The Lost RV by TDVH

 Is this on? God, my hands are shaking so much the touch-screen won't register. If you’re hearing this, my name is Ben. I’m seventeen. I’m currently sitting in the bathroom of my dad’s Jayco Eagle RV, and there is someone—or something—tapping on the frosted glass of the skylight.

This was supposed to be the "Great American Road Trip." My dad, typical stubborn midwesterner, wanted one last summer with all of us before I left for college. He’s the kind of guy who thinks GPS is a "suggestion" and that paper maps are for people with no intuition.

"We’re just taking a scenic bypass, Diane," he told my mom three hours ago. "The Grand Canyon isn't going anywhere. We’ll hook back up with I-40 by sundown."

But the desert doesn't have a sundown. Not here. The sky just turned the color of a fresh bruise and stayed that way. The road changed from asphalt to a weird, pale gravel that sounded like crushed bone under the tires. And then, we saw the lights. Sweet-Water.

We rolled into the main drag at about 8:00 PM. It looked like a postcard from the 50s. A diner with a glowing neon pie in the window, a gas station with those old-fashioned glass pumps, and a motel called The Sleepy Willow.

"See?" Dad grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Found us a place to fill up and grab a burger. Stop worrying."

Mom didn't stop worrying. She’s got that sixth sense for "wrong." She pointed out that there were no power lines leading into the town. No cell towers. Just the town, sitting in a bowl of jagged red rocks like a tooth in a socket.

We pulled into the gas station. An attendant walked out. He was a white guy, maybe in his sixties, wearing a pristine bow tie and a tan uniform. He was smiling—but it was the kind of smile you see on a funeral director. It was too wide, showing too much gum.

"Where you folks headed?" he asked. His voice sounded like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.

"Grand Canyon," Dad said, leaning out the window. "Can we get a full tank of premium?"

The attendant didn't move. He just stared at my little sister, Chloe. She’s eight. She was leaning out the back window, holding her stuffed rabbit.

"The Canyon is deep," the man whispered. "But the roots of Sweet-Water go deeper."

He didn't pump the gas. He just stood there, staring, until Dad got uncomfortable and drove across the street to the motel.

We checked into two adjoining rooms. The wallpaper was a repeating pattern of weeping willow trees. I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to get a signal, while Chloe went to the window.

"Benny," she said. "The kids outside want to play."

I looked out. There were three children standing in the middle of the dark street. They weren't running. They weren't shouting. They were just... standing. They were dressed in Sunday best—little suits and lace dresses.

"Don't go out there, Chlo," I said. "They look weird."

"They say I have pretty eyes," she whispered.

I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face. When I came out, the door to the hallway was cracked open. Chloe was gone.

I ran into the other room. "Mom, Dad! Chloe’s outside!"

We burst onto the sidewalk. The street was empty. The three children were gone. Chloe was gone. The only thing left was her stuffed rabbit, sitting in the middle of the gravel road. Its head had been twisted 360 degrees.

Mom lost it. She started screaming Chloe’s name, running toward the diner. Dad got that look on his face—the one he gets when he knows he messed up but is too proud to admit it. He grabbed a tire iron from the RV.

"Hey!" he yelled at the diner door. "Where is she? Where’s my daughter?"

The door to the diner opened. The "friendly" locals we’d seen earlier stepped out. The gas station guy. A waitress in a pink uniform. A man in a sheriff’s hat.

They weren't smiling anymore. Their faces had gone completely slack, like the muscles had just disconnected from the bone.

"She’s being integrated," the waitress said. Her voice was a chorus—hundreds of voices layered over one. "She has such beautiful, clear eyes. We need those to see the light."

Mom charged at them. She didn't even think. She just wanted her baby. She reached the waitress, but as soon as she touched her, the waitress’s skin didn't feel like skin. It sounded like plastic crinkling.

The locals swarmed. It wasn't a fight; it was a wave. One second Mom was there, and the next, they had dragged her into the darkness of an alleyway. We didn't even hear her scream. It was just... silence.

"Ben, get in the RV!" Dad roared.

He swung the tire iron, catching the sheriff in the side of the head. There was no blood. Just a puff of white dust, like a broken bag of flour. The sheriff didn't even flinch. He just reached out with a hand that seemed to grow extra joints and gripped Dad’s shoulder.

I heard the bone snap. A wet, sickening pop.

"Run, Ben!" Dad turned, using his good arm to shove me toward the driver’s seat. He threw the keys at my chest. "Don't stop for anything! You hear me? Don't stop!"

I scrambled into the seat. I looked through the windshield as they pulled him down. Dad looked at me—not with anger, but with a terrifying, hollowed-out sadness.

"I should have looked at the map," he mouthed.

I floored it. The RV roared to life, tires spitting gravel. I drove over something—someone—and felt the heavy thump of the chassis. I didn't look back.

I made it to the edge of town, where the gravel turns back to dirt. But the RV started coughing. Black smoke began pouring from the vents. I think the gas that guy "didn't" pump was actually something else. Sugar? Bleach? I don't know.

The engine died exactly ten feet past the "Thank You for Visiting Sweet-Water" sign.

I’m looking out the back window now. They’re walking toward the RV. Not running. They know I’m trapped. And in the front of the group... it’s Chloe.

She’s wearing her little yellow dress. But she’s walking with that weird, jerky motion, like a puppet. And she doesn't have her eyes anymore. In their place are two glowing, white orbs that cut through the desert dark like high-beams.

"Benny," her voice comes through the walls, perfectly clear. "Open the door. Mom and Dad are waiting”

I have a kitchen knife and a flare gun. I know it won't do anything. If you find this phone... tell the police to stay away from the "Scenic Bypass." Tell them the Grand Canyon isn't worth the shortcut.

The skylight just cracked. I can see a pale finger reaching through. It has too many knuckles.