Your Destination Is On The Left; October 31 2020

A VERY happy Halloween to everyone celebrating! Full moon tonight, and it’s relatively mild for being nearly November (at least, where I am). I couldn’t wait to get into costume and have been dressed like this since noon.

Now I just hope to still get some trick-or-treaters. Conscientious ones, mind you, with masks for protection! I plan on handing out bags of candy with tongs if anyone comes by.

Originally, I planned on answering some questions this week about writing horror, but imposter syndrome has hit me pretty hard. Who am I to be giving you advice when I haven’t actually traditionally published anything? I have one horror novel on the market, but due to zero advertising, it never exactly took off. It’s frankly amazing that anyone has read it at all.

Anyway. Instead, I thought I’d share a short story I wrote with you.

This is Your Destination is On the Left.

It’s the kind of day that sticks to my skin. Just a fraction too warm, muggy. The afternoon sunshine gleams off the roof of my silver Hyundai Accent, even though it could use a run through the car wash. My phone in one hand, keys in the other, I climb into the car and switch on the ignition. The engine purrs like an asthmatic kitten.

It’s routine, hooking up my phone and opening the app. Ferrying take-out and passengers nets me barely enough money to get by, so I do it as often as he can. The daily grind often takes me out of town, for the small county of Brantview simply doesn’t have enough going for it to draw residents in droves. I’m not surprised when the nearest customer pings on my GPS as being twenty minutes away.

Most of the time, passengers cancel if I’m going to take too long to reach them. It’s a first come, first serve industry; I managed to snag this person by accepting the job before any of the other drivers could do it. Still, there are bound to be closer cars, and I don’t fault anyone who cancels on me before I’m into the neighbouring city.

They don’t immediately switch drivers, so I back out of my spot, peeling the window down with a press of a button. I don’t like the manufactured cold of air conditioning, so I don’t use it except in scorching temperatures. I ease off the brake and tap the gas. My car weaves out of my apartment complex’s parking lot and onto the road. The lines separating the lanes are hard to discern with their peeling paint, but I’m familiar with these streets and comfortable behind the wheel. I know what I’m doing.

“In five hundred metres, turn right.”

My GPS speaks to me in a calm feminine voice. My eyes flicker towards the map on my phone’s display, double-taking as I realize I’m not going into the city this time. I’ll be heading in the opposite direction, deeper into Brantview than I usually go. I’ve only lived here for two months; I don’t know the place I’m heading to.

Nerves prickle at the back of my neck. It’s silly to fear that I’ll get lost when I have a fully charged GPS right in front of me. Still, I’m a little worried, and if my passenger decides to try another driver, it’ll take me even longer to get back to civilization.

Nonetheless, I drive.

“Continue straight.”

My hands are on the wheel and my fingers tap to a nonexistent rhythm. I don’t turn on any music – I find lyrics distracting, and classical isn’t often well received. I’m out of the habit of listening even when I’m alone. I roll to a brief stop at every red sign or light, driving straight and waiting for my GPS to tell me which way I’m going to be turning. I keep to the right lane, for the time being.

“For one kilometre, continue straight. Then, for two kilometres, continue straight.”

“Could’ve just said it’ll be three kilometres before I turn,” I comment, which is ridiculous. My GPS can’t hear me or respond.

“For one kilometre, continue straight.”

I glance at the map, eyebrows climbing high up my forehead. Maybe the GPS glitched, because it doesn’t usually repeat instructions. I swallow, and at the next red light, I take the opportunity to lower the window further. The breeze that rolls in as I drive is far from refreshing, but it’s better than nothing.

For three kilometres, I drive on. The road itself isn’t always straight, veering towards the right or curving, but the path I’m taking doesn’t involve any turns. My eyes begin to glaze over a few times, the monotonous scenery unsuccessful in engaging me. Thankfully, I’m a good enough driver to recognize when my mind is drifting, and I snap myself out of it whenever the creeping dissociation threatens to envelop me. I’ve completed most of the trip, five minutes away from my waiting passenger.

