Restless Souls by Tom Bonds

ome

tories

ostumes

alloween

eddings

rtists

-zines

indred

ec.

st «

inks nbsp;

ontact

iction

ubmissions

ankla

eatured

rtists

Restless Souls
©2006 Word Count: 4600

1. A Piece of His Mind
The gusty wind buffets the Ford Taurus speeding down the barren, rain slicked stretch of I-94 in the after midnight hours; the windshield wipers barely keeping up with the torrential downpour. At the wheel, veteran sales rep Bob Marshall, Chicago bound; it's just another city, another convention, same old blah, blah, blah sales pitch. He could deliver it in his sleep, and probably has.

With yet another in an endless series of yawns, he fights off a weariness that only this dismal life on the road can trigger. Those struggles go way beyond his self-inflicted sleep deprivation. Add to that, the heart constricting pangs, the barren feelings of loneliness, ever since the divorce settlement; the one which had dissolved his 23 year marriage. A long sigh accompanies his contemplative mood, for even he had been forced to concede that marriage had never really existed, much beyond their third anniversary.

"This useless job, this life sucking job." Hissing those words through his gnashing teeth, he slams his clenched fist against the dashboard. He can't help but notice how the one hundred thousand plus miles, racked up on the odometer, are on par with the used up way he feels. Only the sting of pain, rushing up his frazzled nerve endings, reminds him that his realization is too little, too late, and won't change one damned thing, not now, perhaps ever.

Traveling this same sort of monotonous itinerary, year in, year out, these past two decades has paid well, but he has paid dearly for it, all the same. The brutal insight, of the toll it had exacted, only came to him on another stormy night, twelve months earlier, the time he caught his wife in the arms of her paramour, in the midst of impassioned, frenzied lovemaking.

Bob didn't even bother to assume the role of the enraged, jealous husband. No, he knew, instantly, who had deprived her of the normal relations she had expected, was entitled to. He was fully aware the man he should be angry with was, in actuality, not in that bed.

He had nowhere else to point the finger of blame, other than the self-image in the bureau's mirror. At that sobering moment, he felt as two dimensional as that reflected portrait. Yes, that dimly lit, lifeless, haggard expression chiseled on his sorry, tired face was there, right before his eyes.

Despite all his soul-searching, 20/20 insights, the sight and sound of their ardor was still demoralizing. He had glumly turned to leave, looking back over his shoulder one last time, so desperately hoping he had only imagined it; all to no avail. Worse yet, they had been so enraptured, that they were still completely oblivious to his presence. His sigh, too, went unnoticed by all but himself. "Oh well, oh well," he lamented under his breath, "Invisible for all these long years, why should this night be any different?"

2. No Peace of Mind
The blinding flash of lightning, past and present, jolts Bob out of his pensive mood. So does the red, illuminated, low fuel indicator. So does swerving to avoid hitting the vintage red Mustang, partially blocking the right lane.

Following that near miss, his eyes finally find, focus on the information he needs; Gas Food Lodging, Next Exit, states the blue sign. He catches the unnatural glow of the neon lighting in the distance. Another yawn, his tearing eyes conspire along with the raindrops on the windshield, to blur that image; transform that tableau into something surreal.

Pulling up to the pumps, just as the falling rain ebbs, he exits his car. He hopes, at least, the chill in the autumn air, will help reclaim his M.I.A. alertness. Zipping his jacket, turning the collar up, he starts filling his gas tank.

As he glances around, a young woman in her late teens or early twenties catches his eye. She's inside the station, talking frantically on the pay phone, her animated gesturing; her worried glances out the glass paned door, both exhibit her agitated state of mind. She hangs up the phone, nervously pacing a bit before settling for a spot in the doorway. The aftereffects of her intense dialogue are obvious, he can see her breasts rising and falling rapidly, her breath fogging up the glass. He can sense this stranger's misery, almost hear her thoughts crying out to the world, or is it just to him?

Her shoulder length, jet black hair looks wet and tangled, the sheen tinted garishly by the fluorescent lighting. Even from afar, he can tell her low riding jeans and tie-dyed lavender tee agree with her hair; look as if she had been caught in the rainstorm. There's a vacancy, hollowness in her dark, glazed over eyes that goes deeper than her overdone, tear streaked mascara merely implies. That, combined with arms crossed in front, at her waist, shows ambivalence, perhaps the odd mix of submission and rebellion?

He notices the bright, silvery gleam of her peace medallion, which dangles from the chain around her neck; yet, he senses that there is no more peace in her life this stormy night, than there is in his. All long distance psychoanalysis aside, Bob concludes she could be the poster child for the sixties hippie movement; something that almost strikes him as odd, if it was not for the fact that, in the new millennia, the retro look is in vogue. Or, possibly her fashion statement was simply a costume for a one day early, Halloween party she had attended?

