08 Aug Five Years

Posted at 11:00h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on August 8, 2021

“Five Years”

Written by Mark Towse
Edited by N.M. Brown
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 4 minutes

Rating: 9.00/10. From 3 votes.

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1978

With headlights off and through the rain-lashed windscreen and blackness of the night, Don didn’t see the tree across his side of the road until it was nearly upon him. He put his foot hard on the brake and instinctively yanked the steering wheel, sending the car fishtailing until it spun out of his control. He continued to wrestle with the wheel but couldn’t even see where the road was anymore. Finally, the tire caught the edge of the ditch.

As Don braced for impact, he found himself back in his rusty old Ford with Christine, and in the background, the stereo pumping out a tune from their special road trip cassette. A loud crunch catapulted him forwards, and in a blink, the vision disappeared as the seatbelt jolted him back into the darkness again.

He unclenched his hands from the steering wheel, switched off the engine, and turned to look over his shoulder. The headlights that had been on him for the last forty kilometers slowly came to a halt, and the engine quieted to a gentle hum—and then nothing but night.

The only sounds Don could hear were the relentless thrashing of the rain and his own labored breathing. He removed his seat belt and threw open the driver-side door. The smell of the night rushed at him, and the rain felt intensely hard and cold as he began his sprint into darkness.

There was no way to know where he was or where he was heading. Initially, his only thoughts had been to drive away his staring-at-the-ceiling insomnia. Now, though, it was simply to get away from the mysterious black vehicle that had already rammed him twice from behind and relentlessly pursued him along rain-drenched roads.

For the first time he could remember, he began to cry, not in fear for his life but the solitude he felt at that exact moment. There was nobody out there that would care if he was dead or alive.

As he ran, Don considered the vehicle that had slammed into him—unidentifiable and black with tinted windows. It had no plates, and the front of the car sported a huge snarling grille. In blind fear, he had put his foot down and hoped the pursuer would eventually give up the chase.

Exhausted, he stopped running and climbed over a barrier into the foliage on the embankment. He used the branches and trunks of trees to traverse down to the bottom and sat behind one of the larger ones. The coldness returned as he watched small wisps of his breath disappear into the void.

The rumble of an engine came into earshot, but this time no headlights to give away its location.

His hunter had gotten serious now—the games were over.

Don nestled into the back of the tree as though trying to drive his way through the bark. He inhaled deeply and held his breath in case the condensation clouds gave him away.

As he heard a car door open, there was a moment of clarity that manifested itself like a kick in the guts. Momentarily, he thought he might vomit and put one hand to his mouth and closed his eyes. As if to validate the epiphany, his mind threw him back into the old Ford again with Christine. With her seatbelt off and leaning over the dashboard, she snorted coke, flicked her head back, and smiled before turning the rear-view mirror to herself to wipe the dust from her nose.

Christine sprinkled the last of the powder across her wrist and held it out for him, and as Don leaned in, the car drifted lanes and collided with the truck that had been approaching at speed.

He could still remember the explosion of noise and the sound of metal on metal as the vehicles momentarily melded together. And then Christine began to fly. Her body was tossed around like a rag doll as the car flipped over, and shards of glass showered everywhere as her head was sent violently through the windscreen. So vividly, he remembered her dead eyes and her bloody broken face.

The police found a half-empty six-pack on the truck driver’s passenger seat. Don told the police the car came out of nowhere and knocked them off the road. It was too easy.

The guy was sent down for five years in ‘75.

Perhaps with parole—it must be him!

Since Christine died, he had alienated himself from everyone, not feeling worthy or capable of companionship. The guilt and grief had almost devoured him, and every day was an effort. Sometimes, he wished he had told the truth, just for some closure.

As he sat behind the tree in his cold and wet clothes, he contemplated how long he could keep running. The guy had been waiting over three years to get his revenge—he wasn’t going to let up. But, perhaps if he saw the grief and remorse in his eyes, there might be another way.

“Hey!” he called out, “I’m coming up to talk!”

He scrambled up the side of the embankment and found two shiny black boots waiting for him. The silver skull on each tip was the last thing Don saw as an iron bar smashed into the side of his face.

The guy bent down to grip Don’s collar and then dragged him along the wet tarmac. He opened the boot of his car and bundled him next to another body.

After closing it, he lit a cigarette and drove off into the darkness to find his next victim.