“In five hundred metres, turn left.”

I look ahead. I’m alone on the road, which is why I slow down to a crawling ten miles per hour, my brow creased as I look between the two paths before me.

There’s nothing, straight ahead. Just more road stretching off at an incline. Likewise, there’s street on the right. The left looks to be a dead end. Sparse trees clutter what might have otherwise been a dirt path.

Slowly, I bring the car forward and automatically flick on my turning signal. “Left, huh?”

I think I see gravel. Could be that I’m heading towards a more rural location than I thought. I turn.

The gravel is tough on my tires. I can hear rocks rattling against my rims, and the way forward is winding and unclear. I feel like I’m dodging trees as they stalk towards me, their jagged branches scraping the roof when I slide by. The sound is grating, like someone scraping my ear drum with a swab. I find myself physically ducking as though that will help.

I feel lost. It’s nonsensical – I have my GPS. It shows I’m on the right track. Yet, I still feel like a little boy who’s gotten on the wrong bus to go to school. Disoriented, not sure when I should get off the ride, scared that with every stop I pass that I’m dooming myself to even more confusion.

There’s quiet for such a long time. Just the crack and crunch of gravel, just the creaks and claws of trees. Not even my engine is rumbling like usual.

“In two hundred metres, turn right.”

I breathe. It’s a relief to see a real street again. I wonder now if I could have just gone straight way back there, and not had to cut through this nature-cluttered patch. My mounting anxiety tries to give way to annoyance.

“In two hundred metres, turn left.”

I’m already gearing up to turn right onto the street when my GPS speaks again. I hit the brakes and stare at the screen.

It says I’m ten minutes away, again, and the highlighted route indicates that I should go left. My head spins as I try to make sense of this. I almost wonder if I imagined the first instruction to go right.

I take the car left, tentatively driving on.

“For one kilometre, continue straight.”

“Are you kidding me?”

I’m essentially heading back the way I came, adjacent to the main road. There had to be an easier way to do this, but my GPS is not forthcoming with alternatives. Rolling my eyes, I set aside the strange discomfort in my stomach and chalk it up to faulty technology. If I pretend there isn’t a sour feeling in my oesophagus, maybe it will go away.

It’s just strange. The warm day has turned a little chilly, the breeze that floods the car’s interior carrying a bite to it.

I drive the one kilometre, and then veer right - “In two hundred metres, turn right. Then, for eight hundred metres, continue straight.”

There are houses down this way, and I was wrong; it isn’t rural out here at all. It actually looks as though I’ve reached a second downtown area to Brantview, except it’s so out of the way that I can’t imagine why so much was built around here. There’s a cafe on the corner, a grocery store, a park...

But no people. Not a soul walks along the sidewalks, and not a car joins me at the red light. I wait, and I look around for some indication that my passenger is nearby. I wait, and I wait.

This light is taking forever to change.

I check my phone’s screen. Fifteen minutes away from my passenger.

No. That can’t be right.

My left leg starts to compulsively bounce, rocking my entire body and almost prompting me to unthinkingly take my right foot off the brake. I don’t like this. It’s too cold compared to the sticky heat from twenty minutes ago, it’s too far from the county proper, it’s too vacant. And this red light still isn’t changing.

I don’t know what comes over me, or why I do it. I take my foot off the brake and run through the red light. There’s no one on the streets, but that doesn’t change that fact that I usually abide strictly by the law. I tell myself that I just don’t want to keep my customer waiting, but the truth is, I want to get out of here. I don’t like this place.

“In five hundred metres, your destination is on the left.”

That makes even less sense. The app says I won’t reach my passenger for another fifteen minutes, but sure enough, the highlighted route ends at the next intersection. I lean more weight onto the gas pedal.

“Your destination is on the left.”

I pull a U-turn to stop right in front of the place. I stare out the window, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end, and my body floods with cold.

I’ve stopped in front of a small cemetery. I don’t see my passenger.

The back door of my car opens.