 I look down at my gas gauge and it's slightly below empty. I have a good feel for how far I can push it, but I should really start filling up the tank all the way. For some reason, it feels less painful to my bank account to only put $20 in at a time. I hope the next exit has a gas station that's open. I haven't seen another car in miles. A few minutes go by and I can see the green exit sign growing in stature as I approach. Charquer off. Exit right. I've passed it many times on the seven hour journey between my hometown and my college town. It always looked like a forgotten and depressing place from the interstate. But tonight, it was my only option. A sign on the exit ramp indicated that a gas station was one mile to the right. Nothing else was listed, nothing else was out there, just woods. The logging companies must have missed this place years ago. You don't normally see trees this big. I can hear my dad's voice telling me that this is what you would call an old growth forest. It's what the whole state used to look like. When I pulled up to the dimly lit store, I questioned for a moment if it was even open. This place was stuck in the past, but time had still taken its toll on the antiquated gas station. I spotted movement behind the counter and parked beside one of the two gas pumps that they had. A small rusty bell jingled as I opened the door and walked in. Can I get 20 on? I look back at my car. Two. Do you have cash? Asked the old clerk. He seemed happy to see me. Our credit card machines broken. Yeah, yeah, I do actually. I always keep a 20 hidden in a small fold of my wallet for just such an occasion. I handed it to him and for a moment it's silent other than the clicking of the register and the printing of the receipt. You pass him through or is charcoal off your destination? He asked, I will most likely be the only person he sees tonight. These small islands of conversation are what keep you sane when you're on the night shift. I know from experience. I work part time as a security guard. Oh, I'm just passing through. No offense, but there doesn't seem to be much to stop for here. No offense taken, young man. The old timer smiles as he hands me the receipt. There's only two reasons people stop in this town. You're either stopping for gas as they pass through, like yourself, or they come looking for Barrow Mill. I was just about to turn to walk out, but that name peaked my interest. Barrow Mill? I repeated. Oh, it's just a local legend. Back when more folks used to live here, they'd tell their kids stories about a cursed and wicked beast that lived out by the mill. I'm sure you were told something similar when you were little to keep you from wandering off at night. Yeah, my granddad would tell me about bloody bones. I spent years looking over my shoulder because of those stories. So what do they call this thing? He seemed to hesitate for a moment. Mephuzela's dog. What? I asked. Mephuzela was the oldest man in the Bible. He lived 969 long years. According to the stories, this thing has been around for generations. Have you ever seen it? I asked. Well, no. The old man shuckled. I know somebody that knows somebody that as a cousin, you know how it goes. More than likely, somebody ate the wrong kind of mushrooms and saw a coyote. A few rounds of the telephone game later, and a monster is born. But people come looking for this thing. I asked. Oh, yeah, yeah, mostly folks around your age. They head down to the mill with their flashlights and a cooler of beer. It's a good excuse to get scared and huddled up to your girlfriend. The old man smiled in a way that let me know he'd use the same tactic when he was young. How do you get there? I asked. Oh, it's not too far. You take a right out of this parking lot and you drive about five miles. You'll see a road to your left, but you gotta drive slowly because if you don't, you'll miss it. There's no street sign, and it's a little overgrown. Honestly, it's more of a trail than a road. I see you got a four-wheel drive. He points to my 2001 four-runner at pump number two. Drive until the trail dead ends. When it does, get out and walk straight into the woods, and you'll see Barrow Creek. Walk with the flow of the water and follow the creek for about 20 minutes. You'll run straight into it. Easy enough, I said. If you go back there, make sure you go with the group. His eyes narrow when he says this. Why do you say that? I ask. Well, they're just rumors and stories. But the odds do seem in your favor if you're not alone and if you keep the campfire burning. I thank the old man for the interesting conversation and the directions. I tell him I'll wait and I'll come back with some friends. We say our goodbyes and I walk out to my car. As I watch the numbers on the gas pump edge closer to $20, a familiar feeling of excitement and anxiety starts coursing through my veins. A memory from when I was in middle school flashes through my mind. A dare from a friend about a creepy abandoned house on the outskirts of town. Not just any dare, but a double dog dare to stay in that house all night by myself. Nobody else in my group of friends would have done it, but I didn't even need the encouragement. I wanted to go. I turn the ignition over and crank the music up as I pull out of the gas station and turn right. I find the trail and it has some bad ravines down the center, but it's nothing the forerunner can't handle. It's slow going, but I'm in no rush. I don't care about the branches that scrape the sides of my car or the potential to get stuck in the woods. I'm here for that feeling of danger, even if that's all it ever is. I know it's probably