Into the Darkness

It was the eve of the decade’s largest full moon: That I shall never forget. I was only seventeen at the time. Positively wild to think– It feels like all of this began several blinks ago. I recall, with pristine clarity, that I finished up my closing duties with great haste that night; for I knew that I’d need ample rest to meet the chaos that sunrise would bring.

           I was the sole cashier at my father’s convenience store in the evenings. It was a raffish establishment, located on the corner of Jot Em Down Rd and Highway 92, only about a mile from our home. Most every night I’d walk that mile alone in the dark. This night was like most nights. It wouldn’t be heard of these days, but I never thought anything of it- Not even as a boney little girl. I walked along the wooded shoulder of Jot Em Down without a thought, aside from that of relief in knowing that I would retire early for the night. Many things were very different back then, but the promise of unfettered mania in the presence of a full moon was just as eminent. Should you ever question the validity of lunacy (its original meaning), I would invite you to work the graveyard shift at a small-town gas station on the night of a full moon. I was prepared to meet the fabled day with my teeth bared, ready for a tumultuous battle with an eclectic sample of moon-drunken humanity. 

     I’d hardly made a pace of 15 feet when a rather dingy pickup truck squealed into the parking lot of the store. I remained out of sight, in the shadows of the trees along the road, to assess the situation. The lights above the gas station pumps cast a spotlight upon the strange vehicle, which was now situated across several parking spots, its exhaust accumulating in an ominous plume before drifting into the darkness of the night. It was a rather sinister scene, but I kept my fear at bay. I thought surely the truck’s operator should see that the door had been locked and make his way down the road upon the realization that the attendant had gone for the evening. The sound of a door slamming ricocheted off the windows, meeting my eardrums with a jolt of fear that I felt in my stomach. Being that the driver’s side was facing the store, with the body of the truck between myself and the driver, I could not see what was taking place in front of those glass doors; Though the faint sound of their entry bells slamming repeatedly against the glass told me that this unknown entity was not easily deterred. 

      Against my better judgment, I crept along the tree line to secure a better view. Before I could achieve an adequate perspective, however, the clamor ceased; making way for a deafening silence to sweep across the darkened landscape. I froze in place for there would be nothing to mask the sound of my feet shuffling through the brush. Exhaust continued to billow out of the truck’s rusted tailpipe. Being as unkempt as it was, I could not believe what strikingly little sound it generated.

      I remained frozen in place- Whether by choice or shock, I do not know. I knew that sitting idly atop my leaden feet would do nothing for the betterment of the situation, though my legs remained stationary while my mind continued to turn. I began to wonder if perhaps my fear had blinded me, and this forsaken traveler was in dire need of help. I pictured a body sprawled across the entryway, gasping for breath, praying that someone might come to their aid. It seemed a logical explanation given I’d not heard him return to the driver’s seat since he’d abandoned his furvorous attempts to jostle the doors off of their hinges. I slid along the halo of shadows, sinking each foot into the pine needles as gingerly as I could until, finally, I could see what lay between the door of the estranged vehicle and the edifice of my father’s livelihood. 

Nothing. 

My mind had begun to race. I’d never experienced anything so peculiar. Surely, had he fled into the night on foot, I’d have seen him. There’s no way I couldn’t have. 

I deduced that perhaps he had not abandoned his attempts to enter the store. Perhaps his attempts had been successful. It was the only explanation. Why else would one leave their vehicle running unless it was to be used in expeditious escape from the scene of a crime? 

       A surge of anger suddenly pulsed through my bones. What a coward, I thought. What a sad attempt at improving one’s quality of living; by taking the scrapped funds of a business that barely accrued enough to support the family who poured their sweat and blood into it every day. I had not endured two thankless years of catering to a population of sickened men, uttering niceties through gritted teeth as they told me they liked the legs under my dress or that I looked mature for my age, to stand by and idly watch one rip the fruit of my family’s labor right out of my hands. A certain confidence came over me as I strode through the pine straw toward the rear of the building. 

A group of hoodlums (one which I actually enjoyed, on occasion) frequented an inconspicuous spot by the dumpster. They’d loiter for hours, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer from the store, and always left a slew of glass bottles in the wake of their shenanigans. I could scarcely see, so I shuffled around in the dark until my toe met with the side of a bottle, exuding a fortuitous ding! that echoed all about the area. I should have made more of an effort to stay quiet, I know, but the adrenaline coursing through me simply did not care to exercise such caution. A held the neck of the bottle with both hands and smashed its bulb against the lip of the sidewalk. With a great eruption of sound, shards of glass flew through the air and situated themselves in the darkness around me. My fingers cherished the jagged edge that now extruded from the bottleneck in my fist. 

