I love storytelling. Always have, always will. The only problem was I wasn't much of a writer. Sure, I tried my damnedest to emulate my favorite horror authors like Edgar Allan Poe or Stephen King... but Mr. Creeps just didn't have the talent. Well, not with my stories at least.
Like a connoisseur of fine art, I sought after the best scary stories around. Not to publish them but to narrate them myself. You see, deep down, I was a storyteller without the creativity or drive. Instead of having a writer's voice, I had a charismatic literal one.
Without many friends, scary stories became my escape. My dark companion on both lonely days and even lonelier nights. They became my passion. And soon enough, they provided me a full time job.
My YouTube channel was doing well. And with a fanbase of over two-hundred-thousand devoted horror freaks like me, I did my best to give them as much as content as possible.
Naturally, my favorite writers were Mr. Creeps goldmines. I compensated them and gave them credit, of course. But with a daily demand for uploads, I needed all the material I could get. I needed authors who could match my speed. And one of them worked at a freakish pace. I'm talking the always-divisive, always-prolific rhonnie14. Or Rhonnie as he was known outside of Reddit.
I chatted with Rhonnie quite a bit on-line. He was a cool guy and always appreciative of his fans. A strange guy with a strange personality. Not to mention a strange writer.
He was handsome in a sensitive, quirky way. His green eyes piercing, his smile goofy and contagious. With combed-over straight brown hair and a lanky frame, I figured he was going for a rebellious Jake Gyllenhaal or James Dean vibe. But he was way too awkward to be cool per se. Then again, most of the writers I talked to weren't exactly hip.
Earlier in June, my friend Kim and I were in the midst of a new series. We decided to embark on interviewing our best writers. Again, this was a chance to shine a light on the great minds who really made my channel. I owed it to them after all... and Hell, like the fanboy I was, I was eager to get a glimpse into their genius.
For the time being, I was releasing a backlog of pre-recorded Mr. Creeps episodes. All while Kim and I traveled throughout the country for interviews. And the crazy thing was Rhonnie wasn't even the only reason we were visiting Georgia...
You see, there was another writer from Stanwyck, Georgia. Brad Haskell. u/BradHaskell as he was known on Reddit. His stories were dark and depraved. Full of vivid imagery and twist endings. And like Rhonnie, he tackled every subgenre. Most of his stories took place in the Deep South, particularly Georgia and Florida. No surprise considering him and Rhonnie were the same person.
Throughout our messages, I'd badgered Rhonnie about admitting that Haskell was his pseudonym. After all, the clear connection was obvious to many of his readers. But Rhonnie refused. Whether from defensive secrecy or playful amusement, I didn't know... but either way, Rhonnie denied the connection. According to him, Haskell was real.
I still didn't buy it. No one did. I mean both writers even existed in their literary universes. Haskell or Rhonnie himself would constantly appear in each other's stories, referencing each other like rival rock stars. Even their descriptions mirrored one another: both of them scrawny, awkward, unconventionally handsome, and yes, weird. The coincidences were beyond conceivable.
There was also no contact information for Brad. No social media presence. No phone number.
Toward the end of June, Kim and I drove down to Georgia. Rhonnie had agreed to meet us in Columbus, his girlfriend Ashley's hometown.
We took my trusted SUV for the author tour. There was me, Mr. Creeps. A gawky geek who stayed in shape. I dressed well. And with bright eyes and long dark hair, I guess you could say I was handsome... but far from a movie star. I was a narrator, after all.
Kim and I went all the way back to high school. She was pretty and tall. An abundance of tattoos decorated her pale skin. Her hair color currently red but constantly in flux.
We weren't dating. Outside of drunken hook-ups, romance and sex were never our thing. Horror was. Both of us lived and breathed the genre. And for the channel, we worked as a team. I did narrations, Kim handled the production.
During the drive, we played lots of different stories. None by me. Instead, I enjoyed supporting my peers in the field like The DevilsInterval, Clancypasta, Chilling Tales For Dark Nights, etc.
