Not once have I failed to visit Grandma on her birthday. Today, no matter how busy I’ve been with work, I’m not about to break this special, intimate tradition that she and I have. For years, nobody in my family has bothered going to her house anymore, saying that **** Province is too far and that they’d visit if they just had enough time. Honestly, I think they’re full of shit. No matter how much they post fancy, “sincere” greetings to her on social media, they simply can’t back it up with their actions.
She is very understanding, but I know that she’s hurting even if she does her best not to show it to me. That’s why despite my stressful, depleting work shift, I've packed up my stuff and set out to drive to her place. As a surprise, I haven’t told her that I’m heading over there.
It’s a 3-hour drive—give or take—from the Metro, and about thirty minutes of the journey will be spent traversing the Road: a narrow, unpaved dirt road that stretches up to 25 kilometers before reaching a T-junction. Three or so kilometers from the start of the right turn is where my grandma’s home stands along with other old, humble bungalows.
The Road doesn’t have an official name. It is actually an uncharted shortcut to the neighborhood where Grandma lives. I had discovered it a year ago, and since then, crossing it has been significantly shaving off my travel time.
Although she would reprimand me every time I told her I had driven there. Assertive in her point, she would always tell me not to go through the Road again for the path was haunted and “alive.” I kept my counterarguments to myself; proving my point just wouldn’t get us anywhere. The fact that I’ve been there for four instances already is proof enough that the road isn’t cursed, or something.
Old people are mostly superstitious to the point of irrationality. If I was in Grandma’s shoes, considering the gap in era and education, I would probably believe in paranormality as well.
That’s not important. I love her, and nothing can change that.
One thing about driving in the middle of a forest is that you have to keep going until you reach your destination. As long as I keep that in mind, I’ll never be a victim of desperate bandits and their traps. If anything, these kinds of outlaws are what I have to worry about, not some spooky ghost.
Fifteen minutes after I exited the expressway, I reach the familiar beginning of the Road. I like to imagine that this passage is actually a path to heaven; the sight is simply hypnotizing during the day. The forest around it is so dense and overgrown that the leaves of the nearest trees overlap with each other above it, as though serving as a natural roof against the sun.
This is my first time to set my wheels on this natural path in the middle of the night. Presently, the Road can’t be described simply because there is nothing for the eyes to describe. It would be pitch black if I were to turn off the headlights. Not even the moonlight can penetrate the leaves that shroud the road from above.
The straight path doesn’t feel ominous nor scary; it just feels lifeless.
With only my headlights illuminating the darkness in front of me, I drive at the speed of a steady 60 km/h, chuckling mockingly as I pass by a limping farmer at some point. I’m not falling for that.
.
.
.
Yawning for the umpteenth time, I grunt as the accumulation of sheer exhaustion kicks in. I should’ve reached the junction already. Whatever. Perhaps it’s just my tired mind perceiving the time imprecisely.
Wait.
It’s that farmer again. With the same straw hat. With the same face towel around his shoulders.
With the exact same limp.
I slow down as I look at the GPS. It says that I’m still at the one-third of the straight road. That’s impossible. The speedometer registers the fact that I’ve just driven for 36 kilometers more.
What the fuck is happening?
My location in the GPS moves as I continue to drive forward. I look at it and at the road simultaneously, making sure that my device isn’t malfunctioning.
.
.
.
I stop as the GPS shows that I’ve reached the end of the Road. But where the fuck is the T-junction? I’m supposed to make a right turn already, but the road just continues straight ahead.
I accelerate forward, trying hard to search for the end where it’s supposed to be. Several meters later, my location restarts at the beginning of the road.
Worse, the speedometer registers that I’m driving for 50 kilometers now. No signal. No internet connection. Nothing but darkness in every direction I look.
I think I’m lost. A sinking, frightening feeling of being trapped and imprisoned in an unexplored place washes over my entire body. There’s no way this is fucking happening.
But I have no choice but to move forward.
61-kilometer mark. I gasp as I make up an outline of the farmer in the distance. This time, he isn’t walking.
He stretches his long arm as though waiting for someone to pick him up. Why do I keep seeing him over and over again? There’s no way I’m driving in circles; this is a straight road, for god’s sake!
Shall I stop? Maybe he knows the way. But Grandma’s incessant reminders prevent me from doing so. Never pass that road ever again. Never trust anyone and anything you see there.
Honestly, I’m starting to think that she’s right because the current bizarreness makes it difficult to prove otherwise. I pass by him once again, seeing him putting down his arm and following me with his gaze. Deathly thin-built, he looks severely malnourished. His cheeks are so deep that he looks like he’s pouting his lips even when he's not.
At this point, I’m more terrified to die than to get robbed. Every ounce of fear invades me all at once as the skeptic in me completely opens up to the frightening ideas, no matter how irrational they are.
75 kilometers later, the junction is still nowhere to be seen. I stop, breathing deeply to compose myself. What do I do? What the fuck do I do!?
I start to cry as I slam the steering wheel and everything else that I touch. The gear shift goes to “Reverse.”
I have an idea that I find stupid the moment it comes into my mind. But I‘m at my wit’s end. If this doesn’t work, then I’ll talk to the farmer the next time I see him. I’d rather take the risk and trust him than be trapped in this darkness for another minute.
