James Whitman knew to not go that way. Everyone he met during his first few weeks in the little town of Simmsville informed him of the same thing, some more than once. “Never take the Old Road,” they told him. He questioned a few people about why the road should be avoided, but found they were not to be pressed on the matter. It was simple, unquestionable fact to never take the Old Road.
James moved to the small town a few months after retiring from and selling his business. He wanted to find peace and quiet after a lifetime of deadlines and pressure. The house he settled in was just far enough from the small town and just close enough to his favorite fishing spot. It was a rather large home, but he could well afford it after selling his canned soup factory for the tidy sum he had. It was exactly what he hoped for in a small town: nice people, tree-lined streets, and no frustrating traffic jams stretching for miles on end. Since he moved from New York, he hadn’t even seen so much as a crowded sidewalk.
The people of the town took to him immediately, claiming James as one of their own. Their warnings about the Old Road were heartfelt, but he heeded them only as so much superstition. He was a rational man. He regarded it all as local legend that had, after so many years, taken on a life of its own.
It was a dirt road from what could be seen from the main parkway it intersected, and was lined with bent and twisted trees which seemed to emanate a feeling of torment. James could see how such a sight would give rise to tales of caution, especially when seen at the onset of night. Beyond the first sweeping curve of the road nothing further of it could be seen, but it gave the impression of winding on for quite some distance. There was no mention of it on the local maps. The road seemed to exist only to be avoided, an unspeakable evil to be wary of.
James Whitman awoke one morning to the sound of a terrible thunderstorm. The rain was falling in torrents upon his house, and the thunder threatened to shatter the windows with its deafening booms. As he stared out the window, the phone rang it was the new owner of his old business. The man said he urgently needed some missing recipe files mailed to him. James had no choice but to venture out into the storm. He assured the man he would get the documents in the mail that day. He threw on his overcoat and hat, placed the sealed documents in his briefcase, and was on his way.
James slowly drove toward the town’s post office, barely able to see even with the wipers feverishly beating back the rain. He had driven nearly five miles when the storm somewhat abated, enabling him to barely discern the figure of a man standing by the roadside. The man was just standing there, making no effort whatsoever to avert the onslaught of rain.
James, shocked that someone would be out on foot during such weather, pulled to the side of the road. He leaned over, unlocked the passenger door, and pushed it open. The man stood there, cautiously peering into the car, as if surprised anyone would actually stop to offer a ride.
“Please, it’s terrible out, get in,” said James. The man slowly got into the car and shut the door.
“Thank you, my friend,” the man said, removing his spectacles and wiping the rain from them. “I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do.”
“The town is just a few miles up ahead,” said James, pulling back onto the road. “You looked like you were waiting for someone.”
“No one in particular,” the man said simply, putting his spectacles back on.
“Are you from around here you don’t look familiar,” James asked.
“Yes, but I’ve been away for many years,” the man replied.
“My name is James, James Whitman,” James said, offering his hand.
“Simm Porter,” the man said, not taking the offered handshake.
“Ah, well, we’ll be at the post office in a little while, that’s where I’m headed. You can make a call from there, for a cab or whatever you need. The town’s named after you, huh?” James said, attempting a little humor after the snubbed handshake.
“Thank you, but if it’s all the same, I just need a ride to my cousin’s home. It’s right up here on the left,” Simm said, pointing.
“The next left?” James asked, knowing what road that was.
“Yes,” said Simm, folding his arms.
James was sure the man was mistaken. He couldn’t have meant the Old Road. “Is there another way to your cousin’s home?”
James asked, hoping the answer would be yes.
“No, there isn’t, I’m afraid. It’s only a couple of miles down the road once we turn off, if you’re sure it’s no trouble,” Simm said.
How could James refuse a man caught out in a storm like this, only bothering him for a ride to the shelter of a relative? A ride James had stopped to offer. James knew there was no one who lived down that road. Surely the man was mistaken. He did say he hadn’t been here for years.
“You sure this is the right road?” James asked, trying to help the man remember the correct way.
