The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

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veins.
Then it stopped. She was gone.
Tyler blinked. He could breathe. He checked the mirrors for any sign of her, then
accelerated.
He never wanted to feel that again. Her touch had been like—
“Death,” he said.
After fifteen miles, the car began to hiccup. It lurched and made chugging noises, jarring
Tyler from his shock. The fuel gauge needle was below the red, over the E.
Seven miles later, the hiccups became sputters. Then the engine died. Tyler shifted
into neutral, the momentum carrying the vehicle off the road and onto a grassy tract of
land where it rolled to a stop.
Tyler sat motionless, gripping the wheel. He stared at the trees illuminated by his high
beams.
“Fuck!” he yelled, throttling the steering wheel and thrashing his head. “Fuck! Fuck!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He pounded the wheel, causing the horn to bleat sporadically. Then
he collapsed onto the steering wheel and buried his face in his arms.
What now? he thought. What the hell now?
You know what now, said Joel’s voice. It’s over. Out of gas, bro. End of the highway.
I didn’t mean for it to happen, he thought. “It just happened,” he mumbled. “I didn’t
mean for it to.”
But it did.
Tyler wept.
I’m sorry, he thought.
Sorry won’t bring back Della. Sorry won’t undo this.
“I’m sorry,” Tyler said. “I’m sorry, Della.”
He raised his head and turned toward the empty backseat. Toward the trunk.
“I’m sorry, Katie.”
End of the highway, bro. Out of gas.
Tyler found the revolver between his feet and checked the chambers—two rounds
left. He only needed one. He held the barrel under his chin and began to squeeze the
trigger.
“No.”
A voice, not Joel’s, not inside his head. A woman’s voice.
Della’s.
She was sitting in the passenger seat. She had Della’s pale face, Della’s sable hair, but
this was not Della. Tyler sensed something else, something shapeless and feral, hidden
beneath her skin.
“You don’t get to take the easy way out,” Della said.
“No,” Tyler agreed.