just an old mill in the woods, but I like throwing myself into situations where my senses are heightened. Those are the memories that stick with you. I reach the end of the trail and park. I get out and walk straight into the woods. I bring a small flashlight that I always keep in my car. Barrow Creek is right where the old man said it would be. I turn to walk with the water down a worn narrow trail that runs right next to the creek. There's not a lot of underbrush in these woods. It's made up of gigantic trees and this leaves room for lots of dark open spaces between them. The trail snakes between the trees and as I keep moving, I start to notice that the only sound I hear is the rippling of the water. The silence and the darkness start to play with my mind, but I'm not looking over my shoulder and I'm not turning back. I can see a large dark structure up ahead. It's the mill. My flashlight scans from one side of the structure to the other. The wooden parts are in ruins, but the stonework is held up well. I pause for a moment to admire the mill. It was worth coming out here just to see this. He's not in there. A corrosive and lazy voice says to my right, fear flushes through my body. But I turn and shine the light in the direction that the voice came from. There are several large trees about 15 feet away, so big that two men couldn't wrap their arms around them. You came for the dog, right? The voice cuts. It seems to be coming from behind the middle tree and it's literally talking down to me from a high vantage point. I'm picturing someone sitting in a branch about 10 feet above the ground, but there are no low branches. Yeah, yeah, I heard the stories. I just wanted to see if they were true. I sound more confident than I feel. They are not. I am no dog. The voice says with a snarl. My blood runs cold. The voice is not human and whatever it is, it's big. I better keep it talking. What should I call you? I ask. I've had many names, but you can call me Methuselah. I've grown fond of that one. What are you? You're not fooling me. There's no point in buying time. I don't want to gnaw on your femur. I'll entertain the conversation for now. Because it's been a long time since anyone dared to ask me any questions. They normally just run. Okay, fair enough. I'm asking you genuinely. What are you? I'm higher in the food chain, but you don't even know what food is. The thing talks in riddles. How old are you? Oh, I don't keep track of time because time doesn't keep track of me. I've heard you're old. Why doesn't time keep track of you? When you eat something. It has a ticking clock attached to it. It was always going to die. You're born into death. You eat things that are born into death. Your body is part of death, and you cannot escape it. There is, however, something that a human has that does not die, a soul. I eat things that do not die. I am above the carnal system, and so I do not die. If this is a joke, it's a convincing one. I take a few backwards steps down the trail, but it feels pointless. I might as well face whatever this is head on. I square my shoulders. Why don't you show yourself? You'd run, and I don't want the fun to end just yet. My intuition is telling me to keep the light on the tree. I don't believe a word this thing says, but it feels like the light is keeping it pinned down. My grip on the cheap little flashlight tightens. What are the chances that I leave here alive? No point in beating around the bush. Suddenly, my flashlight flickers. I immediately bring my free hand down to slap some life into it. But before I do, a long and lean arm reaches out from behind the tree and digs its claws into the bark. A head peeks around the trunk, and it's about nine feet in the air. It's nearly pitch black outside, but this thing is darker, and I can see the twisted face of a killer staring back at me. This isn't Methuselah's dog. This is Satan's dog. Anubis would recoil at this twisted version of himself. The teeth and the eyes contrast with the night, but just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. My light flickers back on. That light is not going to last long. It's seethe through a voice of gravel. I take a few more steps back, and the dry fall leaves that cover the ground announce my every move. It starts laughing. Turn your back and run. See what happens. There never was anything in that haunted house when I was a kid. I'm in way over my head this time. I don't have a group. I don't have a campfire. I don't have anything. Just this dollar store flashlight and a bad habit that I haven't been able to quit. I fumble in my jacket pocket, and down below my cigarettes is my lighter. I'm sparking the flint before I reach the ground, and in 30 seconds I have 10 small flames going. I hear stomping and tearing from behind the tree, but it hasn't rained in weeks, and the fire is picking up quick. I keep feeding the flame and spreading the fire until everything this side of the creek is ablaze. I take my jacket off, wrap it around a large branch, and stick it in the fire. After it catches, I take off with it in one hand and my flashlight in the other, and I run as fast as I can. My lungs are burning, and I nearly fall several times, but I don't stop until I reach my car. I turn the high beams on and reverse down the trail at a reckless speed. My tires squeal when they hit the asphalt, and as I pull away from the trail, I hear a blood-curdling howl that threatens to break my windows. I don't look over my shoulder, I just keep driving. The gas station is now closed for the night, but I wouldn't have stopped anyways. I hit the interstate and see how far the $20 will get me.