The Man in the Trunk

The sun was sitting low in the sky, stretching the shadows long and dark across the desert. He glanced at the digital clock in the dashboard. It shown so dim in the bright desert light that he had to cup his hand around it to block out the glare. It read 6:23. His mother and that fat, sweaty, son of a bitch that called himself his father would probably be awake by now, and if they hadn’t already, they certainly would be reporting the old Corolla stolen soon. Let ‘em, he thought. Jon had kept a steady pace in the Corolla since leaving Alamogordo that morning. He had stuck to the major highways, trying to put as much ground between them while he knew they were indisposed. He had stopped only once to gas up and purchase a folded road map at a pump station in God knows where. Since then, he had stuck to back roads, referring to the map when necessary. It was slower, yes, but also safer. At least he hoped so. He found himself moving down long stretches of desolate, two-lane roads that sometimes twisted and cut through small mountains and rocky terrain. Seeing other cars had become rare and sporadic. Mostly, he was alone, and that was just fine with him. It had been a long time since he felt this free.

He thought back to the night before and realized that he had simply had enough. That was the long and short of it. His father had barged into his room like a goddamn ogre, ranting about responsibility again. He had been sitting up in bed, on top of the covers with his laptop open, trying (and failing) to care about the weeks assignment, when the intrusion took place. The ogre, as Jon had come to know him, came in surrounded by an almost visible cloud of bottom shelf whiskey fumes. Apparently, Jon had neglected to place his dinner bowl into the dishwasher, leaving it, instead, on the counter to become what his stepfather called “someone else’s problem.” The truth was Jon had forgotten. There was no agenda. At some point, between the table and the sink, the knowledge of his sworn household duties had simply vanished from his mind, like vapor. He was seventeen. This was bound to happen occasionally. When he tried to explain this to his father, he was grabbed by the throat and slammed against the wall. His mother, from the doorway, had screamed the usual noncommittal objections. Nothing new. Not really.

After, Jon had gone to the bathroom to dry his eyes and had grabbed a bottle of sleeping pills from the pharmacy that was his mother’s medicine cabinet. He crushed a bunch up with the back end of a Sharpie marker, until all that remained was a fine powder, which he split evenly between the ogre’s Canadian Mist, and his mother’s double bottle of Woodbridge pinot. He waited for about an hour and a half, then went out into the living room where he found them sleeping like old cats. He stomped around a bit and made a few loud “whooping” noises before finally becoming satisfied that neither of them would awaken. He went to their bedroom and opened the top drawer of the bureau, removed a stack of bills, and shoved it into his backpack, along with a few clothes and his toothbrush. Then he grabbed the keys to the ‘92 Corolla from the ogre’s jacket pocket, went out and started the car. He was just about to back out when he had a thought. Something left undone. He walked back into the house, grabbed a pen from the junk drawer, and took an unopened envelope from a stack of unpaid bills lying on the floor near the front door. 

He stood hunched over the kitchen counter, pen in hand, when he suddenly thought about days long gone by and his eyes began to fill with tears. It hadn’t always been this way. There was a time when Jon didn’t have to tiptoe around. There was a time of laughter and joy. Hell, even his father used to smile. He knew that it was true, but his memory of those days was nebulous and vague. He didn’t know when everything had changed, but it had. The laughter had faded, and the joy had been replaced with hostility and anger. Something had gotten twisted, and a black cloud had settled on their home, dulling the light, drowning the joy. And life, for as little as it seemed to be worth, went on. He wanted to tell his parents that he remembered. He remembered the love and the joy, the smiles and the laughter. He wanted to tell them that he missed them. But in the end, all he could manage to write was a few words.  

Sorry things didn't work out.

Best,

Jon 

Back on the road, he had passed a sign that read “Gila Bend 25 miles” and realized he had no idea where he was but figured that as long as the sun was in the windshield, he was at least heading in the right direction. West. Of course, it was only a matter of time before his reference point dropped below the mountains and left him in total darkness. There were no streetlamps out here. These roads would be too difficult to navigate in the dark. It would be too easy to miss turns and get lost. He figured he had about an hour, maybe a little more, before that happened. He decided that when the sun finally set, it would be time to find town with a motel, or at the very least, a quiet patch of dirt to catch a few winks before resuming in the morning. At this rate, he’d be able to reach the coast by early afternoon tomorrow, and he could use the rest anyway. He was making good time. 

