Now I’ve been involved in a few close calls during my short life, but never anything like this:
After a tasty Sunday brunch at the famous Galt House buffet, Ian and I headed down to the parking garage to fetch our car. Our bellies were filled to the brim with goodies, but were soon to be forcefully emptied by way of our trembling rectums.
As we reached the interior entrance to the dark and musky parking garage, something told me to turn back. If we had only turned back.
I noticed it within a few seconds, a faint squealing echo which provoked thoughts of mewling babies tortured with a hot curling iron. Something about that sound made my blood run cold but I tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore it.
About halfway into the underground parking garage the squealing grew louder and, in my heart I knew, nearer. My pulse quickened and my throat tightened as the anticipation built.
“How far?” I croaked.
“About eight more rows…” Ian replied.
Was this a parking garage or hell? I thought to myself. And as that thought entered my mind, a movement across the garage caught my eye.
I squinted to make out the shadowy silouette of a vehicle, the back passenger wheel wailing in time with the motion. The Ghostwheel, I determined.
As faint headlights began to glow on my left hand side, my heart started to beat in rhythm with the groaning wheel. This is it, I thought, it’s coming.
Panic filled my body as Ian’s hand clasped mine and, without a word, we both began running. My head was swimming with possibilities; who is the master of this Ghostwheel, where did it come from, and more importantly, will we get out alive?
About three rows out from our car the headlights reappeared again, this time to our right. My breath caught in my throat and my legs grew numb as a caught a glimpse of it’s whethered body. Sitting atop the shrieking wheel was a periwinkle blue stationwagon. The outer facade was carefully crafted to mimic an almost grandmotherly innocence but I can tell you now, that facade was far from the truth.
The battlewagon edged closer and I could actually feel the evil radiating from the haunted wheel. My muscles regained control and I began to run again, I was five feet out.
Upon reaching the car I desperately clutched the door handle… where was Ian? I looked back and I saw him: unmoving, mouth agape, beaver tail hanging limply from his chin.
“Good God, man, pull your head out!” I yelled. “We have to get out of here!”
Ian jerked back to life and ran towards me awkwardly, his face was white as the driven snow.
“I… I…” he stammered, “I think I shit my pants.”
After what felt like an eternity Ian and I were both safely inside the car, the keys in the ignition. As the car jerked to life and exited the parking stall, I turned around just in time to see the Ghostwheel turn and follow in our direction. My hands were cold and trembling so badly that I stuffed them under my legs to keep them from moving.
“Hurry.” I whispered, half to Ian and half to myself.
As we appoached the parking attendant’s booth, Ian fumbled clumsily above the visor for the ticket. While he felt around, dislodged papers began to flutter down around us like pear blossoms on a spring afternoon.
When the papers finally cleared, I could make out the figure of a woman inside the booth. She was sitting on a stool, her back resting against the wall. A single, dirty hubcap jutted out from a bloody gash in her neck. Below the wound a thick, wet stripe of partially congealed blood was dripping down the front of her once-white, button up, Oxford-style shirt. Her lifeless eyes stared out at us dully.
“HOLY FUCK! GO, GO, GO!” I screamed.
Ian punched it and we tore through the thin wooden blockade out into the sunlit safety of 4th Street.
I don’t really remember the drive home but when we finally got out of the car, I noticed a shit stain where Ian had been sitting. As I looked closer I recognized the stain possessed an odd, almost religious, quality.
There in the seat, staring back at me, was the unmistakable face of… (to be continued)
