Two Paths Diverged

The highway stretches ahead of me in a flat ribbon of shimmering black beneath the desert sun. Heat rolls off the asphalt hard enough to distort the horizon into wavering mirages. My truck rattles steadily beneath me while old wind whistles through cracks in the driver-side window seal.

The shortcut appears almost suddenly. One moment there is nothing except highway and rock formations. The next, a weathered sign stands crooked beside the road like a warning somebody forgot to finish writing.

MINING ACCESS ROAD AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY

The arrow points north toward a narrow dirt trail winding into the hills. I ease off the gas pedal. Dust curls behind the truck as I slow near the turnoff. The dirt road looks barely maintained. Jagged tire ruts snake upward between sandstone ridges the color of dried blood.

Telephone poles follow the trail for a while before disappearing deeper into the hills. This is the shortcut the old man told me about. I think about him back at the station, telling me it would shave an hour off the drive. That alone makes me suspicious.

Nobody in horror movies ever says, “Take the long, well-populated route with cell service.” The truck idles softly beneath me while I study the road. My fingers drum against the steering wheel. If I stay on the highway, I hit traffic near the construction zone before sunset.

That means crowded roads, state troopers, tourists, and probably a motel somewhere with flickering vacancy signs and terrible coffee. That's safe, or at least safer. If I take the shortcut, I cut directly through the territory connected to every disappearance in the case file sitting beside me.

Every trail eventually points back toward these hills. I glance toward the passenger seat where the folder rests half-open beside my revolver. Several pages have slid loose during the drive. Black-and-white crime scene photos stare upward from beneath handwritten notes and maps abouy missing children, cannibalism and military blackout orders.

The wind gusts suddenly across the highway hard enough to rock the truck slightly. Something about the shortcut bothers me beyond ordinary caution. The road itself feels wrong in a way I cannot fully explain. It does not feel haunted or cursed so much as hungry.

The narrow trail winding between the sandstone ridges reminds me less of a roadway and more of a throat opening beneath the desert sun, waiting patiently for something foolish enough to wander inside. I hate that description the second my brain produces it, but I cannot think of another one.

The hills rise silently beyond the dirt road. No movement. No birds. No sound except the low rumble of my engine and the wind moving across stone. I should stay on the highway. Any rational person would. But rational people do not spend their lives hunting monsters across America.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel while I stare at the shortcut through the windshield. Heat ripples across the dirt road in shimmering waves, making the entrance to the hills look almost alive beneath the afternoon sun. Every instinct I possess tells me this is a terrible idea. That is usually how I know I am heading in the right direction.