Rhoda is ticked-off, her default setting of late. The last six months have offered a parade of humiliations at the hands of Philip Harlan—her show has been hijacked, her regular audience alienated, her boss and boyfriend (at the moment) is deaf to her complaints—but none of these have been so insufferable as today’s offense. Rhoda has spent the last hour and twenty minutes trapped in a car with this talkative crackpot as they drove from D.C. to somewhere outside Massanutten, Virgina. An hour of listening to inane rants about global conspiracies, shadow governments, alien visitors and secret government labs. Paranoid fantasy. Science fiction hooey. Worse, Rhoda has heard it all before. It’s the garbage she has been forced to weave into her program three nights a week, twisting her finely crafted, but purely fictional, tales of the macabre into news for the straightjacket crowd. For the duration of the drive she had bravely resisted the urge to leap from the moving vehicle, and as her reward, they were now traipsing through the dense Appalachian woods, headed to God-knows-where. Possibly to Rhoda’s own death at the hands of this batshit usurper. “Where the hell are we going? Do you even know?” Rhoda had prepared herself for a short walk, not a half-mile hike through thick underbrush, and she is starting to sweat through her Calvin Klein’s. “Specific directions are of no use out here,” Philip says, as grandly as he can between his huffing and puffing. “The way reveals itself to us or it does not. But I feel good about it...” Rhoda scowls at him behind his back. She is downwind of Philip, who not only dresses like a heavy metal roadie but has the hygiene of one as well, although he spoke like a pretentious college professor. The contrast in affectations drove Rhoda crazy in its deliberateness— the rock n’ roll wizard, finger on the pulse of the incredible. She wonders what kind of idiot could be suckered by such a ridiculous gambit, until she remembers who had forced her on this expedition in the first place. Rhoda tells herself she needs to have a very long talk with Doug when she gets back home…if she ever does. “So, you’re saying we’re lost, on purpose.” “My unconscious mind knows the way,” he replies. “Be patient, and keep on the lookout.” “For what, wild turkeys” she mutters to herself. “These wood are nearly five hundred million years old,” Philip informs her, and for once, Rhoda believes him. The oak trees rise high above, their thick, twisting branches blocking out most of the midday sun, casting everything on the ground in perpetual twilight. “Think of all the spirits that have been trapped here over time. If the trees could talk, huh?” “Yeah, spooky. Did you bring a flashlight?” She asks out of sincere concern for their safety; Rhoda has never been an outdoors type, but she knows that every year a few hikers disappear in these woods. Years later one or two scattered bones might be discovered, a shred of clothing, a rusted watch. Or nothing at all. Many are experienced woodsmen, too, unlike herself. It’s not supernatural, Rhoda tells herself, There are bears and poisonous snakes, and, damn it, it’s all so dark. It’s easy to be swallowed whole by the forest, and for perfectly normal, boring reasons. Two fools don’t stand a chance. Rhoda isn’t sure if Philip even brought any water. Rhoda has lost track of the time. They have walked for what feels like hours, heading deeper into the thick woods, daylight fading with every step. Soft earth has turned to hard shale, making footholds difficult and the going slow, especially for Rhoda, who curses her short legs and extra twenty pounds. She is tired, thirsty, her feet and back ache painfully. She is certain they have become hopelessly lost and for a moment considers doubling back by herself, but knows she wouldn’t stand a chance on her own. As they continue on, a terrible dread creeps over her; they are trespassers here, uninvited and unwelcome. There are no birds in the branches of these ancient white oaks. No wind carries through the branches. But all is not still. Shapes move in the shadows, whispering in an unknown tongue, watching in anger. “Here!” Philip has stopped only a few yards ahead, but his shout is muffled, as if from a great distance. It is then Rhoda notices the steady vibration below her feet and a low thrumming noise in the air. She walks to where Philip stands and looks down at a large object buried in the slate bedrock. It is a dome, two feet high and four feet in diameter, made of several wide panels of banded steel. Thumb-sized rivets dot the surface, fastening the steel panels together in clumsy steam-age construction. On the side of the dome is stenciled: U.S. GOV’T. The paint is bright, as if applied only recently. The ground trembles around the dome, and Rhoda can hear a high, oscillating tone emanating from inside the strange device- the whispering gibberish of her imagined woodland specters. “What is it,” asks Rhoda.
“A coffin,” answers Philip.
Part 1:https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song
Part 2: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-2
Part 3: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-3
Part 4: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-4
Part 5: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-5
Part 6: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-6
Part 7: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-7
Part 8: https://steemit.com/horror/@senderos/the-nightmare-song-part-8
Photo by Amanda Charchian
Story by Daniel Capuzzi, 2016. All copyrights apply.