The sun was getting lower in the sky and the glare off the windshield was making it difficult for Jon to see the road clearly. The light was becoming inescapable, boring through the windshield and calling attention to every smudge and smear.  Should have cleaned the windows when I stopped, he thought. He took a cigarette from the soft pack sitting in the passenger seat and lit it with the plug lighter in the Corolla’s dash. He squinted and leaned forward trying to focus on the road in front of him, but the sunlight was all consuming and the faint double yellow line dividing the lanes was all that would penetrate it. He had slowed a bit and was thanking his good fortune that nobody else was on the road with him when he suddenly saw the old car stopped directly in front of him. He screamed as his heart leapt into his throat, and he stomped on the brakes. Hard. The little sedan’s tires screamed as they left their black rubber skin on the road behind, smoking and stinking. The old car was coming up fast in the windshield. Too fast. Jon spun the steering wheel and whipped the car toward the shoulder. He swore he was airborne for a second as he left the road and then the car came down, the tires sinking into the dry dirt. It sputtered forward for just a moment, then lurched backward one last time before coming to rest. 

Jon sat motionless, his hands gripped the wheel at ten and two, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, the smoke wisping up and out of the cracked window and then disappearing into the dust and smoke that filled the air around him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He peered into the rearview mirror, and as the haze gradually cleared, the car behind him slowly came into view. It was a large, land yacht kind of a thing. Oldish. Maybe from the 70s or the early 80s, Jon thought. He took a long drag from his cigarette and let it out with a relieving sigh. Jesus Christ, I almost died. He grabbed the handle and pulled, slamming his shoulder into the door and opening it. 

“Hey!” he yelled, stepping out of his car. “Who the fuck stops in the middle of the road? You could have killed me! Does this seem like a reasonable goddamned parking spot to you?” 

He slammed the Corolla door and started walking toward the other car’s driver side. As he passed, he glanced at the rear panel. In the center, underneath the key lock for the trunk, the word “Plymouth” stood out in large metallic lettering. “Gran Fury” was written above it. The old car was stopped in the middle, spread across both lanes of the road. He approached the car, seething with anger and purpose.

“Hello! I’m talking to you!” He shouted. “I almost crashed right into y–” 

He bent down looking into the open window. The car was empty. There was one seat, resembling a bench, that stretched from the passenger door to the driver’s door, across the width of the cabin. The tan, faux leather was torn and split in a few spots, exposing the dingy foam cushion underneath. On the floor near the passenger side, was a pile of wadded trash. Fast food wrappers, beer cans, balled up grocery bags. The dash board lay under a sheet of dust, which sat curiously undisturbed, save for a strange handprint above the old AM/FM radio that seemed abnormally thin, with long fingers. Below the radio, an ashtray hung open, packed tightly with dead cigarette butts. 

Jon stood upright, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of life. A strange hue had begun to descend on the landscape as the sun inched its slow way toward the horizon. The blue in the sky had faded to a dull gray and the bright white clouds began to dampen into listlessness. Jon saw nothing but the vastness of the desert and suddenly felt small, and alone. Around him, the silence was unmistakable, and he became aware of his own heartbeat as it drummed in his chest. His mouth had gone as dry as the land around him.

“Hello! Is there anybody out there?” He waited for a response but heard only the quiet breath of the wind as it passed over the land, subtly rustling the small shrubs and a few palo verdes. 

“Helloooo!” he shouted. No response. “If you need help, call out so I can find you!” Still no response. 

“IS THERE ANYBODY THERE!” This last outburst hurt his throat, and he bent over coughing.  The sense of isolation was growing in his mind, and as he looked out at the empty highway in front of him he was overwhelmed with the urge to leave. To go anywhere but here. In the deafening quiet of the desert, his mind whispered run. 