Just as he removes the nozzle and secures the gas cap in place, a bright red vintage '68 Mustang, suspiciously like the one he had nearly collided with, roars up to the adjacent pump island and a tough, enraged punk storms out. The young lady in the station now has the look of wild eyed panic, deadly fear, perhaps of the devil, himself, written all over her young face. She bolts out of the station and tries to avoid him like the venomous snake she must consider him. He does not, will not relent; no, not that easily. In his testosterone fueled rage, he backs her up along the side of the building, then into an unlit corner.

3. Territorial Pissing
"I'm not done with you yet, Fawn!" he yells in a menacing tone.
"Get the hell out of my life, Eric!" she cries out, "You don't own me!" They scuffle.
"Leave! Me! Alone!" she asserts one word at a time, her tears streaming down her ghostly white cheeks.

Bob cannot possibly stand by idly for another second. The hand to hand combat skills, he learned in the Marines, ones which had saved his own neck back in Nam, are so ingrained they kick in automatically. He comes up from behind and yanks the punk away. Spinning him around, he decks him square on the jaw, knocking him on his ass.

"Stay out of this old man!" he snarls with contempt, wiping the streaming blood from his lacerated lower lip, his hatred spilling out from every cell of his being. "This is no fuckin' concern of yours! I'll kick your ass so you won't know what hit you!"
"Oh yeah?” Bob smirks and retorts, “Tough words coming from a worthless piece of shit on the ground."
Eric, bristling with aggression, picks himself up, reaches inside the pocket of his now ripped and abraded leather jacket. He draws and brandishes his 38.
"Eric, NO!" Fawn screams in horror, her opportune distraction providing Bob the moment he needs. He lunges forward and prevails, knocking, sending Eric's handgun flying through the air and over the barbed wire atop the six foot chain link fence behind them. He next delivers a solid blow to Eric's stomach. Once again the punk hits the dirt, this time, writhing in even more pain and gasping for air.

"I could easily snap you in two with my bare hands," Bob rages, then snarls, "Care to see if I'm bluffing? What follows, almost sounds like he's dispensing some fatherly advice. "Now, why doncha be a good little boy; just crawl back into your badass car and get the hell out of here, before I really tear into you!"

Bob is pleased, not only about defending the young lady, but also for taking care of himself, and with an armed opponent half his age, no less. He's amused watching that coward scrambling off in a panic for his car, nearly falling flat on his face three times, still reeling from only two punches. But, just before he gets in, Eric with a murderous defiance blazing in his eyes, whips Bob the finger and vows, "I know what you drive and I never forget a face. Mother Fucker, you will pay for this!"

Bob returns that one digit gesture. Within seconds, that punk slams the car door, the engine roars back to life and after the sounds of screeching tires fade, the peaceful falling rain, once again, starts to patter on the ground.

Heart pounding in his head, now coming down from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, he turns to ask, "Miss, are you all right?" But she is nowhere to be seen; not in or near the station, not even rushing off in the distance. It's as if she's vanished, like some otherworldly specter.

4. Out of Time
Bob suddenly feels unease, a chill rushing up and down his spine. All he hears are his shoes hitting the wet, gritty pavement as he walks inside to pay for the gas. The bells, which hang from the door, jangle both his ears and nerves as he enters.

As he whips out his credit card, Bob tries to make sense of it all, but finds the mechanic oddly unfazed, not very talkative. The oval label, sewn to his grease stained uniform, says his name is Carl.

"I thought the cops would've surely been here by now." Bob blurts out.
"Cops? What for?" Carl asks, with a thick southern drawl.
"Didn't you see all that?" he asks incredulously, gesturing towards the door, "You know, the fight out there? My God, that punk even pulled a gun on me!"
"Mister, I just punch a time clock 'n pick up my paycheck each Friday. Nobody pays me to see nothin'."
"But you must've at least seen where the girl went, right?"
"Like I said, man, nobody pays me to see nothin.”
"How could you not notice her? Just a few moments ago, she was standing right over there, using your pay phone."
"As long as she dropped her dime down the slot, pal, I don't pay no mind. Besides, my old lady would kill me if she even caught me eyeballin' some other chick."

Bob now scornfully wonders how Carl had become such an apathetic, calloused, egocentric creep. He watches him run his card through one of those vintage push pull charge imprinters, then fill in the old style, hand-written, carbon copy charge form. Sliding it across the counter for him to sign, Bob thinks to himself, wow, I haven't seen one of these in years. He reaches out to pick up his card, but Carl snatches it away. "Hey man, gimme a sec; I still gotta look it up in the book to see if you're a deadbeat." Now this, too, is really odd, but Bob speculates that the system might be down, due to the storm.

