Andrew Klavan - Nightmare City

The car backed into the street—and the fog closed over it. Wrangling the Mustang’s transmission stick into Drive, Tom faced front. The white mass was plastered to the windshield, blotting out the view. He could barely see past the car’s hood. He turned on the wipers. They swiped away the condensation on the glass, making it clearer. He turned on the headlights. They carved out about three feet of visibility in front of his fenders. That was as good as it was going to get. He was going to have to take this slow.

He pressed the gas pedal down gingerly. The car started rolling forward at about fifteen miles an hour. Any faster than that and he’d be barreling blind through the fog. And yet every instinct he had urged him to go faster, to get through this mess, to get to the school, to get back indoors as quickly as possible. It took all his restraint to keep the Mustang’s speed under control.

Slowly—so slowly—he rolled down the street. His breath came shallow. His heart beat hard. He cast his eyes briefly to the right and left as he moved, peering through the fog to see what he could. Mostly: nothing. White on cloudy white. But now and then he thought he caught a hint, a shadow, a shape of—something. Was that the hovering outline of an oak tree? Was that the looming mass of the Willoughby house hunkering right by the curb at the corner? Yes. The mist shifted a little and he got a clearer look at the old place. All the windows in the house were dark. No one home. No one home anywhere. Tom knew he was all alone out here.

He looked ahead, out the windshield—and let out a gasp as a hulking figure appeared at the edge of his headlights’ glow. It vanished almost immediately back into the mist. Gone.

Tom took a few hard breaths, trying to steady himself. He could feel his palms sweating on the steering wheel. The Mustang rolled on—slowly, slowly. He reached the end of his street, where it met with Eucalyptus Road. That was the broad, straight, open avenue that led north to Highway 182, where the school was. The stop sign became visible just before he reached the intersection, but Tom was afraid to halt the car. He was afraid the malevolents would seize the opportunity, that they would come swarming out of the fog and surround him, block his car, break in and devour him. He knew they were out there, just waiting for their chance.

He went right past the stop sign without even slowing. Hey, let the police pull me over , he thought. Really, there was nothing in this world he would have liked better than to see a cop right now, traffic ticket and all!

He turned the Mustang onto Eucalyptus. On the wider street, the fog seemed to spread out and become a bit thinner. He lifted his eyes from the small patch of road directly in front of him and scanned the scene through the windshield. He could make out houses like shadows, and the low broad shape of the YMCA building, and the modest spire of the Hope Church where he and his mom went, and where Burt used to go, too. His eyes lingered for a moment on the church as he remembered those mornings when they had all sat together…

But then, something—a movement in the mist—caught his attention. He turned toward it.

There they were. Two—no, three—no, wait, four—limping shadows, hulking in the mist: one on a lawn, one in a driveway, one outside the Y, one by the curb. One, that last one, was close enough so that Tom could make him out clearly through the drifting marine layer. He could make out that bizarre and awful elongated face. He could see those red and hungry eyes. They watched him drive past. Once again, he had to fight the urge to hit the gas, to try to race away.

Keep it slow. Keep it steady. They can’t touch you if you’re in the car, if you’re on the move. If you make a run for it in this fog, you’ll crash , he told himself, and then they’ll have you .

He forced himself to focus forward, and he drove on.

The malevolents slipped away behind him. Now there was nothing again, nothing but the fog. Tom’s pulse began to slow. His breathing began to even out.

Then the radio started playing.

It was so startling he nearly jumped out of his seat. All at once, the digital display lit up and the car filled with the sound of static. The next moment the numbers on the display started to change, climb. The radio was scanning, looking for a channel. As the numbers on the readout shifted rapidly, the whisper of white noise wavered and dimmed. For a second, Tom heard a snippet of music, a note or two. Then it was gone. The next second he heard a weatherman’s voice: “No break in the dense…” Then that, too, disappeared into the static as the readout numbers continued to roll on.

The next sound, though… the next sound distressed him. Just for a moment, dimly under the white whisper, Tom heard a woman weeping, sobbing.

Was that his mom? Was that his mom crying for him?

Before he could be sure, the noise was gone. There was another snippet of music under the hiss of static. It sounded like a rock band performing in the belly of a giant snake. Then that music, too, dissolved.

Enough , Tom thought.

He reached out to the Off button and pushed it. It had no effect. The radio kept scanning. The static went on. Holding the steering wheel with one hand, Tom tried to hit the button again.

And a voice spoke to him out of the radio with shocking clarity, “Don’t touch that dial, Tom.”

He knew at once it was the Lying Man. He recognized the calm, lilting, hypnotic voice. He hit the Off button again—harder—and then again. No change. The readout stayed lit.

The Lying Man said, “No, no, no, Tom. That’s no use. I’m with you. Whatever you do. I’m always with you.”

Tom had to watch the windshield to keep from running off the road. He took his hand away from the radio, put it back on the steering wheel.

“Did you think I would abandon you?” the mellow voice continued. “I would never do that. I’m here for you, Tom, even when you try to escape me. I’m not only traveling with you—I’m waiting for you wherever you go. Where are you headed now? To your school? I’ll be right there when you arrive. Me and all my friends. You can’t get away from us. Ever.”

There was a flash of movement at the corner of Tom’s eyes. He turned to the side window just in time to see another malevolent limp off into the mist. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. His neck and back and sides, on the other hand, were pouring clammy sweat.

“It’s just like Lisa told you,” said the Lying Man. “You’re not alone.”

“What do you want?” Tom said hoarsely. The Mustang continued its slow passage through the deep mist.

“Oh, it’s not about what I want,” said the Lying Man with a sound of gentle sympathy and concern. “It’s about what you want, Tom. That’s what I’m here for. For you. It’s all about you.”

“I just want to find out the truth,” Tom said tersely.

“Well, then that’s what I want, too,” said the serene voice from the radio. “I want you to find out the truth also. The truth about yourself. About what you’re really like. About what your life is really like. And about what you really want more than anything.”

The sweat poured off Tom even harder. He shivered with the clammy cold of it. His shirt clung to his skin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“I think you do,” said the Lying Man. “I think you know deep down. I just think you need a little help to figure it out. I think you need my help before you can really face the truth.”

Tom glanced at the radio. He sneered. “I know you,” he said, his voice trembling. “I know what you’re like now. You lied to me. You’re nothing but lies. You’re…”