Madeline Short

It's not your idea to stop, but your friend insists they need to use the restroom. You guess some snacks wouldn't be a bad idea; the two of you have been on the road for hours. You glance at the clock on the dashboard. It reads 2:03 AM. It's a lonely highway through the middle of nowhere. You haven't seen a car in hours—only endless fields and faraway glimpses of what must be abandoned barns. But some dilapidated road signs signal a gas station not far up the road. You see the turn and pull into the empty parking lot.

Your friend smiles, jumps out of the car, and rushes in immediately. You open the door slowly, swinging your legs out to rest on the pavement. You shiver in the cold breeze, feeling the chill in the ground seep through your shoes and into your skin. But you just pull your jacket tighter around you, looking across the empty parking lot at the convenience store. Through the grimy windows, you see the cashier wave your friend towards where the restroom must be without looking at them.

Suddenly, your stomach rumbles, reminding you of the long hours spent driving, and driving, and driving. So you climb out of the car and stretch out your sore muscles, your gaze catching first on a 24/7 sign flashing irregularly in neon high above your head, casting the lot in an eerie purple glow. It reminds you of all the descriptions of alien planets in every sci-fi novel you've ever had the misfortune of reading. You turn back to the store, appraising the sorry exterior of the building. Peeling signs litter the windows. 'Buy a large drink and a large hot dog or else,' one says in large letters. You tilt your head at that. Another poster covers the rest of the sign. It must hide the rest of the sales pitch, you reason, even though it doesn't seem to cover much. All the other posters seem to be for a lottery that you've never heard of. 'Win cash and save your life!' they exclaim in bold fonts.

Definitely, a weird way to advertise, but you ignore it, walking towards the glass doors. A bell jingles as you pull the door open. You don't see a bell.

You walk past the cashier. They don't turn.

You finally notice what's drawing their attention. An old box tv sits on a high shelf in the corner. The screen displays static. Its humming fills the air—a threatening noise—like a swarm of wasps or… something else, something you can't quite place. Maybe there are no other channels. Maybe they're just bored out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

You want to leave.

But your friend is still in the bathroom, and you promised you'd get snacks. You roam the aisles, grabbing random chips and candies, trying to ignore the trance-like cashier. God, your friend is taking forever. Finally, you hear the toilet flush. You adjust the items in your arms and make your way to the cash register. You're not sure why but you try to be as quiet as possible as you set down your items. It doesn't quite work; the chip bags crinkle loudly in the near-silence as they smack the counter.

The cashier finally turns and meets your eyes. There's something off about them. You're not sure what, though.

They begin to scan the items. Your friend exits the bathroom as you fish for cash in your back pocket. They don't say anything. You look up with money in hand as the cashier stares at you, your total displayed in red on the blinking register. You fumble with the bills before realizing you're short a dollar, so you turn to your friend, intent on asking for one, a joke about paying them back already on your tongue.

You stop short. They're turned away from you, their face upturned, eyes fixed on the still-glowing television. "Hey," you shake their arm. They silently brush you off, gaze never leaving the screen. You look back at the cashier. They're once again fixated on the TV, but now their hand is reaching towards you. They want the money, that's it. That's all.

But you want to get out of here. Now. You grab a bag of chips and throw it back on a random shelf, then dump the money in the cashier's outstretched hand.

And then, finally, they turn.

And their eyes find yours, and all you can see is static. The humming grows louder, ballooning out, filling your ears with nothing.

You grab your friend's arm and pull with all your might. They turn finally. You see static in their eyes. You run, grabbing their arm and yanking them after you as you slam through the doors. The nonexistent bell rings again.

Your friend makes the first sound you've heard from them since you entered the godforsaken gas station. It's a relentless hum. It sounds like a symphony of screams, all rising in pitch, all at once.

You don't let go. You don't think you can.

You wrench open the passenger door to your car and shove your friend in, already sprinting around and vaulting into your seat. You fumble with your keys. All you know is it's essential that you leave. Now. You start the car and lock the doors.

And you're off, speeding out of the parking lot and around the turn and back onto the highway. The neon sign blinks innocently through the window. 24/7, it promises. Your friend is quiet. The only sound is the roar of the car's engine.

You look at the clock. It blinks back: 2:03 AM.

That isn't possible. It had to have been at least ten minutes. You stare at it, willing it to change. And then, as if heeding your plea, it does.

2:04 AM.

Your friend exclaims loudly, "Where's the music? C'mon, I drift off, and you turn off the radio? You know I hate silence." You jolt, hands jerking, but manage to keep the car on the road. Your friend fiddles with the radio. You look back. There are no lights. No gas station.

You keep driving.