"OK, you're cool". Oh, and by the way, thanks for pumping the gas yourself, that sure saved me some time. The boss man says I've gotta finish two more tune-ups and an oil change before I can go home. Good thing he didn't see you, though, he'd nail my ass for letting you run the gas pump, yourself."

Bob feels yet another puzzled look appear on his face. Does full service even exist anywhere, anymore? With a silent shrug, he stuffs his receipt in his wallet and heads back out into this strange, stormy night.

Just as he turns the key in the ignition, for a split second, a huge streaking lightning bolt turns night into day. As he pulls out from the station, the thunder crashes. Mere moments later, as he hits the entrance ramp, the rainstorm resumes.

5. Safe Haven
Back on the desolate expressway, once more, the odometer begins racking up the miles. Considering further his dealings with Carl, Bob suddenly is struck by a slew of peculiarities. He has just filled up a nearly empty gas tank for less than five bucks? Perhaps some price war had been going on? Rare, but not totally unheard of. And other odd things now come to mind. Hell, he's even willing to concede that that ancient, rotary dial pay phone would still accept a dime, to complete the call.

But there are practical matters to consider, as well; like watching his back. Bob finds himself frequently checking for headlights in his mirror, and a pair of the telltale, classic, three sectioned taillights, ahead. Not that he's especially worried, but he knows his four-cylinder Taurus would be no match for Eric's V-8 Mustang.

Worst case scenarios begin to flood his imagination. Driving too fast for the conditions, skidding out of control on the rain drenched pavement, would be a cop's far too convenient conclusion; should a rematch with Eric, this time of a vehicular nature, play itself out.

But, Bob’s immediate concerns prove unwarranted. The next sixty miles and sixty minutes come and go, without incident. Overpowering fatigue and the storm's severity, however, just might co-conspire to unwittingly help Eric, in absentia, to exact his vowed vengeance. With the lulling drone of the engine, the warmth of the car's heat, Bob catches himself nodding off a couple of times, and realizes he just may need to call it a night.

Hitting the next exit ramp, he spots the Safe Haven Motel, the vacancy sign. He parks in the back lot; no sense in letting Eric spot his car, if it should ever come down to that.

He finds the night manager lighting up his cigarette, from the butt of the one just finished. He has that same tired, beleaguered expression, that same receding hairline Bob has seen countless mornings, while shaving his own mug in the bathroom mirror. The social pleasantries exchanged, the register signed and key to his room in hand, all Bob wants to do now is crash.

As he lugs his suitcase out of the car trunk, he realizes that he has made some good travel time. A quick mental calculation tells him he can have five hours to sleep, grab a quick bite in the morning, and still hit Chi town right on schedule.

Turning the key in the lock, switching on the lights, Bob is abruptly startled. Standing before him is a woman. His eyes are momentarily unaccustomed to the bright light. Her reaction, or more correctly, her lack of reaction, is not what he had expected.

"I'm so sorry, Miss, there must have been some mix up; it appears the manager has given me the wrong key."

But as his eyes adjust, he's in for shocker number two.

6. Key Moment
"What the hell?" he mumbles, then blurts, "Fawn? How'd you get here?"
"I sneaked into the backseat of your car, you know, while you paid for your gas."
"Why didn't you speak up? I’d have gladly given you a lift wherever you needed to go."
"I was exhausted. I fell asleep the moment my head hit the car seat. The next thing I knew I was here. Besides, the only place I needed to be is with you, to properly show my appreciation. Like, I mean what you did, back there, was so brave. You saved my life."

Fawn steps over to the still wide open door to shut it, lock it, and engage the chain. Bob turns to find her standing close, ever so close. He can feel the heat off her body, the warmth of her breath dancing against his lips. Her arms dissolve around his waist and her moist lips brush against his, at first tentatively, then with more intent.

Midway, their lips part and their kiss soars to the realm of raw passion. As they come up for air, he feels his smile mirroring hers. With a glint in her eye, a mischievous expression, she says in a low voice, nearly a whisper, "The night is far from over, Bobby, my luv, my hero. There's far more to come before the dawn."
"Fawn, don't get me wrong," he pauses, and catching his breath adds, "I could very easily give in to this temptation, but you really don't owe me this."
She steps back with a tear streaming down her cheek. "What's wrong?" he asks.
"You don't want me."
"Fawn, I’m a gentleman; please don't mistake that for rejection. He kisses her tear away, and reassures, “You are a very desirable young woman. Your allure is tough to resist."
"So, why fight what we both know we want and need? If it feels good, do it. Am I right?"

