David Wisehart: Blood Alley

The Devil’s Tunnel marked the end of his domain. The Highwayman was bound by his own curse, and could go no further. He was a victim too, trapped forever on Blood Alley.

No , he thought, not forever .

He longed to leave this dark stretch of road—as he had many times in his mortal life—yet in death, it seemed, he had no choice. This road was his universe now, his eternity, his playground. He would make the best of it. He had ten more miles in which to kill these meddlesome mortals, ten more miles to toy and tease and torture them. If they reached and cleared the tunnel, the game would end.

They will not reach the tunnel .

Not tonight when there was a thin red moon in the heavens and hot blood in his veins.

Blood.

He felt it pulse through the body he possessed.

The boy’s name was Darren. He could hear the girl screaming, “Darren! Darren, stop! Darren, what’s happening?”

Idiot.

Her name was—what?—

Samantha .

That was the name Darren knew her by. The Highwayman, possessing Darren’s body, witnessed the boy’s frightened thoughts. Darren screamed inside, but the Highwayman would not let him release the scream.

That would come later.

The Highwayman controlled this body now, controlled its movements, its breathing, its voice. Everything but its thoughts.

A chattering distraction.

The Highwayman could not afford to be distracted now. The road sped beneath him. He could feel the two-lane blacktop thrum under the racing wheels of the Deuce Coupe.

His highway. His road.

Blood Alley.

It sang to him and kept him to his purpose.

Frankie shook his head to clear his thoughts. No such thing as a haunted road. He had other things to worry about. This was no time for ghost stories.

The coupe kept pace behind him, then surged with renewed force.

It rammed Frankie’s back bumper.

He felt the jolt in his neck and spine.

What the hell?

Darren’s car slid to the left and started to pass. Frankie saw the coupe grow larger in his side mirror. The front end of Darren’s car was dented.

He’s nuts.

Darren loved that car. He polished it every day and twice on Sundays. Now he had gone and smashed up the front end of his only treasure. For what?

A girl? A grudge?

Makes no sense.

Samantha stopped screaming. She was tired and exhausted. Darren—or whatever he was now—ignored her. He seemed intent on driving. Samantha felt the urge to get out of the car. She needed to escape. Now. Or it would be too late.

The car was going fast, over 100 miles an hour. If she threw herself out the door, would she survive?

Maybe not.

Could she wrestle the wheel from Darren and take over control?

He’s too strong.

A struggle might spin the wheel and kill them both. Yet the urge to leap overwhelmed her.

Get out, she thought.

Samantha put her hand on the handle of the door.

Darren looked at her and laughed. “Leaving so soon?”

It was not Darren’s voice. Not entirely. There was something darker in his tone. Something ancient and evil.

Get out—get out—get out—

She looked out the open window.

The road raced beneath her at a frightening speed.

Jump, she thought.

Do it.

Do it now.

Save yourself.

She turned the handle.

The door opened a crack.

The wind outside resisted her, and slammed the door shut.

Frankie saw a sign zooming closer: “DEVIL’S PASS—10 miles.”

You’re on the Devil’s road now.

It climbed steeply, winding into the foothills.

The Deuce Coupe pulled up even with the Chevy.

Frankie shouted out the window, “What the hell, Darren?”

He saw Samantha in the other car. Her face was white with fear.

“Frankie! Help! Get me out! Get me out! ”

Something’s wrong.

He saw Samantha screaming, saw the terror in her face. She seemed to be struggling with the passenger side door, trying to open it.

Frankie checked his speedometer. Both cars were going 118 miles per hour up the hill. “Samantha, no! ”

She opened the passenger door, leaned out of the car, both hands on the handle, her face down, watching the road fly under her.

If Samantha hit the pavement at that speed, she’d be killed for sure.

Was she playing around? Was she crazy?

What the hell’s going on?

Frankie looked past Samantha and saw Darren behind the wheel of the coupe, but there was something different about him, about that look in his face, even in profile.

Darren’s gaze was steely, determined. He stared daggers at the road. Darren hunched his thin body forward, his chest mere inches from the wheel, his head directly over the dash, as if leaning forward might make the car go faster. Darren’s face—dimly lit from below by the lights of the dash—looked contorted.

There was something demonic in that look.

Something evil.

Darren turned his head to look at Frankie, and in that instant Frankie knew it wasn’t Darren in the car. Something had happened to him. Something had changed him, twisted him into a boy with the face of a gargoyle.

Those eyes.

In the darkness, Darren’s eyes glowed green.

Samantha held the handle of the half-open door. She looked down through the gap. The road was a rapid blur. She felt her stomach tighten. Terror gripped her. A scream caught in her throat.

Get out!

The car lurched to the right, throwing Samantha’s weight against the door.

It opened wider.

She held onto the handle as her head and chest leaned out. The speeding car created a hurricane wind that buffeted her, ripped at her clothes, threatened to push her out. She released a scream.

Darren laughed. It sounded like a death-rattle in his throat.

He spun the wheel to the right.

The coupe sideswiped the Chevy. The passenger door hit the Chevy hard.

The door slammed shut, throwing Samantha back into her seat.

Frank felt Darren’s car slam into his own. For a moment he lost control. Tires skidded. His Chevy ran off the road and onto the rocky shoulder. The car shook violently. His teeth chattered. Frankie bit his tongue and tasted blood.

With a tug on the wheel he brought his car back onto the road.

“Darren!” he shouted, but it was no use.

Slow down, he thought. You’re gonna kill yourself. It’s just a race. Don’t die for this.

He took his foot off the accelerator.

But another thought overrode the impulse.

Samantha’s in the car.

He couldn’t just give up on her. Something strange had happened to Darren. The kid was freaking out, turning into some kind of hopped-up maniac.

Those eyes.

Darren looked possessed by some kind of demon.

No, not a demon.

A ghost.

It didn’t matter. A demon, a ghost, or the Devil himself. Samantha was in trouble, serious trouble. If Frankie stopped his car, then that ghost, the Highwayman, whatever he was, would have Samantha.

What would he do? Rape her? Kill her? Something worse?

To save Samantha, he had to stop the other car.

But how?

A plan formed quickly in Frankie’s mind.

Get in front, he thought, then slow down. Make Darren slow down, force him to stop.

He’d seen a police car do that in the movies.

Maybe it only worked in the movies, but he had to try something. Frankie didn’t have time to think it through clearly, but it was some kind of a plan and he had to act now.