“I would never forget the place where I was born,” Simm said, leaning slightly forward.
“It’s just that everyone says – I mean, it’s only that the road isn’t paved and we might get stuck. I was only suggesting you get safely to town until the storm has passed,” James said.
“I see your concern, but we won’t get stuck,” Simm said, leaning back and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
It was difficult to see very far in front of the car, but Simm alerted him just in time to make the turn onto the Old Road. Surely, the man must know where he’s going, thought James, he knew where to turn even in this deluge, and he did say he was born here. His cousin must live down the Old Road.
“You should understand one thing, Mr. Whitman,” Simm said with the sudden authority of an old preacher, “No matter what, do not leave the road. Stay on it, run its course, for beyond lay unreality. Beware the Outlands, James Whitman, and thank you for the ride.”
James cast a quick glance toward the man and found him no longer there. He stopped the car and looked in the back seat. No Mr. Porter. The rain stopped, and an uneasiness crept over him as he stared back down the Old Road. The man must have somehow slipped out, James reasoned, he was driving slow enough. Just a hitchhiker gaslighting him. Long way to go for a joke, but there wasn’t a whole lot to do for entertainment in this town. He peered around him to see where the man might have gone. In the distance, farther down the road, he saw and old house with its lights on. He could faintly make out shapes of people moving about in the living room. A warm yellow light radiated from the windows, and the people were gathered around some huge object, probably an old wood stove. They were waving their hands about as if telling deeply amusing stories to one another. Maybe about him.
“That’s where the man headed,” James said to himself, “It was all just a prank. Well, I hope they got their jollies.” He thought about how the whole town must have been in on it all along. “Patient folks,” he thought as he smiled to himself, “really took their time for the setup.” When he put the car back in gear, he found it was stuck.
“Unreality, indeed,” he muttered, stepping out of the car and into the cool, damp air. “He can come help me get my car unstuck for all this,” James grumbled, his shoe slowly sinking into the muck as he took a step towards the house. “Foolishness,” he spat.
The wind began to strengthen as he made his way down the road, each step filling his shoes with cold, muddy water. James looked at the house as he walked. Whenever he looked away at the twisted trees and tangled brush, the house was either looming a bit closer or a bit further than before when he looked back. Eventually, he was near enough to clearly see the people inside. His heart froze when he saw them. They were horrid creatures. Their limbs were frail and long, their eyes mere slits from which came a smoldering glow, their mouths huge gaping maws filled with long, sharp teeth. As he stared, one of them caught his bewildered gaze. All movement within the house suddenly ceased, and the lights went out. He heard a door slowly creak open and then be eased shut.
James turned and ran in the direction of his car. The storm returned with its former intensity disorienting him, making him no longer sure in which direction he was going. He stopped, and as he did, something lightly scratched the back of his neck. He spun around and screamed. Nothing was there.
“It must have been a tree branch,” he yelped, his mind racing. He turned back, and before him stood one of the creatures. It was mocking his fear, mimicking his feeble gestures of helplessness. There was a brilliant flash of lightening, and then he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. He fell to the ground and all went black.
When James came to, he found he was inside the house. There were countless candles lining the walls. He was in the living room where he had first seen the creatures, and it now became quite clear what they had been gathered around. It was a huge, black cauldron…and he was in it.
“Do you feel the flesh melting from your bones?” one of the things asked in a sickly voice that hissed out of its mouth as if fueled by a burning fire in its belly.
James Whitman raised his hand and saw his flesh slowly fall from his bones. He felt nothing. Even when he was only a mass of frothing stew in a boiling kettle, he felt nothing. His consciousness faded away on the curls of steam rising from the pot as the ghastly figures each dipped their huge ladles in and began to devour their hideous concoction.
James Whitman’s car was found the next morning on the parkway, just outside of town. He was pronounced dead by the town’s only doctor. The official record stated that he had suffered a massive heart attack, but the good people of the town of Simmsville knew what a man looked like after travelling down the Old Road.
About John D. Connelley: John D. Connelley writes horror stories late at night while drinking coffee.