Their lips meet again, this time her supple body pressing into his, non-verbally emphasizing that hedonistic philosophy; her intentions. She then steps back and in a sultry tone, exhales, "I do believe it's past our bedtime."

She turns out the light and with the rhythmic, pulsing blue neon sign outside, the brighter sporadic lightning, too; this all filters in through the half open blinds. Almost like a strobe light, the flashes of striated light illuminates flashes of skin, the freeze framed stages of undress, as they frantically shed their clothing with reckless abandon. The accompanying sounds of kicked off shoes hitting the floor, zips unzipping, rumpled fabric sliding off of skin, leave to the imagination, the details the darkness fails to reveal.

Fully nude, they slip under the covers. The preliminaries are frantic, responses heightened, the need to dissolve their two bodies into one, immediate. Their erotic symphony filters outward, escaping the confines of those thin four walls, mingling with the sounds of the thunder and steady falling rain; the occasional car whooshing by on the highway and into the night, and the three brief blasts of a freight train's mournful horn, faint in the far distance. There are countless, repeated crescendos and culminations of their animal lust, some solo, others duets, all leading up to the predawn hours, when all that remains is the waning storm, their shared blissful slumbers, and their almost imperceptible, contented breathing.

7. Rude Awakening
Bob's wake up call, per his request, arrives promptly at 7:30 a.m. Nearly knocking the phone off the nightstand to both answer it, and then replace the handset, he now turns over unsteadily in bed, his intent to give the woman, he has intimately shared pleasure with, a tender, good morning kiss.

But she's not there.

"Fawn?" he calls out.

There is no answer.

Bob is further jolted back to consciousness by the cold linoleum tiles under his bare feet, as he traipses over to the slightly ajar, bathroom door. His very act of knocking pushes it open slowly, the creaking hinges protesting, yet ultimately revealing that she's not there, either.

He looks over at the door that exits to the parking lot. It's not only locked, but the chain is still engaged. He feels his jaw dropping. None of this makes any sense.

All the windows are also secure, and they can only be locked from the inside. He looks for other means of exit, but there are zip, zero, none.

He opens the closet, fully expecting Fawn to playfully jump out and say "Boo!" after all, it is now Halloween morning. But again, she's nowhere in sight. He even checks under the bed.

As he now stares down at the slept in bed linen, he can only wonder, ask the obvious. Does not that, in itself, prove that she had really been there? Or had he only dreamt all of this? Lost touch with reality; perhaps sanity, itself?

Despite all the evidence, which says she could not have possibly left the motel room, he investigates further. Hurriedly putting his clothes back on, he steps out into the blue gray, overcast dawn. A brisk, chilly wind sends ripples in the scattered puddles of rain water, instills a shiver throughout his body.

At first he goes out back, to check his car. No Fawn. Then he rushes out front, standing on the gravel covered shoulder of the highway, to search both up and down, desperate for the sight of a young woman fading into the horizon. But no such image exists. All that’s left is that empty, sinking feeling in his heart.

He heads for the motel office. She might be there. And if not, there are questions to be asked, though he's not really expecting that any meaningful answers will be forthcoming.

Still, the night manager seems like the most logical, if not the only, place to begin.

8. Voice of Reason
"Good morning, Mr. Marshall, I hope you slept well."
"Yeah, eventually" Bob replies.
"I don't doubt that." he says with a grin, then asks, "Uh, something I can do for you?"
"Well, maybe you can answer a few questions?"
"Sure, what's on your mind?"
"Did you see a young woman leave my room this morning?"
"Lemme guess, you rescued her from a young hoodlum named Eric, over at the Standard service station?"
"How'd you know?"
"Sit down, my friend; this won't be easy for you to accept. I knew we'd be having this conversation, as soon as I noticed your name was Robert."
"My name? What the hell does my name have to do with it?"
"All in due time. Care for a cup of joe, Mr. Marshall? I just brewed a fresh pot."
"I sure could use one. And no need to be so formal, just call me Bob."
“OK, Bob, and, uh, the name is Sylvester, but you can call me Sly.”
As they drink their coffee, Sly, lighting up a cigarette, takes a long drag, then shaking his head side to side, he exhales his repeated warning, "No, this will not be easy to accept."
“I’ll try to keep an open mind, Sly. Just tell me, what the hell has been going on.”