He made his way back to the Corolla, which was still running. The smoke and dust had dissipated. He dropped hard into the driver's seat, slammed the door shut, and put the shifter in reverse. He pressed the gas, and the car lurched slowly backward until it came to the small slope that led up to the paved road. Then the car stopped. The tires spun in the dirt, kicking up sand in wide arcs, but the Corolla moved no further. He threw it in drive and slowly tried to move forward, but still the tires spun in the soft dirt. He tried reverse again, then drive again, then reverse, then drive. But the car could find no purchase. He was trapped. His simmering frustration was now boiling over and he slammed his foot down onto the gas pedal, pushing it down to the floor. The Corolla screamed as the RPMs surged into the red, and Jon screamed right along with it. When his rage had sufficiently subsided, he released the pedal, shifted into park, and turned the key until the car fell silent. 

And then he heard a voice.

“Hello?” the voice said. It was faint, and at first Jon thought it was coming from inside his head. That’s it, he thought. I’ve fucking cracked. Then he opened the car door and the voice became louder. 

“Hello?” It sounded like a man, but weak, shaken, almost timid. “Is someone out there?” 

The voice wasn’t shouting. It was speaking at a normal volume. It was close. Very close. Jon froze for a beat and then looked back toward the Plymouth. He saw nothing.

“Who’s there?” he asked. 

“I am.” 

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

“Where’s here?”

“In the car.”

Jon considered this for a moment, confused. He slowly walked up the short slope toward the other vehicle, leaning back hesitantly, as though something might jump out and attack at any moment.  

“In here!” the voice continued, and Jon heard a banging coming from inside the Plymouth. “In the trunk!”

He bent down and put his ear to the trunk. “What are you doing in there?” 

“Oh, thank God!” Jon could hear the smile in his voice. “Oh. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! I have been locked in here for quite some time. It is...uncomfortable, to say the least.” 

Jon felt along the edge of the trunk with his fingers looking for a latch or a button. “How did you get in there?”

“Please let me out. I am quite thirsty.” The voice sounded panicked as the man in the trunk spoke in between short, strained breaths. But there was something else. Jon thought, for a moment, that he could hear the man’s voice smiling. 

“Where's the button on this thing?”

“Button?”

“Yeah. The button that opens the trunk. I can’t see it, and I don’t feel anything.”

There was a slight chuckle from the trunk. “There’s no button, young man. You need the key. It only opens if you turn the key.”

“Well shit.” Jon stood straight, his hands rested on his hips. “I’ll try the trunk release.”

“Ah! Yes! A wonderful idea, young man!”

Jon walked over to the open driver’s side door and knelt down. He felt along the edge of the floor until he came to a plastic leaver. He grabbed the lever and pulled it up. It moved easily, without any resistance at all and remained in the up position even when he let it go. The trunk remained locked. 

“No go.” he said. “I think the tension cable is broken. The lever doesn't seem to be pulling anything.”

“Check the inside of the car. Maybe the keys are in the ignition.”

 He sat down, tilting his head to see the ignition block. 

“Nah. Not here.” 

“Damn! Please. What about the glove box?” the man in the trunk asked.

Jon leaned over and saw a lock on the front of the glove box. “Looks like you need a key to open this too.” he said. “Maybe I can force it.” He stood up and walked around the car to the passenger side. He opened the door wide enough to give himself enough room to build some leverage and then said, “Here goes nothing.” He brought his knee up to his chest and then slammed the heel of his shoe into the edge of the glove compartment. It didn’t open but he felt it give a little. 

“Anything?” the man asked.

“Almost there.”

Twice more, he slammed his shoe into the lock. He could feel it getting looser and on the third attempt the compartment swung open, dumping some papers onto the floor along with all the other trash. “Got it!” Jon sat down in the passenger seat and started to rifle through the box. There were a few pieces of jewelry, including what looked like a couple of wedding rings, a stubby flat head screwdriver, and a small stack of various business cards held together with an elastic hair tie. No keys.

“Nothing here,” Jon said.

“Oh no.” The man in the trunk began to chuckle. “It seems, young man, that we’ve been wasting our time.”

Jon stood up and leaned on the car. “How’s that?” he asked.

“Well, during all that...ruckus, I shifted around a touch. I was laying on a rather uncomfortable lump. Any guesses as to what it was?” The man’s was either giggling, or sobbing. Jon couldn’t tell which but the sound coming from the trunk chilled his blood.  

