 I had nowhere to go. I wasn't in any particular rush at all on this grueling Georgia highway. I had no job, no family, nothing but my own aimless thoughts and broken dreams, nothing but my lonely cynicism for company. Sure, I got bi-ok. Once in a while I sold a creepy painting or two. But as a struggling artist, my income wasn't steady. And now here I was at 30, single, homeless, still chasing a mirage, a millennial drifter without a cause. But this Monday afternoon, I stayed calm and collected. Behind my blue aviators, I stared on at the bruising sunlight. Late February, and I didn't even need the heater on, not even a hoodie. The white arctic monkey's tea and tight jeans were enough to combat this lukewarm Georgia winner. Someone had been growing weaker since Valentine's Day. Like a captain cruising the smooth southern sea, I drove on down this four-lane blacktop. Not a soul was in sight. No cops, no houses, yet another lonely road trip for Lee. I'd just come back from completing a sale out in Columbus. Now with some spare cash for once, I was making my way back to my hometown. Back to Georgia. I had some possible business down there. Brad Haskell was wanting me to do some gory book design. He's one of those indie horror writers. I think he tried teaching, but failed at that. Haskell apparently the reclusive type from what I understand. Then again, so was I. Normally, I took the interstate, but what was the rush? Hell, Haskell wasn't expecting me till tomorrow. My family was long dead. What good would a haunted homecoming do? If I'd been on this route before, I damn sure couldn't remember. Not a good sign, but as long as this old Honda's radio was working, I couldn't complain. Even with no USB port and a CD player that had been broken since 2016. Besides, all the surrounding farmland and forest offered pretty scenery. Not to mention shelter for when I drank a few beers earlier. I passed a few highway towns about an hour ago, but hadn't seen shit since. At first, the radio offered me solace from the boredom. But as the dull drive continued, the tunes faded away. Each channel was the same. There were no familiar rock songs that comfort me. Hell, I couldn't even find a country station or a mad preacher attacking the airwaves. Everything was scratchy. The sound of snow off a defunct TV. I stole a glance down at my iPhone. Of course, there was no service. What a shock. Growning, I confronted the highway, felt my anxiety and awkward adrenaline rise. The scan button didn't help. Every station was a lost signal in this Georgia galaxy. The turbulence made me cringe. The high pitched pattern scrambled my mind. Up ahead, a speed limit sign caught my eye. 45 miles per hour. The drop off so sudden. I glanced toward the speedometer and then my heart sank. There was less than one gallon left. How the hell did I not notice that? I just filled up in Columbus. No way this shout out Honda huffed gasoline that quick. Panicking, I looked out the windshield. No city signs offered me hope. I didn't even see a house much less a gas station. Shit, I muttered, bracing myself for this endless montage of trees and crops. I gripped tighter to the wheel, mashed the pedal down further. The speed little support for my ever growing unease. The parade of white noise still assaulted my ears and accelerated my fears. This transmission from hell taunted me only instead of being lost in space. I was trapped in South Georgia. For the first time this winter, I thought sweat dripped down my dark beard. My restless eyes stayed glued to the highway, to this mysterious terrain. And then I saw it. A shabby building up ahead on the left. It's what all signs so prominent. The promise of gas pumps waving me in. Yes, I shouted with a victorious flourish. And I turned off the radio. I relished this first real silence, a smile on my face until I got closer. Then I saw the marquee underneath the Woodall sign 0.30 read it's unleaded gas price holes and cobwebs covered the sign faded posters ran along the store's busted windows. The parking lot long empty since 1958. This was a Norman Rockwell graveyard. Those useless pumps nothing more than neglected tombstones shit. I said behind my aviators, I checked the fuel gauge. The arrow drifted closer to E. I knew I needed salvation in the middle of nowhere and fast returning my gaze to the open road. I stayed on the lookout for another mirage. My body shivered beyond control. The dread dominant. The rear projection of trees ran on and on the intermittent flash of a barren field the only other site I saw. Nevermind cars nevermind an actual human being. I stole a lookout towards the woods. But even they looked empty. Damn it. Come on. I faced the highway once more. My Honda feeling every pothole this old road had to offer despair latched into me. In my gut. I felt the gauges weakening needle taught me with every passing second. A blue wooden sign appeared a handmade beauty. She was welcome to parrot Georgia the town of the long riders. It was painted with azalea flowers surrounding those letters in a colorful tapestry. The southern shrine a sight to see for these sore eyes haha yes I said to myself now I really focused did my best to ignore the unwavering unease. At first there was just more green inferno more of this rural hell until the cute wooden convenience store caught my eye till and haste country store read the cursive sign. The gas station was a sprawling log cabin a row of many rocking chairs sat on its front porch. There were only two pumps more than enough for such an isolated location chuckling I pulled in closer. Of course there was nothing nearby no houses or any real competition for tilling haste the store with a monopoly on desolation row I saw more advertisements tacked on to the main sign bright paint the closest these owners could afford to neon lights cold beer lotto country cookbooks proclaimed this tourist trap and then there was my favorite last full service gas station in parrot Georgia now that was really something to be proud of I joke to myself my smirk stayed omnipresent as I made the left