I fix my eyes at the rearview mirror as I start to accelerate backwards. The faulty GPS reads my movement as going forward as though I’m still heading for the junction. I scream out of fear and frustration, but a booming trumpet-like sound completely suppresses my voice. To say that it’s coming from a portion of the forest would be incorrect.
The forest itself seems to be screaming.
It’s difficult to set the steering wheel straight. I’m shaking uncontrollably. I just want to get out of here. Please, let me get out!
86-kilometer mark. I’ve noticed that the farmer shows himself for every 11 kilometers of land I cover. But now, I don’t see him neither limping nor hailing for someone to pick him up.
Instead, a car behind me accelerates towards my direction, its headlights slowly getting bigger and brighter.
We’re going to crash.
I furiously honk at the driver, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t plan to stop. Me, too.
Tensing my muscles, I brace myself for the crash. I close my eyes when the car is merely inches away, but the crash never comes.
No, the car phases through me. The same car that I’m currently driving. Is that… me? I stare at it until it is out of sight, utterly confused as to what the fuck is happening here.
97-kilometer mark. The forest becomes noticeably louder as I go back further and further, and I take that as a sign that I must be doing something right. I can’t describe the sound properly, but it seems that it the trees are wailing in resentment and disapproval.
99-kilometer mark. At this point, I’m starting to feel relieved, beginning to feel almost thankful to the amount of mocking statements I had gotten after I bought this fuel-efficient car. I can only shudder in anxiety as I think of the circumstantial alternative—that is, running of out gas in the middle of this road.
Loud footsteps.
Every positivity escapes my body as a figure emerges from the darkness, running faster towards me than I’m accelerating backwards. My heart threatens to burst out of my chest as he smacks the hood, destroying it like it’s a piece of paper.
Oh, my god. It’s that fucking farmer.
The car turns 180 when he slams the left headlight. Luckily for me, my car now faces the direction I’m heading at. He seems to have realized it too; he screams, his voice belonging to that of a blasphemous church choir, with every single tune reverberating through my skull. Flooring the gas pedal, I manage to completely lose him.
I’m wrong.
The roof of my car crumbles in protest as something outside tries to force its way inside.
There. I can see the junction!
But not before the farmer finally puts a hole into the roof. The icy breeze makes me shiver more, and the forest has become more deafening. His disgustingly veined claws, fortunately, cannot reach me. He then forces his head to fit into the small hole, and I completely regret looking at him. His stone cold eyes pierce through my insides, and if looks could kill, then I’m afraid that I might die of extreme shock.
“YOU. BELONG. HERE.”
I plead for my life incoherently as I make the right turn without breaking. Then, silence. I’ve reached the T-junction. No monster. No darkness. Just that familiar asphalt road. Holy shit, I got out!
I desperately want to believe that everything that happened isn’t real, but the damage that my car has sustained and the horrible state of my mind and body make it hard to do so.
No. Please, let this be a dream. Please.
The rest of the drive is uneventful, but I keep remembering every detail of the events that just transpired a couple of minutes ago. I park in front of Grandma’s house and head towards the door, cake in hand. Its yellow box is full of claw marks, mocking me further that everything that just happened is neither the result of an exhausted mind nor a morbid imagination.
This is fucking reality.
She’s quite the comforting sight. I hug her as soon as she opens the door, releasing all the tension and terror I’m feeling. She kisses my cheek as she pats my back. I tell her everything, and she assures me that she perfectly understands everything I went through. The endless straight road. The unsettling darkness. The wailing of the forest. The deadly farmer. The T-junction that had somehow moved itself to the other end of the road. I pinch my arms as hard as I can, but every pain is a reminder that this is actual, physical existence.
“What… what would happen if that monster reached me?” I ask miserably.
“No one has come back to tell the tale. They say everything he touches belongs to him,” she answers matter-of-factly.
YOU. BELONG. HERE.
Somehow, a wave of fear passes through me when I hear her words that are eerily similar to the farmer's. Why do I feel like… she’s mocking me? I did manage to come back. The monster had never reached me. The Grandma I know has never failed to comfort me, but perhaps this is just paranoia.
“I’m so sorry for not listening,” I cry out loud.
She faces me, smiling as she tightens her grip on my shoulders. “No. I’m glad, child.”
Her calling me “child” feels… unfamiliar. I ask her what she meant because the way she responded seemed that she’s happy that I didn’t heed her warnings. No, I have to set my mind straight. Who would scold someone who has suffered enough because of their stupidity? Surely she must be glad that I’ve survived such a horror.
But I’m uncomfortable. I can sense that there’s something terribly wrong, that the Road isn’t finished playing with me yet. Experiencing such trauma, I don’t know what to think anymore.
Grandma has always been happy to see me, but tonight, her happiness seems… exaggerated, almost to the point of ecstasy. Her smile calms me down, but I can’t help but feel that it is somewhat out-of-place.
She shakes her head, her timeworn, wise beam never leaving her face. “Let me clean this up,” she says, pointing at the shallow scratch on my right shoulder that stings when she touches it. “How did you get this?”
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