Jon exhaled in a long breathy sigh and put his head down on the roof of the Plymouth. “Let me guess. The Keys.”

“Precisely!” 

“You’re taking this awfully well for a guy locked in a trunk in the middle of the desert.”

“I’m an old man.” he said. “Too old to be locked in a trunk, but not too old to see the humor in it.”

Jon shook his head. The chill in his blood grew colder. “Whatever you say.”

The sun was dipping below the horizon now. The white blazing fire that scorched the landscape not more than a half-hour ago had turned a warm deep orange. It’s light sent dark purples and bright neon pinks blasting across the sky, highlighting the sparse clouds and turning them into shapeless beacons of vivid beauty, like specters. Jon stared out across the desert. 

The man in the trunk spoke. The weeping laughter had eased. “I want to thank you, young man.”

“What are you thanking me for? I didn’t do anything,” Jon replied.

“Yes yes,” he said, still giggling a little. “Precisely. But you tried. You are a good boy.”

"Boy?” Jon felt a slight irritation. He was seventeen after all, and he’d be eighteen in a couple of months. He hadn’t felt like a “boy” in years. “What do you mean boy? You don’t know how old I am.”

“There is a youthfulness in your voice. A buoyancy that often doesn’t endure into adulthood. What is your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Jon.”

“Just Jon?”

“No, but that’s what I answer to.”

He giggled. “A nice enough name. Like the Baptist. I like biblical names. So much opportunity for false impressions. Makes things interesting, don’t you think?”

“Never really thought about it.” Jon walked around to the rear of the Plymouth and leaned on the rear fender. “Anyway, it’s not spelled the same.”

“It matters not to the ear.”

“Look, Mister––”

“––Father,” the man in the trunk interjected. 

“Excuse me?”

“Father Silas is my name.”

“Right. Ok. Father. Maybe I should try walking to next town or gas station, see if I can’t find a phone, or something else that can help. I have water, and it can't be too far. This is modern America. Not exactly the Oregon Trail.”

“I’d prefer you stayed close. Someone will be along eventually.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been on this road for a while now, and–”

“Indulge me, Jon. The thought of being out here alone at night is...disagreeable.”

Jon looked ahead toward the setting sun. The deep gleaming tone was pulsating out in orange mists. The clouds near the horizon were splitting the rays into long shards of visible light, like swords hanging in the sky. It cast an eerie hue across the desert, illuminating everything it touched in a pervasive bath of golden color, making it all seem so remarkable. Behind him, the road stretched out, as straight as time, for miles before slowly disappearing like the past into a fog.

“Jon?” called out Father Silas. “Are you still there?”

Jon took a deep breath and then exhaled. He pushed himself back on the trunk of the car and let his legs dangle in front of him. 

“Still here, Father.” he said.

“That’s my boy!” Father Silas began to giggle. This time his laughter was unmistakable. 

Jon listened to the man in the trunk. A coldness seemed to creep underneath his skin. He shivered. All around him the shadows were growing.  

***

The man in the trunk coughed as his laughter, mirthful and throaty, tapered off. They sat without speaking for a moment. Jon leaned back on the hood of the Corolla and propped himself up on an elbow. He could hear Father Silas’ rapid breath trying to catch up. He wondered how much air was in trunk, but the thought made him uneasy, and he quickly brushed it away. He looked out across the empty desert and saw nothing but a vast emptiness peppered with small shrubs and a few tall cacti that stood like sentries with their arms outstretched. The world around him was silent save for the whispering hum of the wind.

Jon slid off the hood of the car and said, “I’m gonna check my trunk, see if there is anything we can use to get you out of there.”

“Anything?” Father Silas asked.

“Yeah, you know. Like a screwdriver or a crowbar.”

“Ha! Yes, yes. Do that.”

Jon went to the driver side door of his Corolla, opened it, and pulled the lever. The trunk released with a muted pop. 

“Tell me, Jon,” said Father Silas. “What is it that you are doing out here?”

Walking back to the opened trunk, Jon tilted his head back and rubbed a palm across his eyes. “That is probably the least interesting thing about our current situation, don’t you think?”