“OK, you asked for it. This all started thirty-five years ago, on this very night, it too, was a stormy one. Fawn O'Connell and Eric Rogers were out on a date, if you could call it that. As the story goes, Fawn had a new boyfriend in the next town, named Bobby Freeman. Well, that fateful night she broke up with Eric, and to say that he didn't take it well, would be a gross understatement. To make matters worse, Eric had fallen in with a bad crowd, a real tough gang, and though Fawn was likely unaware of it at that time, he had recently begun packing a 38. Well, he pulled over to the shoulder of the expressway, and as the rainstorm raged all around them, no doubt, they raged at each other. My guess is he drew the gun and ordered her out of the car; may have even been considering an execution. Considering his machismo, that dictated his actions, if he could not have her, nobody else could. Anyway, it's unclear exactly how she escaped that, but somehow she made it to the service station. There, Fawn placed her tearful, frantic phone call to Bobby, told him all the lurid details, especially that Eric was armed and she feared he had plans to kill her. Bobby first called the police, and then set out to rescue her. Carl Smithers, the station mechanic, not especially known for being the helpful sort, did confirm that she had no sooner hung up, when Eric drove up. Fawn did try to make a last ditch effort to escape, but, there was no way that was gonna happen. Eric backed her into a corner, off to the side of the station, where their argument resumed and escalated to an all out physical scuffle. Any of this sound familiar, Bob?"

His mouth is now agape; the similarities are as if Sly had actually been an eye witness, mere hours ago.

“Tell me more.” Bob blurts, both wanting, yet not really wanting to know.

9. Glimmer of Hope
"Well, at that point,” Sly continues with a long sigh, “things, decidedly, took a turn for the worse. In a moment of jealous rage, Eric drew his gun and threatened her with it. The safety must've been off, for the gun discharged. The bullet tore through her heart, at point blank range, killing her instantly. With the wail of the approaching police car’s siren screaming in his head, the ghastly image of Fawn's blood hemorrhaging out on to the pavement before his eyes, horror and astonishment sculpted Eric's facial features. As he hunched over Fawn's lifeless body, he sobbed like a baby, wailing out, 'I didn't really mean to do it', over and over. Then, just as the patrol car came to a screeching halt, with the flashing reds and blues reinforcing the stark reality, Eric put the gun to his right temple and blew his brains out."

"Lemme see if I've got this straight, Sly. You're telling me that two ghosts haunted me?"
"Yep, that about sums it up. The legend has it that, ever since that horrific Devil's Night, October 30, 1971, whenever it rains, these two tormented souls roam the Earth to replay each and every dreadful detail of this tragedy. Fawn so desperately clings to her hope of being rescued by Bobby, that if any man, so named, happens to save her, his reward is; uh, well, I don't need to tell you how she thanks her rescuer, now do I?"

Sly sees the skepticism written across Bob's face. "Not buying any of it, are you? Well, if it'll make it any easier for you, perhaps you should simply dismiss this as a wild dream?"
"That would explain much, Sly, for, what you've told me, defies belief."

"I can see how you’d feel that way, but, Bob, consider all the anachronisms. Gasoline at 29.9 cents per gallon? At a full service gas station? That '68 Mustang? The rotary dial pay phone? How Fawn looked, talked and acted like a sixties flower child? And here's the real kicker. How do you explain away the fact that you slept with what appeared to be a flesh and blood woman, yet, she was able to slip out of a tightly locked up room, without unlocking one, single, freakin' lock? And, if you’re still unconvinced, I've got something a bit more tangible. Because it was haunted by Fawn and Eric, that service station, you were at last night, went out of business shortly after that incident; if you still don't believe me, drive back to see for yourself. It's been boarded up for decades. But, before you go there, you might want to fill up your gas tank, this time, for real. If you check your gauge, you'll find it's still nearly on E. Well that's about it, my haunted friend. Now, whether or not you choose to believe me, I'll leave that all up to you!"

Bob finishes his coffee, then heads back to his room.

After a rushed shave and shower, he steps out of the bathroom for a change of clothing. It's only then that his peripheral vision detects a bright glimmer. He does a double take.

Adding further to this mystery, there on the bed rests - - -

Fawn's silver peace medallion.

~The End~

Author Bio: Tom Bonds was born in Ann Arbor, MI. He attended Washtenaw Community College where his studies focused on electronics, broadcast arts, public speaking and journalism. He graduated with a 4.0 GPA and earned his Associates Degree. In addition to writing, his other major interests include piano, photography and astronomy. He currently blogs both at MySpace and Xanga.

Tom’s e-mail is
phoenix102risingatnightfall@verizon.net.


« crypt ¦ guidelines ¦ kindred ¦ e-zines ¦ contact us ¦ fiction ¦ stories ¦

Restless Souls

©2006 Word Count: 4600