[Morbid75]

I recognized the song from the very first notes. “Hotel California, must be from my husband adding The Eagles to our playlist” I did not say anything as I had already complained about two other songs he had put on there and ended up changing because of me. I really did not hate the song, just always associated it with an ominous sense of dread.

The car rolled along and trees rushed past the window in a swirl of green and brown. Every so often I imagined I saw something in the woods a deer, mountain lion or some inbred kid from Wrong Turn. I laughed to myself at that thought.

“I have to pee, really bad,” I said moving in my seat to accommodate my uncomfortable and very full bladder.

“There is not much out here, “ he said looking down at his GPS. “Wait there is a gas station about a mile or so up the road,” he added, “but beware it is one of those really small locally owned older gas stations that look creepy.”

“I guess we stop there,” I sighed.

He accelerated a bit and the car made its way through the winding, mountain roads. The cabin we rented was actually not that far but I could not wait. We got the station, Hotel California was still playing. I got out almost before the car came to a complete stop.

The gas station made of cement blocks was painted lime green with “Hop and Mary’s Place” written on the side in block, painted letters. There was double, glass doors that looked like they were made a long time ago, the whole gas station was made a long time ago and seemed to never evolve from the time it was built. The only clear sign of modernization was the bars on the glass windows and doors. Bars on gas stations were always a sign of the bad part of town to me but in this case there was no town, just this gas station with two pumps one for diesel and one for regular unleaded.

I opened the glass door and a bell attached to the inside handle jingled announcing my arrival. I quickly noted there was no one around or behind the counter. The bathrooms were to the left and clearly marked. “They better be fucking open,” I thought.
To my surprise they were unlocked and I went inside to relieve myself. The bathroom was not modernized either but relatively clean as far as gas station bathrooms go and had toilet paper.

As I sat to relieve myself I heard voices in the station. Perhaps my husband had come inside. I listened.

“No, no, no,” a man’s voice screamed.

I hurried up as fast as I could and darted out the door. I was worried something had happened to my husband. I glimpsed a terrifying scene. An elderly man and woman were on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. Behind them a man with a ski mask held a knife.

“We gave you what you wanted, just let us go” the woman begged. The killer said nothing and grabbed her by the crown of her head to pull her head back. He slid the knife across her throat and a whistling sound slipped out as he cut through her esophagus and neck tendons. She fell on the floor like a discarded towel.
The man screamed hysterically like something I have never heard and was trying to get up. Before he could finish his third scream or make it to his feet the killer had grabbed his head, pulled it back and sliced his throat open. He joined his crumpled wife on the floor as blood began to spread.

I was terrified, frozen in fear. “I am going to be next” I thought. “Why the fuck did I not get my phone and call the police?”

I remembered I had left my phone in the car. In the moments it took me to process these thoughts and begin to plan what I was going to do I heard the door to the gas station open by the damn jingly bell. There was whoosh and the blood, the man, the woman and the killer were gone.

A man in his forties, dressed in overalls with a name tag on his chest branding him Jonas, greeted me with a smile. “Well hello, I thought I had locked the door.” “You look like you might have seen a ghost.”

“Uh, well, yes, I do not know. I am so confused,” I managed to squeak out.

“I try to be gone around this time and on this day,” he said. “You see Hap and Mary were murdered here about 5 years ago by their grandson,” he added “that boy ended up going home and killing hisself.”

“My daddy was best friends with Hap and took over the station for him as this was his entire life.” “The problem is that on the day and exact time they died, it just keeps happening over and over.”

“It likely scared my mama so bad this first time it happened.” We finally just decided to close during that time.” “But today I got so busy balancing the books and I dashed out really quickly,” he added “I did not even lock the door or put the sign up.” “I was back yonder and saw you go in but I could not see that again.” I am sorry.”

I listened intently trying to process what he was saying. I felt like I was in a dream. I managed to say, “That is okay, umm I am going to get going.”

"Have a great day” he said as the door jingled and I walked out into the crisp, mountain air.

As I got in the car my husband asked, “everything come out okay?”

I said, “Yes, it did but I felt like I saw two people get murdered in there”.

“It was that dirty, yikes”, he chuckled and pulled onto the winding mountain road.
I pulled up my phone and Googled: “Murder at Hap and Mary’s gas station.”

[chris]

Good stuff If only she could have peed off the site of the road, should would have avoided all this!

[Analcuck]

Let me know if you want a critique or an edit for mechanics. Most people don't, which is fine.

I really enjoyed it - seemed to get stronger towards the end. Some nice devices (the joke at the end, good dialog, and a feel for who the speaker is). Thanks very much for what feels like a good, classic-style ghost story to share around the campfire.

[Morbid75]

Originally Posted by chris ↗

Good stuff If only she could have peed off the site of the road, should would have avoided all this!

I know. Thanks for the added pic. It was close to the one in my mind.

[GRiZ]

::Inserts Gabe's sex life here::

[Morbid75]

Originally Posted by AnalSimms ↗

Let me know if you want a critique or an edit for mechanics. Most people don't, which is fine.