“Quite right,” Father Silas giggled. “Quite right, indeed! But, don’t sell yourself short, young man. We all have a destiny. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m not so sure I would.”

Jon lifted the gate, and leaned in. A dull lightbulb attached to the lid of the trunk struggled to illuminate the inside. He saw his own bag, filled with a few clothes, odds and ends, and the wad of cash that he had taken from his parent’s drawer. He took it out and set it on the dusty asphalt at his feet. The rest of the compartment looked rather empty, save for an old raggedy white towel, spotted with black grease, and an empty cardboard box, labeled Natural Light. Jon took the box and the towel out and threw them onto the shoulder of the road.

“You don’t believe that you have a destiny?”

 “I think destiny forgets that some people exist.”

“Such a somber outlook! Bite your tongue! You will not be forgotten, Jon. Of that I am quite certain.”

Jon leaned further into the trunk, feeling along the edges with hands. He felt nothing. “I wish I could believe you, Mister.”

“Father,” he corrected. “And you will, my boy!” Jon could hear the delighted smile in his voice. “I assure you. When this day is over, you will.” 

Father Silas began to laugh, and a small chill bore itself into Jon’s spine. He shuddered. 

Jon lifted a flap on the floor of the trunk, revealing the donut tire, as flat as an empty balloon. Below the tire was a small black canvas bag. He took the bag out and emptied its contents on the floor of the trunk. A small black metal car jack un-extended in a flattened diamond shape. “I think I found something,” he said.

“A crowbar?” Father Silas asked.

“Not exactly. It’s a car jack, but I think if I put the bottom on the bumper and the top underneath the latch, I might be able to jack it up enough to pop the lock.” He grabbed the jack and the long, thin hand crank and carried them to the rear of the Plymouth.

“A fine idea,” exclaimed Father Silas. “You’re very resourceful. I am quite proud of you, young man.”

“You don’t even know me,” Jon said as he placed the jack on the rear bumper, hooked the hand crank through the small hole on the end, and gave it a few spins just to line up the saddle with the latch of the trunk.

“And anyway, let’s not get carried away just yet,” he said. He steadied the jack with his hand and rotated the hand crank until it wedged itself between the trunk and the bumper. Then he began to spin it faster. There was a small moan of stressed metal the jack slowly opened.

“So, what are you doing way out here in the middle of the desert?” Father Silas asked.

“You first,” Jon said. His voice was labored as he cranked. “You’re locked in a trunk for Christ’s sake. Your story has got to be more interesting than mine.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps your story is a part of mine. Perhaps they are the same story.”

“Huh?” 

The bumper underneath the car jack started to buckle under the stress. The latch to the trunk barely moved. Jon continued to crank.

“I’ll tell you what. You tell me your story, and I’ll tell you how I managed to get myself into this situation. What do you say? Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?” 

The bumper suddenly separated from the Plymouth, with a loud creaking noise, like metal tearing. It crashed down onto the road below the car. At this Father Silas guffawed. A high pitched laughter that made Jon shudder and he was suddenly filled with an intense desire to be anywhere else but here. His head began to throb as the feeling crept into his bones. He wanted to leave. He wanted to get into that shitty little Corolla and drive away.   

“Relax, Jon,” said Father Silas. There was a calmness in his voice that seemed to reach into Jon’s mind, like ghostly hands. It was soothing and controlled, as though he wasn’t in a fit of hysterical laughter just a moment ago. “Breathe easy, Boy.”

And suddenly, he was relaxed. Jon inhaled and then exhaled deeply. His unease had vanished. He felt calm again, though a little unsteady. Jon straightened his back, and leaned against the Plymouth, breathing slowly. He gazed down the road toward the west. The fiery sun sat halfway beneath the horizon and all around the colors were deepening, growing. They seemed to get brighter, more vibrant. A last gasp before the night came for them and swallowed them whole. 

“My apologies, Jon,” Father Silas continued. “How are you faring, my boy?”

“I think I’m ok,” Jon replied. “I’m just a little dizzy. The bumper came off the car. Christ. The lock didn’t even budge.”

“Indeed. Well, it was a worthy effort. Perhaps it’s a sign.”

“A sign of what? Shitty American craftsmanship?”

