The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

He steered the car alongside the two pumps, cut the engine, and stepped out. A
staccato of thumps came from the trunk. Tyler tried ignoring it, but in the isolated
milieu it sounded like bombs detonating. Tyler pounded his fist on the trunk, hard
enough to numb his hand. The noises ceased.
Working quickly, he flipped open the fuel door and unscrewed the gas cap. He tried
the pumps on the off chance they had been left on, but they weren’t. Tyler scanned the
highway. No vehicles. He headed for the store, his boots
—thumping—
crunching on the gravel. The front doors were barred on the outside, chained on the
inside, and dead-bolted. Country folk weren’t so trusting anymore. He peered into the
windows and cupped his hands around his eyes, formulating a plan to break into the
store to turn on the pumps. He stepped back, hands on hips. A reflection in the glass
caught his eye. A white figure on the opposite side of the highway. Della.
Tyler’s mouth went dry. He spun around, expecting the road to be empty, hoping that
her reflection was only a trick of his tired eyes and unraveling mind.
But Della was there, on the shoulder, her opaque nightgown clinging to her.
She stepped onto the asphalt. Tyler’s leg muscles tensed. His bladder wanted to
release.
The gun, he thought.
Joel reminded him: Shooting her’s no good. She’s already dead.
Tyler willed his legs to move. They wouldn’t. They felt stuck in wet cement. As Della
crossed the double yellow line, strength returned to his limbs. He darted to the car and
leapt into the driver’s seat. He started the car and revved the engine as he fumbled to
shift the car into drive. When Tyler finally managed to get the car in gear, the rear tires
spat a cloud of dust and gravel and the car careened onto the highway. Tyler clung to
the wheel with throbbing fingers. He knew he should watch the road, but he allowed
himself a moment to close his eyes and take deep breaths.
Then he opened his eyes. Della was hovering over the hood of the car, only inches
from the windshield. She shrieked. The sound shook Tyler’s teeth in their sockets. This
time his bladder did release, the warmth spreading around his crotch.
She stuck her arms through the windshield—not shattering the glass but passing
through the glass, like steam through mesh—and her white hands disappeared into
Tyler’s chest. He felt like an icicle was being hammered into his heart. Coldness spread
like roots through his head and stomach and limbs. His chest hitched as he tried to take
in air. Panicking, he cut the wheel sharply left, then right. The car pitched side to side,
somehow staying on the road. Tyler dropped one hand from the wheel and groped for
the pistol, even though he knew it was useless against
—Della Della Della—
this thing.
His lungs burned from lack of oxygen. His heart slowed. His blood was ice in his
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