies seemed better and less formulated, with a supernatural bent that intrigued me.
Then I heard him tell an audience on TV once, that he got so sick of his characters sometimes that he would load them on a bus and drive it off a cliff. Hoo-hah. That was a good one. (Or at least, he felt like doing so.) This literary confession immediately endeared him to me. Many of his stories did have too many stereotypical characters.
But then someone (probably Kim) handed me a book of his short-stories, one of which was ‘Big Driver.’(15 years since I read that story and I still remember the title. Maybe I just have a good memory.) Then I read his book, ‘On Writing.’ (I think. So much for my good memory.) It’s an excellent guide for serious and becoming writers. His identification of ‘little darlin’s’ is the single greatest contribution to literature in the history of mankind, (and womankind.) It’s a short, thin book, he keeps it simple and he doesn’t tell you how or what to write, he just tells you to write, write often; kill your little darlins; trim at least 10 percent in your first re-write, things like that. Very concrete and concise advice. So I changed my mind about King.
So—are you still awake? Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on for so long. You look like a serious woman with a lot of shit to do.
p.s. I’m determined to pen a story for one of these prompts, ‘bumping into someone.’ The idea came to me last Saturday but I haven’t had the time to sit down and start writing it. (No thanks to you either, you, you, you time succubus.) Takes place in Appalachia, as you fereigners lack to tell it. At Betsy’s Gap. You know, even your comments are completely error free. There are very few human beings who are so meticulous. (You’re not my father, are you?)
In any case, I’m so glad you’re writing Lee Ann. You’re one of those writers who could write about what they did yesterday, and no matter what it was, because of the way you write, it would be interesting. Maybe it’s because you’re always getting lost, and strange people look like they want to kill you. (Well, you parked in their front yard and ran over their hound dog. What do you expect?)
Still, whatever, just keep doing what you’re doing. You certainly don’t need my advice, you’re welcome to it of course, but you don’t need it. And this will sound cocky as hell I’m sure, (too bad) but even Tom Wolfe could’ve used my advice a few times, and he was an excellent writer. (But he was Tom Wolfe, he could get away with anything.) And, he wouldn’t have taken my advice either.
Anyway, keep up the great work, LeeAnn. I look forward to reading more of your stories. (I’m still holding a few in reserve, and there’s one I haven’t commented on. I don’t think I understand it yet. And I still haven’t read ‘Metamorphosis either. (Metamorphipophalys, I shall dub eet.) I guess I should knuckle down and get some writing done before I waste any more of your time as well. If there’s anything I can ever do to help you, let me know. Smother a kitchen fire, spider removal, empty the dishwasher, deliver a can of gas, whatever… (This could really backfire, for all I know you live around the corner from me. Ahhh!)
Just kidding you, young lady, you look spider-ready, you look like you train spiders…
Yes, look at her Kim, this woman had trained attack spiders… she would make gestures, you see, they responded to hand gestures, and because her spiders had eight eyes, she had to use almost all ten fingers in her gestures. Eventually, she got rheumatoid arthritis, and one day, while she was resting, her fingers inadvertently gave the signal to attack, she woke up covered in spiders, bites and silk, and, before the medication kicked in and she could straighten her fingers, well, let’s just say her widow married a woman who owned a pest control business six-months after her death. True story. Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh. Heh-heh…
Me: I just made that up, you know. For the occasion. Can Anne Rice do that? Huh?
You: ‘No. She’s dead.’
Me: ‘Oh. Too bad. We could’ve called her. I would’ve challenged her to a creativity duel.’
You: ‘And lost.’
Me: ‘How can you say that so confidently?’
You: ‘There’s a spider on the ceiling right behind you.’
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Don't know what is creepier.
Her abductors or her family.😦
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Definitely the abductors, Mary. Absolutely no question about it. The abductors are way creepier.
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Her family really did focus too much on appearances.
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Rich characters, subtle horror, and easy prose. Nicely done!
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I appreciate your kind words. I was away from Reedsy, working on my novel, so this response is obviously delayed. Thank you for reading along.
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Yes, you had us all rooting for Molly, but it also seems (for me, anyway) that Megan may not be as concerned as she let's on even though you remarked that her light was now dim without Molly, but I can see Megan loving this limelight and smiling at us (the reader) when the camera is off, much like she smiled at Molly over the shoes in the park. Great story (even though in the defense of most of us in Appalachia, not everyone is creepy, but I do know some places . . . . )
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I was away from Reedsy, working on my novel, so I am severely delayed in responding. I live in Southeastern Pennsylvania between the Susquehanna and a lot of secluded woodlands. I think mountain folk are pretty awesome.
Thank you for reading my story!
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Beautiful area of the country. Best of luck with your novel!
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