Father Silas chuckled. “A sign that our story is to continue. Perhaps it's time for you to tell me your story.”

“Like What? Confession?” Jon shook his head.

"Of a sort. Think of it as just two chaps having a jaw. How about this? I’ll tell you something about me, and then you tell me something about you. Fair?”

Jon looked into the distance at the empty highway in front of him and then turned to look behind. Nothing. No sign of another car. Not yet.

“Fair enough,” he said. 

“Good!” Father Silas exclaimed, and Jon heard a slapping sound, like he had clapped his hands together. “I’ll go first. I came on this little journey to the desert for my wife.”

Jon squinted his eyes and tilted his head. “Wife?”

“We’ve been talking about having children. Did I tell you that already?”

“No. What do you mean ‘wife?’”

“Well, let’s see. Spouse? Partner? Bride? Better-half? Ball and chain? Any of these ring a bell?”

“But, you’re a priest.”

“Who said I was a priest?” 

“You did.”

“I said no such thing.” He let out a slight giggle.

“You told me your name was Father Silas.”

“I did. And it is. Although the ‘Father’ part is more of an informal title. A term of endearment, if you will. But, I’m not a priest. I’m more of a...” He fell silent for a moment, and Jon could hear a deep, contemplative breath beneath the hatch. Then he continued, “...caretaker, you could say.”

“Like a janitor?” Jon asked.

“A patriarch. A protector.”

Jon ran his hands through his hair and locked his fingers behind his head, elbows outstretched in a kind of surrender. 

“What exactly do you protect?”

“Family, of course,” he said. There was no longer a trace of laughter or amusement in his voice. He spoke with purpose. “Why do you run from your family?”

Jon looked at the trunk and furrowed his brow. Did I mention anything about my family? 

“What family? Who’s running? I never said anything about it.”

“Well, it seems we are both guilty of unwarranted assumptions,” said Father Silas. “If you tell me I’m wrong, then I will drop the subject. But we both know the truth, do we not?”

Jon could hear that smile in his voice again. He could almost sense the lips peeling back over the teeth, a wet stretching, like overextended rubber. And underneath it, there was the distinct sound of arrogance. An unmistakable tone. 

“Who are you?” he asked.

“We’ve been over this, haven’t we? I’ve given you my name. Now it’s your turn.” 

Jon slumped his shoulders and sighed. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Where are you going, for one?”

“That way,” said Jon, and he pointed toward the road in front of him, and the setting sun.

“As I have no way of seeing, I’ll assume you are pointing west?’
   “Right. West.”

“And what, young man, is ‘west’?”

“I’m not sure exactly. I just know that when you get there, you can’t drive any further.”
   Father Silas’ voice deepened. He spoke with a slow deliberation. “A means to an end then?” His words seemed to seep into Jon’s mind, as though they weren't spoken, but rather transmitted through the ether, like code. 

“If you say so.” Jon’s head began to swim. He felt off his axis but relaxed. 

“The end of what, I wonder?” 

“Everything,” His head began to spin, and his vision blurred, but no panic came to him. He felt relaxed.
   “Tell me...everything,” said Father Silas.

Jon suddenly felt a hypnotic wave of contentment wash over him. He was enveloped in warmth and comfort, like a swaddled child. His hesitation was gone. Swatted away as if it were a mere bug, unworthy of attention. Brushed aside and hidden, as if it were never there. He felt calm. He felt safe. He looked toward the setting sun, it’s yellow fire dipping below the road in front of him. He wanted to tell Father Silas everything, and so he began.

***

When he finished, he looked out into the desert. The colors had mostly faded into blacks and dark blues. The sun almost gone now, still peeked over the horizon and the sky directly above it remained a bright orange. The rest of the land was falling into darkness. Jon sat on the hood of his car. Tears filled his eyes, but none fell down his cheeks. 

Father Silas began to laugh. A sickly, uncontrolled laugh. 

“Wonderful!” he said still laughing. 

“What?” Jon asked, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. The feeling of contentment was gone. Father Silas’ voice no longer filled his mind with comfort. 

“A wonderful tale, my boy. That’s exactly what I needed!”