One of TheDevilsInterval's videos caught my eye. A brand new story by Brad Haskell. This one was about Rhonnie and Ashley... A story so new, it even mentioned Kim and I coming down to interview him.
The story was excellent. The narrator's deep voice brimmed with foreboding flair. The video further elevated by cryptic piano music.
In the story, Rhonnie kept postponing our interview. Kept switching the meeting from Columbus to Albany to his hometown Stanwyck. Initially, Ashley wasn't even in it as she stayed behind in Columbus. Only she reappeared later in a surprise visit. Ashley a pivotal part of the story's final twist.
After the video, things got weird. Confusion slowed us down in Georgia. Not because Kim and I got lost. But because Rhonnie's constant changes left us behind schedule.
First, he said to meet him in Columbus. Then it changed to Albany. And then it became Stanwyck.
In a panicky phone call, Rhonnie's deep voice hit histrionics. He said he wanted us to meet him in his childhood home. That his parents were out of town and he was all alone. Only Rhonnie admitted to not feeling safe in this writer's retreat... Instead, he wanted us to join him, not just for the interview but for his own safety.
I could feel Rhonnie's emotion. His adamant anxiety. Granted, Rhonnie could've been playing this up... we knew he was a wacky guy. So we played along and agreed to his terms.
Along the way, we discovered another new DevilsInterval video. Another brand new Brad Haskell story.
This one was another classic. A story about a mall shooting in Tallahassee, Florida. There were strong characters, visceral violence, and constant surprises. Always Rhonnie and Haskell specialties.
Of course, I couldn't help but smile. Rhonnie sounded so crazy over the phone, but his creative mind must've been stable enough to crank out another story...
On Thursday afternoon, my SUV entered the Stanywck, Georgia city limits. I wouldn't call it a small town. Just a one-Walmart All-American city. Mom-and-pop businesses and fast food chains were stationed throughout. Stanwyck a fine balance between middle-class suburbia and blue blood mansions. A city full of history and heart.
The highway led us past the comforting confines of Walmart and cheap chain motels. All the way out to a rural dirt road. To Rhonnie's neck of the woods.
Around four o'clock, we reached Rhonnie's childhood home. A one story brick home on a three acre lot. There was only woods for neighbors. Abandoned farmland ran wild across the street, the fields nothing more than a cemetery of failed crops and forgotten dreams.
A long dirt driveway led us closer to the house. Beyond the steady bricks, the house's peeling paint and cracked windows showed its age. The Fordham residence like an ancient mausoleum refusing to crumble.
There were several chain link dog fences and porch swings in the back yard. A rusty basketball goal missing a net. Wind chimes that were lifeless in this Southern heat.
Kim and I parked next to Rhonnie's gray Jetta. It was the only car besides ours and an ugly one at that. Dirt coated the vehicle, blending into its paint.
Intrigued, we looked out toward the house. We weren't at a haunted castle, gloomy mansion, or dilapidated shack... none of the places you'd expect to meet a dark horror writer. Instead, we were in country comfort. A Southern Gothic slice of solitude.
Rhonnie stepped out the front door. Dressed in loose red pants and a wrinkled gray Braves tee-shirt, he looked weary rather than welcoming. His nervous smile complimented his ruffled brown hair.
"Hey, y'all," Rhonnie said, a touch of an accent and worry in his voice.
He shook our hands. Rhonnie was nice, polite. Aside from the awkward tics, Rhonnie gave off no weirdo vibes. There was no shades of Poe or Emily Dickinson's darkness in him. Just a vibrant charisma. His energy contagious.
Rhonnie even apologized for the change in location. Said he had no choice but to come to Stanwyck. His parents were out of town, so he volunteered to take care of their three dogs. Three big mutts.
"Oh, we're dog lovers!" Kim exclaimed. "We understand."
Of course, I could relate. But there was some simmering skepticism building up inside me. Yeah, Rhonnie's parents weren't here... but I couldn't help but suspect there were other reasons for dragging us out here at the last minute.
Rhonnie led us inside the house. The flowing A/C soothed us. And then a chorus of barks accompanied a loud T.V.
The house was small and comfortable. Its living room and kitchen adjoined. A long hallway in the back led to various bedrooms.