turn pulled right into the pump closest to till and haste heavy front door I killed the ignition tore off my sticky sunglasses finally I could exhale oh made it I can find it to my Honda the gauge needle hovered midway through the letter E we sure cut it close sweetie I said smiling I gave the dashboard a reassuring pat you never let me down basking in the calm relief I grabbed my useless phone stepped out into the February heat the perfect weather stole my sweat not too hot not too cold the bright sun a spotlight for wherever the hell I was stranded at till and haste was trapped in a time warp somewhere between 1950s small town Americana and post recession decay basically a woodalls with a pulse albeit a weak one chipped paint coated those lifeless rocking chairs the small speakers outside played scrambled static white noise save for the occasional burst of Roy Orbison's high notes or Patsy Klein's confidence I couldn't hear much of anything except the powerful ceiling fan swirling out of control in the store I scan the scene some trepidation halted my brief euphoria I was the only car here the only thing present from this millennium but there were still signs of life not just in the spider webs but the garbage can choked full of fresh trash the wild skid marks running up and down the store's battered pavement one look at the gas pump confirmed my suspicions no card reader that technology apparently hadn't quite caught up with parrot yet after all why curb their stranglehold on the full service industry great I said I face the store's red door the peeling paint and rotten wood made me feel as if I was about to enter a crypt sighing I stepped towards it the door burst open a dying ding erupted from its bell and there stood Mr. full service himself a tall man with stringy yellow hair his bulging dark eyes wide awake for what must have been the longest shift on earth the gray coveralls fit over the man's beer gut and broad shoulders a cursive till and has country store patch fitted over his heart the uniform's cap somehow over his dirty blonde cobwebs and the patches name tag fit the middle aged man's unassuming grin John two week to close on its own the front door gave me a sneak peek at what awaited inside I saw the ceiling fans still whirling a wide array of stock shelves but not a customer in sight how can I help you John said in a raspy voice the gas station attendant looked dutiful but distant a black and white caricature brought to life with depressing realism judging by his voice those years spent in the 50s must have really made him dependent on cigarettes I guess just filled up I said with an awkward smile still staring at me John nodded he staggered toward my car his steps slow and clumsy exhausted from the grueling graveyard shift I stopped closer to the doorway and then I heard it a light movement not a footstep but a quick dragging noise a heavy sliding sound turning I looked over at John hey man do you want me to pay first in a sudden outburst John confronted me no he said just stay right there I'll let you pay inside later startled I stood still the noise was now gone gone within the depths of till and haste country store okay I stammered now my fading beer buzz was gone for good as was the fleeting hope I felt earlier the anxiety coming back with a vengeance I watched John stick the pumps handle into the tank the routine nothing more than a miserable ritual for him I stayed silent awkward finally John faced me you doing cash or credit beneath his cold stare I hesitated debit John waved inside the store I'll scan it in there he stole a glance back at the pump those crawling numbers still with a ways to go John looked at me you you're not from around here are you a forced to smile no I'm not not saying a word John turned his attention back to the task at hand his eyes glued to the pumps slow ass ticker harsh static filled our silence nervous I looked up at the speakers those distorted sounds still scared the shit out of me you know John began his tone hitting a weary pathos I faced John watched him keep a trembling grip on the pumps handle the best thing we can do is get the hell out of here John continued his soulful eyes pierced into my baby blues that's all we can do my fear only increased pardon I said the pumps cryptic chime made me jump all the numbers now dead still you heard me John said he yank the handle out if we don't get the hell out of here I'm gonna have to give you to him he said in a voice veering towards madness shivering for the first time in February I motion towards him look I I don't know what with a frightened flourish John jam the handle into the gas pump I'm telling you for your own good boy he yelled behind a terrified expression we need to get out of here both of us now I took a step back nah you're not coming with me John marched toward me his footsteps loud his crazed desperation even louder if you won't I'll have to feed you to her cried a southern accent crippled with pain I have no choice like a cornered child I stumbled back against the wall held my pathetic hands out no get back help me John wailed he reached towards me please let's go now back away from me John strong grip latched onto my shoulders he leaned in inches away from my face his stare pleading me we have to go now straining I struggled to back away but John stranglehold was too tight get off of me please John yelled tears formed in his eyes please help me his quivering voice begged help me using all my might I gave him a hard shove John staggered back way off balance his look of horror met mine are scared eyes matching until John hit the garbage can and collapsed to the pavement there was a sudden crash a gruesome puncture piercing through the tension oh shit I said I ran up to the attendant but I was too late much too late John remained on the ground all the fast food wrappers and empty bottles surrounding him like funeral flowers except for one beer bottle the one John himself had crushed the long next glass stayed lodged beneath his head the sharpest shrapnel stuck straight through his scalp forever pinning