I really enjoyed it - seemed to get stronger towards the end. Some nice devices (the joke at the end, good dialog, and a feel for who the speaker is). Thanks very much for what feels like a good, classic-style ghost story to share around the campfire.

Yes, I was actually going to ask before posting. After my second son I felt like I needed to do something else so I took a creative writing for children and adolescents.
I realized I was very good at writing a report and succinctly saying this percentage believe, blah, blah, blah. But I was not a very good descriptive writer. I never finished my book

[Morbid75]

Originally Posted by GRiZ ↗

::Inserts Gabe's sex life here::

Okay, thanks for the constructive criticism.

[Analcuck]

Originally Posted by Meraxes ↗

Yes, I was actually going to ask before posting. After my second son I felt like I needed to do something else so I took a creative writing for children and adolescents.
I realized I was very good at writing a report and succinctly saying this percentage believe, blah, blah, blah. But I was not a very good descriptive writer. I never finished my book

Great. I'll try to microscope it tonight on my laptop when I get home. Again, very enjoyable.

[Analcuck]

I recognized the song from the first few notes: Hotel California; my husband must have added The Eagles to our playlist. I didn't say anything, as I'd already complained about two other songs he had played and ended up changing because of me. And I really did not hate the song, I just always associated it with an ominous sense of dread...they stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast.

The car rolled along, firs and other conifers in various states of thirst rushing past the window in a swirl of green and brown. Every so often, I imagined I saw something in the woods—a deer, mountain lion, or maybe one of those inbred kids from Wrong Turn—I laughed to myself at that thought, but it was a nervous laugh.

“I have to pee, really bad,” I said, moving in my seat to accommodate my uncomfortable and very full bladder.

“There isn't much out here,” he said, looking down at his GPS. “Wait... there's a gas station about a mile or so up the road,” he added, “but beware! It's probably one of those really small, locally owned, ancient gas stations that you can see pictures of in the dictionary next to the word 'creepy'.”

“I guess being creeped out is better than being soaked in urine. Go ahead and stop,” I sighed.

He accelerated a bit, and the car wended its way through the serpentine mountain roads. The cabin we'd rented was actually not that far, but I couldn't wait. The pee-pee dance had reached full rhythm.

We made the station; Hotel California was still playing - that damn guitar part that goes on for hours at the end, like an eternity in hell. I got out almost before the car came to a complete stop.

The station walls were made of cement blocks painted lime green, with “Hap and Mary’s Place” painted on the side in block letters. There were double, glass doors that looked nearly antique - the whole gas station appeared to have been made long ago and seemed not to have evolved from the time it was built, as if time didn't work quite the same in this eerie little pocket of civilization amidst the mountain forest.

The only clear sign of modernization were the bars on the glass windows and doors. Bars on gas stations usually screamed "bad side of town" to me, but in this case there was no town, just this throwback gas station with two pumps - one for diesel, and one for regular unleaded. A soda machine that had to be at least 30 years old stood by the door advertising RC Cola, its selection buttons all filled with illegible, hand-written labels.

I opened the glass door, and a bell attached to the inside handle jingled, announcing my arrival with an unsettling off-key burst of noise that pierced the otherwise deathly silence. I quickly noted there appeared to be no one either around the store or behind the counter. They must be in the office or out back, I reasoned.

The place appeared to be well-stocked and surprisingly clean - like a store from an old commercial. I half expected a friendly old clerk to pop up any second and tell me not to squeeze the Charmin. The bathrooms were to the left and clearly marked. They better be fucking open, I thought.

To my surprise, they were unlocked, and I went inside to release the floodgates. The bathroom itself had not been modernized either but was relatively clean as far as gas station bathrooms go, and, will wonders never cease? It even had toilet paper. Not exactly "squeezably soft", but it would do in a pinch.

As I carefully covered the seat with the tissue and hovered to relieve myself, I heard voices out in the station proper. Perhaps my husband had come inside. I listened. They seemed to get increasingly erratic and louder, until...

“No, no, no!” a man’s voice screamed.

I finished my business as fast as I could, not even bothering to flush or wipe, and darted out the door. I was terribly worried something had happened to my husband, and I prepared for the worst - but I couldn't possibly have prepared myself for what came next.

An elderly man and woman were on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. Behind them stood a figure in a black ski mask, holding a nasty-looking knife. Cans of soup and boxes of cereal rolled and scattered around the floor, hinting at a recent struggle.

“We gave you what you wanted, just let us go,” the woman begged. The figure said nothing but grabbed her by the blue-gray crown of her head to pull her chin up from her chest so that she was staring up straight into his eyes.

Then, he calmly slid the knife across her throat, just like he was opening a letter or swiping a credit card. A whistling sound slipped out as he cut through her esophagus and neck tendons. She fell on the floor like a discarded towel.

The man beside her, undoubtedly her husband, screamed hysterically, letting out full-throated bellows and sobs of terror and grief with a cacophonous groan like I'd never heard before (and prayed I'd never hear again); somehow it was even worse than the horrific noise of his wife's dying breaths escaping her mangled neck.