Like an antique shop, old furniture and many weird dog figurines surrounded us. Classic movie posters. Tall wooden bookshelves.
There were three dogs in their living room cages. All of them medium-sized pound dogs. Two Pit Bull mixes and one Lab mix. And they went from defensive to friendly as soon as Kim and I approached them.
Rhonnie turned down the flatscreen. A calm mood overtook the scene. "Ashley's going back to Columbus after work so looks like it's just us," he said.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Kim said.
I placed our bags on a recliner. "Yeah, that sucks."
Flashing a smile, Rhonnie waved us off. "Naw, it's fine!"
"We can stay till Wednesday," Kim said.
"Well, I'll talk to her about it," Rhonnie replied. "I know she wanted to be interviewed too."
I looked right at him. "Maybe we can get Brad Haskell too."
I felt Kim's glare. But I knew Haskell was one of our main reasons for coming here.
Avoiding eye contact, Rhonnie hesitated. "Honestly, I don't think that's possible," he finally said.
"But he's from Stanwyck, right?" I said.
Rhonnie confronted my staunch stare. "Yeah, but I don't know where he's at. I really don't."
I scoffed. "Come on, y'all are two amazing horror writers living in the same town-"
Annoyed, Kim grabbed my arm. "Chill, man," she muttered.
"We just respect one another," Rhonnie told me. "It's like a friendly competition." He cracked a smile. "That's why we write so much."
From there, Rhonnie gave us a tour of the house. His mom loved her dog ornaments. His dad loved the sports and movie memorabilia. Even his older sister Holly's bedroom was still preserved with rose red walls and homemade picture frames. And she'd moved out over ten years ago...
Rhonnie's bedroom was a mess. He said he'd crash here from time to time... literally crashed from what Amy and I saw. He had his horror movie posters and DVDs. Not to mention enough crammed boxes to make the world's worst hoarders cringe. Of course, clustered amongst the clutter were many photos of him and Ashley. An All-American horror couple.
We could tell Rhonnie enjoyed the interview. Of course, his awkward demeanor was well on display. As was his charisma and creative fire. Rhonnie the compelling storyteller, Kim and I his enchanted audience. The old house his stage.
Soon, we congregated at the kitchen table. The uncomfortable wooden seats tolerable once Rhonnie brought out the beer and wine. The guy could drink. But even hammered, Rhonnie never lost his wild and wacky spirit.
Together, we ate a few DiGiorno's pizzas. The sort of quiet dinners Rhonnie ate when Ashley wasn't around. When he was in his writing zone.
Glancing around, I saw a poker set on a shelf. Right next to it a wooden jack-o'-lantern from the 90s.
A window showcased fading sunlight. Slowly fading sunlight. Here it was 8:30 and darkness had yet to settle in.
On the table, our microphones and camera lent the kitchen a garage recording studio vibe. Rhonnie's skinny blue laptop sat in front of him. Not to mention his iPhone. The phone on standby for whenever Ashley texted him.
"Yeah, I know they complain," Rhonnie mused, his voice drunk but still full of passion. "I honestly don't even read the comments anymore. I get so sick of people complaining about the same shit. The similes, why do you always describe your characters' race, all that shit."
Kim grinned. "Or all the sex talk."
"I don't mind it," I added. "It just gets awkward being a male narrator and talking about how much a woman wants a piece of manass or going in for a kiss."
We shared a laugh.
"Hey, I just keep it diverse," Rhonnie said. He took another sip of his Miller Lite. "Just keep it honest."
"No, it's awesome," Kim said.
Keeping my cool, I leaned in closer. "I couldn't help but notice Haskell writes the same way."
Rhonnie took another compulsive sip.
"I mean y'all have similar styles," I continued. I looked to Kim for support.
"True," she commented.
I confronted Rhonnie's unease. "Especially for being two different authors."
With a trembling hand, Rhonnie placed the empty can on the table. His eyes restless. His soul silent.
"I mean you can be honest with us, man," I said. "I get it. The Haskell Mystery's fun."
"Exactly!" Kim chimed in. "Stephen King did it for years."