the cap to John's blonde hair blood flowed amongst the bud light backwash John's eyes at a cold standstill his breaths completely gone but the static continued a sadistic chorus to my ears an uncanny orchestra of scratches and distortion that never let up I watched John's crimson flow to my feet felt the fear flame my flesh shivering in that perfect weather I now saw blood spread out in all directions from under John's cap past the coveralls through the trails of trash all this gore fresh paint for till and haste much needed renovation turning I look towards the open front door the clinical lighting inside lacked warmth the isolation immense this convenience store still awaited its next customer screw that I muttered immediately I hopped inside the Honda eager to escape I jam the key in turned it the engine sputtered gasping for breath in the steady sunlight command I cried another turn did nothing and neither did the next the car wouldn't crank hell I couldn't even get the radio on the full tank had done nothing but erode what little was left of my Honda's soul she was a horse too weak to continue literally on her last leg but what disturbed me most wasn't the cars abrupt flatlining nor its futile final breaths but the fact my gas gauge hadn't moved at all the needle was still stuck on e forever now in panic mode I checked my iPhone there was still no service not to mention I had a battery now hovering under 20% I punched the steering wheel damn it tears of horror slid down my cheeks I sat there helpless all alone until I turned to face the store's front door the opening just beckoned me it provided me a faint hope yet another mirage I left the Honda behind stumbling to the store my scared steps kicked up John's blood then I stepped inside saw the small room conquered by shelves and shelves of snacks fridges of cold beer and soda trembling in the cold air I looked all around me the huge cash register was a coffin the store's famed cookbooks made up of yellow rotten pages amidst my lingering unease I realized the front door was my only way in and only way out except for a door in the very back a door cracked open just slightly the ceiling fans constant assault further chilled me the air conditioning the only modern luxury these mysterious store owners could apparently afford as if Till and Hast had been preserved all these years not through profit but frost my teeth began to chatter I folded my arms the t-shirt giving me no chance against this man-made blizzard still I stared on towards the back the door now open a bit more then I heard that unsettling noise the same slow eerie drag what must have been a long heavy object sliding along the floor there were no thumps or thuds just a slimy slither cautious I approached that back doorway hello I struggled to say a quick slam startled me a ferocious roar through the store I whirled around to see the front door now closed entombing me alive deep in my second gut I knew there was no winter wind out there nor any person that could have closed it the nerves overwhelming me I rushed up to the door what the hell I cried the brass knob gave me static electricity upon contact but still I turned that damn thing terrified if unsurprised to find it locked panicking I looked out a window my voice died on the spot hell at this point I felt my soul shiver the Hondo was gone and so was John so was the blood all signs of our most strange fight and tragic accident all of it wiped clean from Tillon Haas country canvas no I muttered I place my hands against the icy windowpane no way and then I saw the rocking chairs swing to life their paint somehow restored all of them rocked in unison the most customers Tillon Haas had had in years even if they remained unseen outside beautiful harmonies further frightened me the five satins in the still of the night drifted in from the speakers flawless and void of static the group's pretty performance commemorating what was shaping up to be this gas station's grand reopening I staggered back in fright no way was all I could mutter through the crippling cold an agonizing creek swept towards me over the hypnotic chorus of Tillon Haas soundtrack cradling my arms together I forced my eyes towards the back just in time to see a red tentacle retreat further into the room the long slender tentacle slid across the floor an anaconda arm with no eyes or snout no features of a face or life itself the tentacle was only blood red and covered in even redder ooze and all the while dragging itself making that same stilted noise I heard earlier the cold breath struggled to escape my lips I stood there in terror watching that limb disappear into darkness back to wherever the hell it came from lying near the doorway I saw the creature's gift like a Christmas present laid out just for me one I didn't ask for those pair of gray coveralls awaited my touch my body my enslavement in Georgia's frozen tundra I marched toward the uniform defeated despondent and still scared I stopped and stared down at them Tillon Haas country store read the patch then I saw the patches inevitable name tag Lee it said in that flashy cursive we need to get out of here John's paranoid voice blared through my mind both of us now I confronted that back room not dare stepping any closer I could still hear John's painful please if you won't I'll have to feed you to her his voice driven by the desperation of a man on a nervous breakdown or on the brink of death I have no choice help me please let's go at least the uniform would keep me warm for those eternal shifts at this steady job I never wanted I gazed around my new office my new home sure the snacks and alcohol would alleviate some of the pain but only some and sooner or later I'd have to go out there to fulfill my duties as the last full service gas station attendant here in Parrot Georgia fulfill my duties for both Tillon Haas and the monster in the back so the next time you're driving home from Columbus or Atlanta stop on by let me pump that gas for you make small talk with you in our friendly little town because boy do we need customers