     I held my weapon at attention with one hand as I fished around my jacket pocket for the key to the rear door with the other. I planned my advance as I hastily shoved the key into the lock. I should make my way around the stockroom— I’ll have the upper hand, for I can peer through gaps between coke bottles and remain unseen. Should he not have a firearm, I can approach him from behind via the aisle of chips and snack crackers and strike him in the temple with the blunt end of a hefty object to render him unconscious. Should he anticipate my advance, I will have my weapon on standby to defend myself. 

      The steel door opened effortlessly in eerie silence. I had been anticipating the typical hair-raising screech of its ungreased hinges but found it rather fortunate that it did not come. I shuffled across the threshold into the darkness and pulled the door shut behind me with an unassuming click. 

      I don’t suppose I’d ever known such profound darkness. My eyes ached as they struggled to find a point of focus. I knew the stockroom door was only a couple yards to my left. I slid in its direction, reaching blindly into the void until my hand met the cool brass of its handle. I pulled it open to be met with a haunting scene, the likes of which I’ll not soon forget. 

     Daylight poured betwixt the perfectly aligned bottles, bounding off their orifices to don the faded stockroom wall in a florid mural of shapes. Had I awoken here unknowingly, I’d not have thought anything of it, for everything seemed to be in perfect order. I paced along the wall of Diet Cokes and Mountain Dews for an opening through which to peer, but it proved useless. My eyes simply could not adjust to the harsh brightness that filtered through the cracks. I just stood there ambiently in the rays of this curious light as the glass bottles clinked quietly with the hum of the refrigerator. 

Nothing made sense. 

Had it not been for my recognition of a certain sound, I might still be standing there now— It was the unmistakable voice of my father that awoke me from my dissociative trance. I was immediately filled with hope. Perhaps he’d noticed that I hadn’t come home, called the police, and rushed here to retrieve me. Perhaps this blinding rays was that of a policeman’s spotlight, and he was here to search the premises for the rotten man with the ghostly truck and take him into custody, never to be seen again.

 I exhaled a tremendous sigh of relief. 

       “Dad!” I yelled. He must be so worried!, I thought. 

           “Dad, I’m back here in the stock room!” I could not see to know whether he heard me. I listened with all my might for his reply, but it never came. 

     I hurried toward the exit door, grabbed the handle in great anticipation, and pulled with all the force that my small frame could muster— But it did not budge.

 I began to feel a great panic come over me. 

“DAD!” I cried. 

His voice droned on in monotone, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. 

“Dad, I’m here! I’m in the back, in the stockroom!” I exclaimed desperately between sobs. 

           Before I could think with any semblance of rationality, I arose from a crumpled heap on the floor to walk along the wall of bottles, pushing each row’s end over and sending a momentous effect down its line. With each bottle I tipped, one or two fell to the linoleum on the other side with a great clatter. I thought I heard him exclaim by the time I made it to the milk cartons, out of glass to break. 

“DAD! I’m back here! It’s me, I’m the one breaking the bottles! I'm over here by the milk!” 

I waited one or two seconds more before reaching for a carton to hurl. 

It was among the most striking experiences of my existence- Standing there with a milk carton in my hand and looking down to find my own face staring back at me.

The print on the carton told me that I’d been missing for three years. 

Only then did it occur to me; The possibility that, perhaps I was dead. 

I’m sure most would think it a tired existence- being damned to voyeur from the shadowy confines of a convenience store backroom. These days, though, I’m rather grateful for the likes of my eternal dwelling place. 

     It took a long while, but my eyes finally adjusted to the brilliance of the living realm. On occasion, I watch my father count change at the end of a long night. When he comes up short, I count a few cent pieces from my coat pocket and slide them down a sloped bottle shelf and onto the floor. It brings me great joy to watch him light up upon finding it. He is not the same as I knew him- He’s tired. Worn. But he seems to have made peace with my fate. I believe this is in part because he knows that my soul lives amongst his lifeblood, and dances in the light projections on his walls. His any anguish pains me, but I’m comforted to know that, on some level, he is aware that my love for him, my soul, did not decay with my flesh. I know this because he talks with me to this day; long after they found my bones buried beneath the wood line along Jot Em Down Rd. The only qualm of my afterlife is that I cannot wrap my arms around him when he sobs- that I cannot reassure him my gruesome fate is not on his hands. 

       Most of my time these days is spent waiting for a certain male archetype to waltz through the doors of our shop. I find it exuberantly fulfilling to place a faux lottery ticket of winning number in his line of sight or shake a bottle of his carbonated beverage prior to his opening of its lid. I’ve been known to toss objects in his path, remove the wet floor sign from his aisle. I find all of this to be great fun.

But rest assured, should there be a day when my family’s persecutor again steps foot across the threshold of my dwellings, I shall have the upper hand, for I can peer through the gaps between the coke bottles and remain unseen.