Rhonnie ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't saying a word. Not from anger but visible fear. As if he were too scared to discuss his Stanwyck rival...
"I especially liked how Brad's latest story was about you," I said, trying to hide my aggravation.
Fear shot through Rhonnie. He faced us. "What do you mean?"
"Brad Haskell's new story was on TheDevilsInterval. It was all about you, how you kept changing places for us to meet."
Quiet, Rhonnie stared down at the table. A writer in scared shambles.
"And in the story, you came back to Stanwyck," Kim added.
"No!" Rhonnie said. He looked toward us. Like a flesh-eating virus, the terror affected him all over. His eyes, his mannerisms, his voice. Nothing went unscathed by paranoia. "I had no idea. Oh fuck..."
His reaction stifled Kim's skepticism. She sifted in her seat, uneasy.
But I wasn't sold. "Why do y'all write so similar?" I asked Rhonnie, my voice steady and calm as if I were narrating. "I mean even the way you guys describe each other, you both look the same. You write the same. You're both in Stanwyck."
A glower appeared in Rhonnie's green eyes. "He's real," he said in a sincere, cold tone. "I didn't make him up. Brad Haskell's real."
"And how are we supposed to know?" I demanded. "We've never seen Haskell! There's no trace of him anywhere."
Kim flashed me a what the fuck look. But not even she could stop me... not at this point.
I kept my spotlight of a stare on Rhonnie. "All I'm saying is I think you're Brad Haskell, Rhonnie-"
"No!" Rhonnie yelled. "I'm not Haskell!"
"But there's nothing wrong you being the same."
Rhonnie glared at his laptop. The vivid blue made it resemble a lost artifact. A cursed one.
"Honestly, what you've done is genius!" I reassured. "It's fun."
Scoffing, Rhonnie faced us. "Fun! Haskell's the one having fun! Not us!"
I reached toward him. "Look, Rhonnie-"
Rhonnie swatted my hand away. "He's just playing with us!"
Consumed by concern, Kim looked over at me. Neither one of us eager to stop him.
"The words are his weapons, man!" Rhonnie said. "He fucking uses me for his sick fucking fantasies! He's like an obsessed fan only he's the writer."
In that moment, the kitchen felt like an asylum cell. Kim and I the helpless doctors, Rhonnie the rampaging patient.
Even the mutts were silent. Outside, nighttime lurked in all its eerie glory. The house's flickering ceiling bulbs our only light in this heart of darkness.
Kim confronted the writer. "But Rhonnie, we don't think he's real," she said, struggling to stay calm.
Angry, Rhonnie slammed his fist on the laptop. "No! Why can't y'all believe me!"
"We don't understand," I challenged him. "What do you mean he uses you?"
"Goddammit, everything he writes comes true!" Rhonnie said. "You don't see it but his stuff is real. The Scarred Man, the serial killers. The hauntings out here, they're all true!" Rhonnie gave the laptop another frantic hit. "And it's all because of Brad fucking Haskell!"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kim slide her trembling hands under the table. But her rattled face still ratted out her fear.
Rhonnie held his arms out toward us. "Just think about earlier!" he said. "You said Haskell's new story was about me. That I was moving from Columbus to Albany to Stanwyck."
Feigning confidence, I leaned back in my seat. "Well, that'd make sense if you wrote it."
"But I didn't!" Rhonnie yelled. "I had no idea!" With a manic flourish, he waved around the kitchen. "And look, here I am! Right here in Stanwyck, Georgia!" He slammed his hands on the table. "What Haskell wrote came true! I didn't even plan on coming here until today." He ran a flustered hand through his hair. "I didn't even fucking know it'd be in a story... I had no idea..."
"But is this with all the stories?" I asked in a clinical tone.
"Yes!" Rhonnie replied. "Every single one."
"Even the werewolves, vampires-"
"Goddammit, yes!" Rhonnie interrupted. His demeanor was now reminiscent of a mad prophet rather than rebellious writer. "You don't understand because you're not from around here! You don't see the horror, man. You don't experience it like I do!"
