Ken Douglas - Nightwitch

He was unable to see it. He was being dragged. His head bounced on the curb as he was pulled up onto the grass and then he saw it. Only for an instant, but it was the longest instant of his life.

Sarah downshifted into fourth, thrilling as the RPM surged. No more old, yellow, bell jingling Beetle for her. She raised her foot from the gas, letting the car slow as she approached the off ramp. She loved driving with the top down, her hair whipping in the chill winter breeze, her heart racing with the speedometer, her body singing with the night.

She gave it a little gas, punched the clutch, and dropped it into third. She shivered as the Corvette bucked, registering its displeasure. The car wanted to go fast. She jumped back on the clutch and shoved it into second. The tires chirped and the RPM soared against the lower gear.

She went off the ramp, in second gear, at sixty miles per hour. The engine screamed as the RPM redlined. She left rubber all over the pavement as she swung off the ramp onto Solitude River Road, but she was an excellent driver. She was in no danger.

But the old woman caught in her headlights was. When Sarah barreled down the ramp, there was nothing ahead of her but open road. Then out of nowhere, there she was, skinny, frail and blocking the way. She panicked and stabbed the brakes, locking the wheels.

The old woman stood her ground. Sarah caught a glimpse of a weathered black face, caught in the headlights, as the car went into a spin, roaring past the woman. She thumped harder on the brakes. The car whipped around and she was going backwards, with the car continuing its rubber-burning-sliding spin off the road.

She screamed as the Corvette’s wheels threw dirt into the air, praying as brush scrapped and screeched along the side of the car. Then it was over. The car came to a sliding halt, dying before she had a chance to get the clutch in.

“ Damn.” She turned around to see if the woman was all right. There was no one there.

She sat in silence and took in the sky, cloudy toward town and the ocean, clear overhead. Her heart was running flat out, pumping like the well would never go dry. She was on an adrenaline high and reveled in it. The old woman was out of her memory. Forgotten. Like she’d never been there.

“ Damn,” she said, again, “I loved it.” She leaned back and faced the Big Dipper and was rewarded with a shooting star cutting across the heavens. She remained in her euphoric trance for about ten minutes, daydreaming and drinking in the night. She felt like she should be in the lotus position. She felt like she’d just had a religious experience. And she was getting cold.

“ Home,” she told the night. She turned the key. The car roared to life, like the thoroughbred it was. Then it died. She turned the key again.

Nothing.

She thought about walking over to the motel and asking him for help, but decided against it. She would wait and let the car cool down. It would start then. It was brand new. It couldn’t be anything major.

A spasm knotted her neck. She massaged it, rocking her head back and forth. That’s when she saw something. Out back, behind the motel, looking in one of the bathroom windows-a peeping Tom. She was quite a distance away, but it was a clear night and floodlights in the parking lot were on. It was the woman, the old black woman.

Her first impulse was to shout, but she didn’t-she watched. Her second was to mind her own business, but she was fascinated. Her third was to get out of the car and to spy on the spy. She was just too curious. The peeping woman moved around to the other side of the building and Sarah gave in to her curiosity.

She felt a school-girl-first-date thrill run through her as she opened the door and stepped out of the car. She walked toward the building, counting her steps. She’d always been a counter. She counted everything, from the floor tiles in the Greyhound bus station to the number of steps between the bank and the beauty parlor. It was habit.

At ten steps, she wondered why nobody came rushing from the motel when she went squealing off the street. Then she remembered that the straight stretch of road, from the motel to where Solitude River Road started curving along the river toward Tampico, was used by the kids as the local drag strip. Her screeching tires probably didn’t sound out of place.

At twenty steps, she began to wonder about the old woman. How and why did she vanish so fast?

At thirty steps, she thought about him.

At forty steps, she’d covered half the distance and began to question the wisdom of what she was doing. That wolf was still around somewhere. It didn’t make sense to be sneaking around like last night had never happened.

At fifty steps, she slowed down and at step sixty-one, she stopped and listened to the soundless night.

The lights from the motel suddenly sent goose bumps running up her arms. She took two steps back. Stopped. Listened to her heartbeat and the silence. She heard the buzzing sound of a big rig eating up Highway 1 off in the distance. She stayed rock still, till the buzzing turned into a roar. She covered her eyes, as the big truck’s brights sliced through the night.

She stayed that way, tall and still, her hair wisping in a slight breeze, till the truck was again only a buzzing in the distance. Maybe the woman was gone, she thought, but maybe she wasn’t. Who was she and what was she up to? She had to know.

She inhaled the night air. No more counting. She jogged the remainder of the way to the motel, not stopping till she reached the asphalt parking lot. She stopped by a white Toyota, to catch her breath, when she heard a noise around the side of the motel. The woman? She darted to the side of the building and scurried along the wall. She was a spy after a secret. She felt like a teenager. Her blood started delivering more oxygen to her brain as her heart accelerated. She was exhilarated. Excited. Nothing should come in the way of a secret.

She stopped at the corner, took a silent breath and inched her head along the wall toward the edge, her cheek brushing against the cool stucco. She wondered who it was, this old woman that peeked in motel windows. Who was she and what did she see?

She poked her eye around the ridge.

There was no one there and all of the bathroom windows were closed.

“ Damn,” she whispered, turning away from the motel. She started across the parking lot, and at a fifty-eight steps back toward the car, she stopped and gazed at her beauty. Long, low, sleek, and red. The kind of car she’d wanted all her life and only dreamed about. If only Miles, and his Volvo mentality, could see her now. At seventy steps, she stopped again.

She thought she saw movement on the other side of the car. She took five cautious steps forward, squinting through the night. “Is somebody there?” Five more steps, slower than the last, eyes straining, heart again beginning to race. “Who’s there?” Still no response.

“ You better not hurt my car,” she said. What a stupid thing to say, she thought. “Did you hear me? Get away from the car.” She was shouting as she took ten more steps toward the Corvette.

She stopped again. She was well over halfway back to the car, no longer protected by the bright overhead lights of the motel. A small part of her worried about who could be waiting for her, hiding behind her car, like a mugger. But that’s ridiculous, she thought. There were no muggers in Palma or Tampico.

“ I said, get away from the car.” She took five more cautious steps, thought about the highway, and stopped again. Whoever was hiding behind her car may not be from town at all. He may have come on the highway.

She saw movement again. Her car door opened and someone got out. He called her name in a raspy, throaty voice that sent shivers crawling along her skin. She turned and fled, because she knew that whoever he was, he was coming after her.