The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

Scott froze as the pit bull named Ax continued to lock eyes. A low growl caught in
Ax’s throat, as Scott’s heart caught in his own.
It had to be named Ax.
Finally Ax let the growl loose with a snarl that made Scott jump and pulled its head
back into the cab, revealing the driver behind the wheel.
Scott couldn’t tell the man’s age because he couldn’t see his face. Not only was it dark
inside the truck, but a full beard also covered the majority of the driver’s face while large
black sunglasses covered his eyes. A tattered baseball hat crowned his shaggy-haired
head, his tall yet scrawny build clad in ripped jeans overalls.
“I normally wouldn’t stop,” the driver said, “but a little voice told me you could use
a ride.”
“That voice is right,” Scott replied, smiling. “You heading to Brantley by any chance?”
“In that direction, yeah.”
Ax growled from behind the driver’s seat. Somehow, the growl was louder than the
truck’s engine. The man glanced up at the dog in the rearview mirror, peering through
his heavy shades. After a moment, he nodded and turned to Scott.
“Alright,” he said, “hop on in.” A loud mechanical switch was heard.
Scott’s feet felt like stone. “Actually, do you have a cell phone?” he inquired politely.
“Maybe I can just - ”
“You want a ride or not!?” the driver interrupted, more a demand than a question.
You’re lost in the woods. Just get to Brantley, tell Elkins that you’re terribly sorry for being late but
your car broke down, then go back to normal life.
“Yes, thank you.”
The inside of the truck was a dog kennel. The floor was covered in dried feces, NRA
stickers, and what looked like to Scott like pamphlets advocating for various animal
rights groups and local volunteer shelters. An open back window just behind the dog’s
head, looking out over the truck’s cargo bed, let in air but did little to erase the odor
that permeated the cabin. Scott’s seat felt like a cardboard bench, easily collapsible.
Everything jolted as the driver slammed on the gas, clanging something metallic against
the side of the driver’s seat.
Scott looked down to find a large hunting knife with a serrated blade, heavily stained
with dark red stuff. It suddenly made the immobile Camry a lot more appealing, as it
disappeared in the passenger rearview mirror.
“Thanks for the ride,” Scott said, with extra gentility. “I really appreciate it.”
“Roll up your window,” the driver commanded. If burnt charcoal could talk, it would
have the driver’s voice.
Scott obeyed, cranking up the window with the old-fashioned hand lever. “Yeah, no
problem.”
The driver didn’t move or say a word, simply kept his hands on the wheel and kept
staring through the shades.
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