Kim and I just stared at him in frightened silence. I could feel my cold cynicism crumble. Could feel myself trapped in this south Georgia household.
"I try to stay on his good side," Rhonnie said. Going from hysterical horror to inner paranoia, he checked his phone. "That's all I can do. It's my only chance."
"But how do you know he's real?" I asked, trying to stay focused and collected.
Rhonnie looked at me.
"Maybe you really have lost it," I went on. "Maybe Haskell just exists in your mind."
"Aw, that's bullshit!" Rhonnie said.
"Think about it." I leaned in closer. "Maybe you're channeling something else when you're writing Haskell."
Sympathetic, Kim motioned toward Rhonnie. "Like your unstable side. Like maybe Haskell represents a darker side of you."
Rhonnie gave us a weak grin. "Like King and Bachman? Is that it?"
"Exactly," I said.
Like a dismissive scholar, Rhonnie threw his beer into the garbage can. Pure disdain. "Jesus Christ..." he grumbled.
"But we're not saying you're crazy," Kim said. "You're just channeling that side of you into this pseudonym."
"More like a literary brother than a split personality," I quipped.
Rhonnie glared at us. "Like a brother trying to kill me? A brother who tortures me everyday?"
Playing gentle therapist, Kim held her hands out toward him. "But it's probably another side of you. Fighting to coexist."
Rhonnie pushed the laptop away. "No, I'm not fucking crazy! I know what I've seen." He folded his arms. Anxiety galore. "The things Haskell writes about happen to me. The people close to me."
I studied Rhonnie hard. Yeah, he wasn't acting. That much was certain. But at the very least, he believed his terrifying story.
"All these bad things happen to them," Rhonnie said. Faint tears appeared in his eyes. Raw emotion everywhere. "I just gotta play along. That's all me and Ashley can do. We have to."
"What do you mean play along?" Kim asked, unease in her tone.
Hesitant, Rhonnie picked at his nails. Horrifying hangnails ran down his fingers like battle scars. "I just try to please him." Rhonnie looked at us. "I have to keep writing. Be as prolific as him."
"Whoa, but hold up," I interjected. "You said all these stories come true?"
"They are true," Rhonnie stated.
"So what about Ashley then?" Drunk and more animated than usual, I waved around the kitchen. "Why isn't she here?"
Kim grabbed my arm. Some excitement mixed with her relief. "Oh shit, you're right!"
"What do you mean?" Rhonnie asked.
Kim faced him. "In the story, Ashley comes here."
"What..." Rhonnie said, his voice trembling.
"She surprises you!"
Defeated, Rhonnie looked down at the table. "Oh God. No..." His demeanor was that of a tormented survivor. A helpless one.
"Yeah, that was in the story," I added.
Rhonnie confronted us. "No! She can't! She's safer away from me!"
Headlights cut through the darkness.
I saw shivers serenade Kim. Felt my stomach twist in knots.
Terrified, Rhonnie looked out the window. Out toward the Corolla parking by the basketball goal.
I knew I didn't have to ask who it was.
Outside, Ashley rushed up to the front door. Still in her gray dress suit.
"Is that her?" Kim asked Rhonnie. "Was she supposed to come?"
"I don't know," Rhonnie said. He glanced at his phone. "She didn't text me."
The front door swung open. Holding her huge purse, Ash stepped inside. A pretty smile stood out on her smooth brown skin. Her hair pulled back in a neat bun. "Oh my God, they're here!" she yelled in excitement.
Scared shitless, we just stared at her.
Full of pride, Ashley faced Rhonnie. "I just wanted to surprise you! I can't believe Mr. Creeps came!" She looked at Kim and I. "It's so nice to meet y'all!"
Rhonnie stood up and grabbed Ashley's arm. "Did you read the story!" he demanded.
Ashley put her purse on a shelf. "What story?"
"The Brad Haskell story! He wrote a new one!"
Fear washed over Ashley. Somehow, she matched Rhonnie's frightening intensity. "What? A new one!"
Kim and I sat there, uneasy. Like two guests who walked in at a bad time.
