The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (the two towers ebook .TXT) 📗

in a crash. Gas station robbery. Poor old man walked into an all-nighter for a doughnut and a cup of coffee, right into a holdup. Got the back of his head blown off by some desperate junkie with a shotgun before he knew anything was up. Actually not a bad way to go, if you think about it. I’ve seen worse. Yes, I certainly have.

It was Locksmith who first told me about the music, though I’ve heard others mention it since. Black Dog Blues, he called it. The sound a driver hears just before the dog appears, a sorrowful howling that leaks through on the CB and sharp, staticky barking. Sometimes, they say you’ll hear an inhuman voice growl your name. That’s how you’ll know it’s time.

You’ve got your belt on, right? Good deal.

I heard the Black Dog Blues once, except it wasn’t playing for me. There was this woman, a trucker, name was Lydia but her handle was Sassy because she had one hell of a smart mouth. Never cared who might be listening, right there on the CB she’d just say whatever she was thinking. We used to stop at the same spots and run the same routes. There are drivers who work in teams—partners, married couples; it gets awful lonely out here—and we were talking about maybe giving that kind of arrangement a try. Never got the chance, though.

We were both slated to make a run for the same outfit. I’d gotten this new radar detector, so I was driving point and keeping an eye out for smokies. We were making good time and chatting on the CB, us and a few others in the general area, playing this game where we’d be carrying on a technically PG-rated conversation but using as many sexual innuendos and double entendres as possible. Sassy was good at it. Sometimes, I’d get to laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

I said we were making good time. In fact, we were speeding along pretty well. That was the whole point of the radar detector. But the thing started acting funny, making crazy chirps and beeps, and I got distracted trying to restart it. I didn’t notice Sassy had stopped talking. I didn’t notice anything until I saw her rig bearing down on me, coming up way too fast on the left. Brake failure, I assumed. Something had to be wrong with the rig because Sassy was an outstanding driver. I was cruising just below the century mark—about how fast we’re going now, actually—and she flew past me like I was parked.

That’s when I saw it, just for a second as she passed, running outside the beam of her lights. An enormous black dog moving unbelievably fast. I got on the CB, but she didn’t answer. So I pulled out my phone and called her. She did answer then, and I heard her crying. She was so afraid, kept screaming, “It’s coming for me, True! It’s coming for me!”

And in the background, I heard her CB crackling. This awful howl, a scream of static that hurt my ears. It wasn’t coming through on my radio, though. I could only hear it through the phone. It was the Black Dog Blues playing just for her.

Something said her name. A voice like out of your worst nightmare. If there is a hell, I think whatever greets you at the gates will sound like that. I saw her rig jackknife and go careening off the road. Thing rolled three times as it went over the embankment. By the time I finally got slowed down and pulled over and ran back to the scene, the fire was so big…there was nothing I could…she was just gone.

That was three weeks ago. I’ve racked up a lot of miles since then. Side gigs, overtime—I don’t like to stay put too long. Figure I’ve been up about four days straight now. Pardon my reach, just need something out of the glove compartment. Relax, it isn't for you.

This is the Smith & Wesson Governor, a snub-nosed revolver capable of firing small-caliber shotgun shells. A very reliable gun. Please don’t look at me like that. I already told you, I'm a professional. The gun is for the dog. The story is for you. Like I said, such stories need to be shared. Make sure you got your belt on now. I’m counting on you to survive this and tell the tale. Please, be on my side.

You mean you really haven’t seen it? On the shoulder of the road, just outside the headlights? Running alongside the rig? Right there! You can’t see that?

No, too late. It’s gone…for now.

Never mind, I’m not too worried about it. Let’s coax this big boy up to a buck-twenty and see if we can’t run the bastard down. Keep your eyes peeled. Somewhere in that blackness up there, it’s headed straight for us. And I’m going to kill it. They didn't believe me when I told them what happened to Sassy, looked at me like I was a raving lunatic. About like how you're looking at me right now, actually. But that's OK. I don't care what they think—or you either, matter of fact. Soon you'll see for yourself. Then, you'll know the truth. And you can tell everybody. You can tell the story.

Hear that? It's as if the sound was being stretched and pulled like taffy, and that terrible crackling growl under the static. That howling, lonesome as a lifetime spent on the road.

Oh yes, they’re playing my song tonight.

Imaginary Friends

Nicole Wolverton

The offices of Mixship Elementary School looked exactly as Julie knew they would—maybe because primary school offices all looked the same. She imagined there was a company that specialized in décor meant to cow children into frightened submission, encourage them to fall into line, to obey all the rules, to be good little children and do the right thing. The chairs would be that special mix of too big for a child but too small