Jon wiped his eyes. Irritation swelled in his chest. He felt used. Betrayed. He slid off the hood of his car and planted his feet on the asphalt. “Look, I think I’ve had about enough of this.” He dug around in his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. "I'm gonna start walking. I’ll stop at the next service station, call the cops, and tell them where you are. It’s been real Mr. Silas.”

Then the laughter stopped. “I can give you a family, Jon,” said Father Silas. It was almost completely dark now. The sun’s last efforts shown in the distance, its soft light quickly retreating into the west. 

Jon paused and turned toward the Plymouth. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure if he cared anymore, but something was holding him, anchoring him to this spot. Father Silas’ voice echoed deep in his skull.  

“No thanks,” he said. “It’s not for me.”

“Don’t you at least want to know how I got in this trunk?”

Jon turned toward the old Plymouth and lit a cigarette. “How?’ he asked.

At that moment, the sun finally disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving the desert awash in blackness. The trunk opened. Jon watched as Father Silas rose from the darkness and stood inside the compartment. He seemed impossibly tall, and thin. He wore a long black coat, and a bowler hat. His eyes were red, and they glowed inside his gaunt cadaverous skull. 

“I put myself in there,” he said. “I have, what you might call, an aversion to the sun, my boy.”

Father Silas began to laugh again. A loud, guttural, uncontrolled laugh. Sickly, and wet. Beyond his terrible grin, Jon could see his long, jagged teeth that seemed to jut out in random directions. Jon wanted to run. But, he couldn’t. There was something holding him. Something in the laughter. Something that was preventing him from moving. He felt like a giant invisible hand was gripping him, squeezing him, holding him in place. He had been shackled to that spot, but his chains were intangible, imperceptible. He felt a terror rising in his throat, and his breath began to modulate in indiscriminate, panicked bursts as the cigarette dropped from his lips. 

“Jon,” said Father Silas, “I’d like you to meet my wife.”

Jon peered into the open trunk. Laying at Father Silas’ feet was a woman, pallid and ghastly, her arms and legs twisted underneath her. She was stuffed in the corner, like old leather luggage. She looked like a corpse, but her chest was rising and falling in rapid convulsions. Terror penetrated Jon like a poison injection, moving through his veins with each beat of his heart. 

“Say hello to Jon my dear,” he said, still laughing. 

The corpse-like woman opened her eyes and hissed. Her pupils locked onto him, but her eyes were dead and lifeless. She began to rise in fits and jolts, each movement punctuated by the sound of breaking bones as she unfolded herself from a small nebulous pile in the corner and took her place at Father Silas’ side. He put his long arm around her and spoke into her ear. 

“My darling,” he said, “This is Jon.” He laughed and it sounded like a high-pitched squeal. 

Jon tried to scream but there was no air in his lungs and all he could manage was a horrible wheezing. He huffed, hard and fast, but the familiar comfort of breath eluded him. Nothing was getting in. His vision started to blur in his periphery. The blackness of the landscape was washed out by a fog of white in his field of view. He doubled over. The muscles in his chest tightened and then radiated pain. The fog of white in his vision grew as he steadied himself with a hand on the trunk of the Plymouth. 

Still laughing, Father Silas stretched both of his unnatural arms out in front of him. 

“Jon, my boy,” he said. “Welcome home.”

“Please, Mister Silas,” Jon said weakly.

Silas’ smile widened even further. “Jon, please,” he said. “Call me Father.”

Father Silas fell upon him, and sunk his jagged, broken teeth into his neck.

As his life drained from the grisly ragged holes in his neck, a few words crept into his mind.

Sorry things didn't work out.

And then his world went black.

***

He sat in the back of the Plymouth Gran Fury. The man in the long coat and bowler hat sat in the driver’s seat, his arm around a thin sickly woman beside him. They moved down the highway, steadily. The wind came through the cracked window, filling his nose with the smell of decay. He could sense it everywhere. The death that was all around him, and it was beautiful. He felt a thirst that he had never experienced, and as he thought about the sweet taste of decay, his teeth seemed to swell, shudder, and grow. 

He didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. But as he looked upon the man in the front seat, he knew that he would do anything for him. He loved him and was loved in return. The man spoke.

“Jon, my boy,” he said. “How would you feel about a new sister?”

Then he laughed.