Trembling, Rhonnie motioned toward us. "They said he's got a new story about us coming to Stanwyck. That you'd come here and surprise me."
"No..." Ashley said. She faced us, dreading an answer. "Then what happens? What happens next!"
Rhonnie glared at us. "What happens!"
Kim pushed her chair back.
Snatching her arm, I held Kim in place. Too scared to get left behind.
Rhonnie hit the table. "What happens!" he yelled.
"Nothing happened to y'all," I said, struggling to suppress my stutter. "It just ends with you writing another story. That's it."
In a mad scientist breakdown, Rhonnie ran his hands through his hair. "Oh fuck..." he muttered.
Concerned, Ash placed a hand on his shoulder. "Babe, what's wrong?"
Rhonnie looked toward the laptop. Defeated despair decimated him.
Ashley squeezed his shoulder. "You wrote it?"
"You're already writing a story?" Kim asked him.
Rhonnie glared at her. "I'm always writing!" Pulling away from Ashley, he staggered back against the wall. "I have to for him! It's our only chance to stay safe! Our only chance to survive!"
Playing the protector in this relationship, Ashley hugged him tight. "Babe," she said.
In a final attempt to solve the mystery, I stood up. Relying on nothing but guts and desperation. "None of you can believe this, right? This is crazy!"
Like a panicking roadie, Kim grabbed all our equipment.
"There's no Haskell, there's no stories coming to life!" I went on.
Ashley stepped toward me. Fire in her eyes. "Yes, it is!" she yelled. "We're not lying!"
Her conviction rattled me. The final nail in Mr. Creeps's coffin of courage.
Rhonnie leaned back against the wall. His straight hair strewn about in wiry disarray. He was at the mercy of himself and his writing. Or maybe at the mercy of his Stanwyck rival...
Angry, Ashley pointed right at me. "Y'all wouldn't understand!" She motioned toward Rhonnie. "He makes Rhonnie write! Rhonnie's got no choice but to write all these stories!"
Kim snatched my hand in a death grip.
"He has to write to protect us!" Ashley said.
Rhonnie stopped next to Ash. The couple like a cult. "It's predestination," Rhonnie said in a defeated tone. "Haskell has us and we can't do anything about it."
The two of them entered a somber silence. Ashley wrapped an arm around Rhonnie. About all she could do in their despair. Their disturbing fate.
Somehow, Kim's grip got tighter. Her nails like five shovels digging into my flesh.
"I shouldn't have let y'all come," Rhonnie said to Kim and I. "Y'all don't need to be stuck like us."
"But you don't know that, Rhonnie," Ash said in a weak attempt to reassure him.
"No, it's what he always does. He'll trap us all! Every one of us will be trapped in Haskell's world!"
The ceiling lights cut out. Darkness dominated the scene. Nothing else.
In a last ditch effort to get through the madness, I approached the couple. "But what if you can stop him?"
Rhonnie and Ash looked at me. The faces of two children confronting the boogeyman.
"There has to be a way!" I continued.
"There isn't," Rhonnie said.
Quiet, Ashley pulled him in closer.
"Haskell's more than a pseudonym," Rhonnie went on. "He's not Richard Bachman, he's real. He's real in his writing and his stories. And he lives through it. Just to torture us."
Unnerved, Kim and I looked on at the couple's pitiful fear. Then again, we weren't much better... we were fucking terrified.
"We're just characters in his world," Rhonnie said. "That's all we are really."
Ashley stroked Rhonnie's face. "We'll be okay..." she muttered.
Kim pulled on my hand. "Let's go!" she pleaded.
An army of barks erupted around us. Ferocious barks, howls. Rhonnie's dogs were in a breakdown of baying...
Kim put her hands over her ears. "Shit!"
Staving off the horror as best I could, I confronted Ashley and Rhonnie. One more attempt at answers. "So why you?" I asked through the howling chorus. "Why does he want you!"
Ashley looked to Rhonnie.
"I'm a writer," he said, his voice calm for the first time since daylight.
"Both of them are," Ashley commented.
