“Let’s hope not,” Jimmy replies. “I’m just starting to like you two.” He grins and rolls the window up as the Ford glides away from the smirking, waving flight crew and merges into the stream of taillights on the parkway.
The pavement stretches forty-two miles from Chico to Red Bluff along Highway 99, also known as the Golden State Highway. I imagine it’s a pleasant enough drive during the day, but there’s not much to see by night and the drive seems to drag on and on; the end is out there somewhere, but it seems forever stuck just beyond the glow of the headlights.
“Red Bluff,” Jimmy finally says in the darkness. The dim light from the dash highlights his cheeks, his nose, his eyes, and his chin as he stares into the dark tunnel of pavement before him. Beyond the tunnel of night, beyond the pavement, the glow of a city rises like yellow mist from the desert.
“Red Bluff,” I say to myself.
With little talk and less enthusiasm, we check into a motel at the ragged edge of town. It’s not a dirty motel, nor an unfriendly motel, it’s just a worn-out motel. The tile in the lobby is faded and battered like so much wind-scarred granite. A million footfalls have coursed through the lobby over the years; ten million footfalls. The counter is retro-seventies Formica; the paint, the wallpaper, and the fixtures are all dated, and I suspect the last makeover was sometime in the mid-eighties … and it wasn’t much of a makeover.
We have reservations tomorrow at the Hampton Inn, but they were full-up tonight, so we’re slumming at Hotel California. That’s not really the name of the dilapidated inn, but as we make our way to the sketchy elevator, Jimmy begins to hum “Hotel California.”
“Nice,” I hiss at him.
It’s the perfect song for hunting serial killers.
*
Night … the woods.…
Cold shadow and black mist seep through the forest, filling every empty space, pushing out the light, the warmth, the hope. Somewhere above the canopy of leaves and pine needles the full moon is paused in space, lost to sight. Trees press close, leaning over me in a menacing, foreboding manner that suggests hatred and loathing. Gnarled and twisted branches jut from every trunk, clinging, reaching, grasping.
How did I get here?
I can’t think straight; I open my mouth to call Jimmy’s name, but a sound stops me. Just a twig snapping behind me, I think, but there’s something else, some background noise, low and familiar. I press myself hard into the nearest tree and turn to stone, my ears pricking at the silence, poking it, but the thick night air reveals nothing.
A chill sweeps over me, a cold breath exhaled; I try to control the shiver. Raising my right hand, I rub my arm, but it’s wet and sticky, so I stop. My hand hurts—a dull ache. Where’s Jimmy? He can’t be far. I don’t remember how we got here or even where we are. Did I hit my head? Did someone else hit my head? I feel for bumps, but my hair is sticky and wet, so I stop.
The sound; it’s closer now by a few feet: a low hiss, then a pause, then a slightly different hiss, then it repeats. It’s right in front of me, maybe ten feet away, but the trees and the consuming darkness hide it. I don’t like the sound; I know what it is, I recognize it, but I can’t remember it. My thinking is fuddled. None of this makes sense; it’s surreal.
Where’s Jimmy?
Where’s my gun?
Cursing myself for a coward, I push away from the tree and take a hesitant step toward the sound. My left hand is outstretched before me, feeling the way … guarding against … something. Another step, and then another. I see it now, a white mist in the darkness, hissed out in a small cloud, then dissolving, like steam ushered forth from the night.
Beyond is a shadow … a man-shadow.
I freeze—I’m no coward—and watch the blackness within the black. Realization comes to me slowly as I watch, unmoving. I recognize it now—the hiss, the mist—the sound that is so familiar: breathing, unnatural breathing; something not human. The sound of it chills my blood more than the cold mountain air.
I shrink back, raising both hands in front of me as he steps from the gloom. His head and face are hideous beyond words, featureless and devoid of hair, with rocks for his eyes and nose and a mass of wriggling worms for his downturned mouth. He extends a hand as I stumble back and something drops to the ground from his gloved fingers. My eyes follow and I scratch furiously at my right hand as the dull persistent ache swells in the bone. The object bounces off the ground, scattering leaves.
I scream when I see it.
I scream at the pain in my hand.
I scream at the severed index finger lying on the forest floor—my index finger.
I’m sitting upright in bed when the scream wakes me—my scream. I’m clutching my hand and my eyes quickly scan the fingers, immediately feeling silly for doing so. My body is slick with a light sheen of sweat.
The clock reads 4:15 A.M.
*
“You look like hell,” Jimmy says when he joins me in the lobby. “Rough night? Let me guess, bad dreams?”
“Nothing but gumballs and lollipops,” I lie.
“Yeah, right,” he snorts. “The décor in this place doesn’t help. I was halfway through washing my hair this morning when the shower scene from Psycho popped into my head. I couldn’t even open my eyes because of the shampoo, which made it even creepier. I kept imagining this shadowy figure with a knife on the other side of the curtain.” He shoulders his bag and we start for the exit. “So you going to tell me about your dream?” he presses.
I don’t reply and Jimmy leaves it alone.