You Won’t Make It Out

You Won’t Make It Out

by

Chris Johnson

In 1978, my parents took the family to England and Europe. I was a fairly young kid at that time, hadn't even learned to whistle (another story), so there were lots of things to see. Strangely, my mother liked stopping by at the cemeteries. Why? I'm not quite sure. It's not something I can ask now, but I still remember my mother finding one of those stone coffins and posing with her hands crossed on her chest inside it as if she was a corpse.

Fast-forward a few years to when I was older, but not too old to be stupid. I was in the cemetery with a girl in Toowong, Brisbane. It's got some interesting-looking tombstones, nothing as grand as one in the European cemeteries... but still quite artistic. Backlit by the strobing effect of lightning during a summer storm as thunder cleaves the air, it's an awesome and pulse-quickening experience. Just the right atmosphere for a scary date, right?

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Yeah, it sets the heart racing—but nothing compared to when one of those moonlit shadows actually moved.

My date saw it first. And boy, did she jump! Not from the storm, not our nocturnal activity. This was different. When she tapped my shoulder again, I looked and saw it too. A hunched shape shambling through the gloom from behind a stone angel.

Quickly grabbing for our things, we took off towards the car parked beneath a tree, our feet splashing and slipping in the puddles.

“Hurry up! It's following us,” I remember hissing as another flash of sheet lightning flickered and faded, revealing the hunched shape.

We ran. We slipped again. The puddles sloshing at our ankles, chilling us more.

At last, after fumbling with the car key in the lock, we got inside. The engine started first time.

My date screamed as a hand, broad and pale, slapped against her window. My engine roared as I floored the pedal. The hand vanished, lost in the pelting rain.

We both released a sigh of relief. Her eyes were huge, shining like she’d seen the devil. Her skin glowed in the dashboard light, slick with rain. She started laughing.

“Holy shit, man,” she exclaimed breathily. “What a rush!”

Something hard and fleshy pounded beside me. My date screamed. I jumped in surprise. Another pale hand slammed my side. She screamed again. I turned—just in time to see it vanish.

I checked the speedo—40! Then 60! But the tyres just kept spinning, flinging water and mud like bullets. The thing's flesh slid with a squeak along the glass.

“Damn! That made me fill my pants.”

Bam! Another slap that shook the glass. And a voice spoke that made my stomach churn and turn.

“You won't make it,” it cried mournfully.

I swore. Pressed the pedal harder. We were doing 80 now.

A second later, there came the bash again. The same terrible voice, wet, thick, like it gargled phlegm. “You won't make it.”

Heart pounding in my throat, I screamed. So did my date. My ears hurt from her high pitch. It was even louder than the roar of my car's engine, which now reached 100.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

A face loomed at my window. Partly obscured by a large hat, rainwater sluicing from its brim and washing over the thin bearded face of an old man. He whirled his hands. Something in its insistence, probably the hopeless realisation there was no escape, made me do it.

I wound down the window, half-expecting the hand to lunge for my throat. But, no...

“Are you bloody stupid or something?” the old man said, hacking and swigging from a bottle like he’d caught the flu. “You're stuck in the mud, mate. Told you – you won’t make it outta that.”

I hope you enjoyed my little tale. Please feel free to drop a line below.