On the ground, the laptop burst to life. The lid popped up. Awakening from its grave, its screen beamed through the darkness. A document page awaited Rhonnie's fingertips. Another horror story in progress. One Brad Haskell couldn't wait for him to finish...
I heard Kim scream next to me. But Rhonnie's green eyes held my gaze. Him and Ash didn't even flinch at the sight. Even with the dogs going wild and this house of horrors reaching its scariest peak, Rhonnie kept me there wanting more answers.
"Our life is storytelling," Rhonnie said to me. He showed no smile. No hint of emotion... nothing positive at least. "And I guess he's a fan."
Like a docile cheerleader, Ashley caressed his face. A cool, rhythmic touch.
Rhonnie looked at her. "I just have to keep writing." He turned his despondent gaze toward me. "Keep Brad Haskell happy forever."
The couple just stood there. A horror-hipster American Gothic.
Kim dragged me toward the living room. "Come on, let's go!" she shouted.
"I hope y'all make it," I heard Rhonnie's voice say. Through the darkness, I couldn't even see him anymore.
In the living room, barking hurtled at us from all sides. But Kim was quick. Frightened adrenaline helped us grab our shit fast.
"All I know is Ash and I have no choice," Rhonnie's voice continued.
I let Kim lead the way. Straight out of this house. Straight out of the horror.
"We just hope Haskell has a Heaven for us," Rhonnie said.
The barking began to fade behind us. I felt nothing in the kitchen. Not Rhonnie or Ashley. And thankfully, the darkness masked the mystery.
"Or something close to it," Rhonnie's voice finished.
Kim and I ran outside and piled into the SUV like runaways. I let Kim drive. She was always faster than me... and this was the fastest I ever saw her.
In the rural silence, the long and winding driveway felt endless. The dirt road even longer. But soon enough, we reached the Stanwyck city limits. We passed Walmart, McDonald's. The crass commercialism elicited comfort.
Amidst the lingering trauma, Kim struggled to keep her trembling hands on the wheel. Keep her wide eyes on the road. "Turn on the radio," she said. "I can't drive like this."
"I hear you," I replied. Reaching over, I put on a local station.
The channel hit us right between the eyes. There were constant static and alarms. 104.1 was under fire.
"What the Hell's that!" Kim yelled.
The sinking fear I felt earlier returned.
A frantic local reporter took over the airwaves. Her voice electric and frightened. Just like Rhonnie's...
"A shooting just happened here in Tallahassee!" she said, stumbling over her words. "Fourteen officially dead, twenty more wounded. Police say a shooting just happened here at The Centre mall. Repeat, a mass shooting here at The Centre mall on North Monroe!"
Sirens formed a soundtrack behind her.
Kim and I exchanged terrified looks.
"There is no word on a suspect!" the reporter said.
Shivering, I leaned back in my seat. All while the unnerving broadcast swept through my SUV... "The story," I said to Kim.
Kim just stared out the windshield. "It came true."
As we got further from Tallahassee, 104.1 faded into static. But that didn't stop the reports... The coverage of the mass shooting reached a fever pitch. Maybe this one wasn't Haskell's scariest story but it became his most popular.
The rural highways only added to Kim and I's unease. I saw nothing in the night. Not a car in sight.
At the Georgia state line, I put on TheDevilsInterval. Our desperate escape from real world horror to fun fiction.
To my surprise, a brand new narration was up. A new story called "Requiem For The Horror Narrator."
But Kim and I's vague excitement died upon seeing the author: Brad Haskell. Goddamn, he was prolific...
"Oh God..." Kim muttered.
The story hit us hard. Especially since Haskell referenced us by name. He was writing about Kim and I. Our encounter with Rhonnie.
Both us listened, captivated by terror. Bound to Haskell's prose.
"Mr. Creeps and Kim made it out of the house," the narrator said.
The ominous piano music chilled us to the bone. As did the narrator's cold voice.
Feeling uneasy, I looked out the window. Out toward those deep, dark woods.
"They hit the road hard," the story continued. "Far away from Stanwyck. And an escape they'll never make."
Submitted July 01, 2019 at 06:10AM by rhonnie14 https://ift.tt/2Yr6iMe
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