text: [Themes: horror]
  
  You watch the old man, your grandfather, approach the house, holding his axe casually like it's just another day. He passes through long strands of grass, dancing in the wind. Your fingers feel the keys in your palm, noticing the ridges and smooth patterns of the aged Dodge logo. The ring consists of two keys: one for the car, and the other is smaller like it's meant for a padlock or mailbox.
  
  The shed doesn't have an automatic door, so you quickly run to the wooden double doors and swing them open. They glide open seamlessly, without so much of a squeak or
  scratch
  squeal from lack of oil. Then, you move to the driver's door of the '73 Rallye. Same thing, only the car door requires more umph to pull open. The wheel is different than you're used to. It's thinner, but also larger with ridges in the back for finger placement.
  
  Ignition.
  
  The beast roars to life, a pump on the gas aiding, your right hand finding a home on the stick, its typical lollipop shape replaced with a model chamber of a revolver. The roar slowly turns into a growl, like the warning sound of a tiger hunting in the jungle.On the dashboard, the clock shows 6:12. Five minutes, he said. If you don't see anything, then drive off. Could you really just leave your family behind? Cool leather seats behind you, a gravel driveway in front, you stamp your foot down on the clutch and pop it into first.
  
  It jolts forward, sending a spray of gravel in the air. Cursing, you lighten on the gas. Torque, indeed. At a crawl, you bring the Challenger around to the front, exactly as your grandfather told you. Now, the waiting begins.
  
  6:13
  
  The house sits empty, void of the life you noticed when arriving. Its two eyes, the front windows are dark, not unlike your grandmother's eyes. The thought brings a chill to the small hairs on your neck.
  
  6:14
  
  Rain pelts the hardtop, making small puddles on the Challenger's hood, transitioning it into a glossy yellow. The beast purrs, desperately wanting you to step on the gas. It wants to run free. It may be aged, stiff from being locked in its cage, but now it can run free. It can rule the jungle again.
  
  6:15
  
  Your parents' RAV 4 is still parked in the front. Compared to the Rallye, it looks bulky, frail, plastic, like the design is meant to distract you from its severe lack in power, and instead, focuses on features, perfect for grabbing the short attention-span of the public. Are people the same way? Does a flashy exterior attract others, despite lacking strength, a solid foundation "under the hood?"
  
  6:16
  
  The '73 Challenger Rallye is the exact opposite. Sturdy, solidly built, it's a perfect reflection of your grandfather. On the outside, it appeals to certain crowds, certainly not the vast majority. It doesn't attempt to hide from wear and tear, scars accrued over the years. It's not equipped with the latest tech. Hell, there's not even a tape player, and the dashboard clock's analog. Your hand feeling the wheel, back pressed against the leather, you'd pick the Rallye every time.
  
  6:17
  
  No one's coming.
  
  > drive off
  There's no point in sticking around. They're not coming. Your grandfather isn't one to act against his word. If he's not here, if no family members or Father Mark appeared by the five minute mark, then they're not coming. Idling the Challenger a minute longer won't change that fact, besides upping your chances of not escaping.
  
  Your foot slams on the clutch, and your hand brings the stick to first. In a slight spin-out, spraying more gravel in the air, you leave the cottage behind, eyeing the home through the rear-view mirror as you make your escape. Your mother, father, Emma, grandparents, even Father Mark: they're as good as dead. The things witnessed in that damn cottage are from the devil, no mistaking that fact. You've never been religious, but you say a quick prayer to the man upstairs, begging for your family's safety. He doesn't answer back.
  
  Rain continues to pelt against the Challenger's hood, the wipers doing as well as you'd expect from the aged parts. The single lane road through the Appalachian forest is quiet, save for the rain. Somber gray skies peer through breaks in the treeline, basking your escape in dreary weather, fitting for the circumstance.
  
  Your foot presses harder on the gas. The sooner you're out of the Appalachian, the better.
  
  10 years later...
  
  Your elbows rest on the hard bar top, shoulders slouching just above. It's not a comfortable position necessarily, but it's the only one that draws close. Although, that's more likely attributed to the lowball glass in your hand. Johnnie Walker Red Label, your go-to, the only bandage for the things you've witnessed.
  
  Even that thought brings a slight chill to your body.
  
  The smoky scotch burns a strong flavor on your tongue. You swish it around, allowing the burning to spread to your lips. The past ten years have not been blissful, to say the least. Countless nights awakening in sweat, remember the dark bags underneath the thing's eyes, drooping skin threatening to fall from your grandmother's aged bones. No, you'd rather not remember. At least whiskey numbs the thoughts. For a while. Then, eventually, the buzz wears off, and your mind resumes playback on the horrors witnessed. Back to the bar, and the cycle continues. You've driven far away from the Appalachian, to the furthest place you could get. California.
  
  "Nice ride."
  
  Next to you, a young woman appears smiling. Her blonde curls rest just past her shoulders, framing a face with too much makeup on. Does her natural face really need that much? Apparently so.
  
  "Thanks," you reply. "She's a '73."
  
  "Do you take passengers? I have gas money," the woman says, touching her pointer finger to her nostril. If scotch is a bandage, cocaine is fucking makeshift splint. It does the trick for a short while, but eventually it wears from usefulness. Thirty minutes, tops. Still, that's half an hour of peace, thirty minutes of suppressing the memories.
  
  Somehow you muster a smile, doing your very best to ignore how you really feel. "Wheel's up in five. I'll keep her running, but if you don't show, I'm taking off."
  
  The woman nods, smiling, and rushes to gather her things. She better fucking show.