He tried to get up, but before he could finish his third scream or make it to his feet, the killer grabbed his head, pulled it back and sliced his throat open with the same detached precision as before. The poor old man joined his crumpled wife on the floor, their spilled lives commingling in a crimson pool of finality.

I was utterly terrified, frozen in fear. I am going to be next, I thought. Why the fuck have I not used my phone yet to call the police?

Then I remembered...I'd left my phone in the car. In the moments it took me to process these thoughts and begin to plan what I was going to do next, that damn jingly bell on the gas station door tinkled its petty little alarm once more. There was an uncanny whoosh of what I can only describe as one reality taking over another, then the blood, the old couple, and the killer... were gone.

A man in his forties, dressed in overalls with a name tag on his chest branding him "Jonas", greeted me with a smile. “Well hello. I'm sorry, I thought I had locked this old door.” He said, a weird grin spreading across his haggard face. “You look like you might have seen a ghost.”

“Uh, well, yes, I don't know. I am so confused,” I managed to squeak out. As I looked around at the shop, I noticed that the shelves were all bare; the signs that led the way to the restroom were faded and moldy; cobwebs decorated the grime-coated windows like pale streamers; and a dusty sheet was draped over the cash register.

“I try to be gone around this time and on this day,” he said. “You see, Hap and Mary were murdered here about 15 years ago by their grandson,” he added, “that boy ended up going home and killin' hisself.”

I blanched, hair standing up on the back of my neck as I listened. "Their grandson?"

“Yep. My daddy was best friends with Hap and took over the station for him; this place had been his whole life.” I stood silent, rapt. “Problem is, on the day and exact time they died, it just keeps happenin' over and over, so we closed up shop goin' on five years now; just the petrol and the pop machine now. No more store to speak of.”

I looked past the attendant and saw my husband through the dirt smudged glass, fueling up our car. Jonas moved aside so I could get past him, but I remained still, captivated by his story. He lit up a non-filtered cigarette and continued.

“It scared the bejezus outta Mama so bad the first time it happened, she about near had a cardiac arrest. Thought she'd flown the coup till a couple others, then finally me seen it with our own eyes. Weren't long after that we finally just decided enough was enough."

He sighed, flicked his ashes onto the ground, and wiped a few beads of sweat off his brow with a red shop rag. “I swear I always keep it locked - don't like to go in there unless I need to rummage for tools or take a shit," now it was his turn to blanch, "Pardon my French, ma'am."

With a voice that sounded far away to me I assured him, "You're fine."

"Thanks. Sorry. Like I was sayin' I usually keep it locked, but today I got so busy balancing the books, I about forgot what time it was, so I booked it outta here so dang quick,” he added, “I plumb forgot to lock the door or even put the sign up. I was back yonder when y'all pulled up and I saw you go in, but I couldn't bring myself to see it gain. I'm sorry,” he apologized, genuinely ashamed.

I listened intently, trying to fully process what he was saying. I felt like I was in a dream. I managed to get out, “That's okay, umm, Jonas, I am going to get going.”

"Have a great day,” he said as the door jingled, and I walked out into the crisp, mountain air.

As I got in the car my husband asked, “Everything come out okay?”

I said, “Yes, it did, but I felt like I saw two people get murdered in there”.

“It was that dirty? Yikes!” he chuckled and pulled onto the winding mountain road, turning up the music. He must have hit repeat because it was at an earlier point in the song than before I'd gone in...you can check out any time you like, but, you can never leave.

"Bull shit." I said to myself. "Step on it, baby."

And as we left the place behind like an awful memory, I pulled up my phone and Googled: “Murder at Hap and Mary’s Gas Station,” and sure enough, there it was:

Charles "Hap" Hapscomb and his wife of thirty seven years, Mary Hapscomb-Lovett, were brutally murdered at their gas station on this date fifteen years ago around 4:30 p.m. Authorities say evidence found at the crime scene pointed to their grandson, Jonas Ray Hapscomb, as the killer, but he was never apprehended and remains at large to this day...

[Morbid75]

Wow! Thanks for the edit. You added a lot of what was in my mind. Like the song playing again. I think I was trying to get it down to less words but ended up less detailed as usual in my writing. It was why I struggled in that creative writing class. I have it in my head but can tell it not describe it.


There is some truth to this story. I do feel that way about Hotel California which just started when the car flipped but kept playing after we sat there in the smoking wreckage.

There was a gas station in the old city where I grew up near that was within city limits but not in the developed areas. It was and old mom and pop place and the elderly couple was murdered there one night. They were stabbed multiple times, it was pretty grisly.

I met someone who walked in shortly after it happened and for a bit was questioned as a suspect. I always thought due to the personalized nature of stabbing in a robbery and amount of times stabbed, they would know the perpetrator. They did not know him, it was random. He just went off on them. Every time I would drive by to work, from work I wondered if it was haunted. Thanks again for the help. I know you took a lot of time to do that.