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OLIVIA
“You’re going to die up there.” - Regan,The Exorcist(1973)
October 29th
ONE DAY UNTIL THRILLER NIGHTS
Someone is watching me.
I can feel it. It’s not unwarranted paranoia plaguing me, because I’m not entirely on edge every time I go somewhere. And to be perfectly honest, the idea of being watched doesn’t really frighten me. At least not the way it might most people, so I can’t even say I’m truly checking my surroundings. But I know someone is out there. Has been for a while, and I have to hide the fact that I find that notion intriguing.
An unnatural desire. My morbid reality.
Though, the feeling is strong this time as the air turns with an ominous affair of thick fog and soft rain. And I come up short when I turn my head behind me, eagerto find the source, standing still in the middle of the street as the sun starts its descent into twilight. I give up the curiosity, letting my intuition go unanswered as I continue to walk toward the auto garage.
Besides, who the hell would be interested in watching me?
Indigo Pines is a speck of a town snuggled into the valley of the surrounding mountains. Large pine trees loom over the mountain sides, enveloping the town in shadowed light most of the time, even when the sun peers over the tips of them. Right now the trees are painted in generous hues of gold, auburn, and moss, displaying the haunting beauty of the fall season, but they shift to a subtle shade of indigo during Winter, giving the town its name. And though this small town is one quite literally perfect for a postcard, it's a facade, really. Nothing here is ever beautiful without conviction.
I think the reality is that everyone knows small towns like this carry a skeletal darkness. The bones of which can’t be seen but felt. Because, although on the outside we look like your normal, friendly, run-of-the-mill small town, on the inside, we’re thriving in a dark past. A more recent one, sure, but nonetheless the air is layered thick with it. The notion of being watched. A haunting noise that can't be quieted because it echoes through the valleys and rings in the dead of night. I think that's the feeling they get when driving past our little town. They can sense the darkness; it's etched in the air.
But it's the place that I call home.
All that to say, if someone really is watching me, it’s someone I know. Because no one ever really comesin and nobody ever gets out. That is, unless they leave after college. Or die. In fact, the only time I really ever leave the town is to go into the city to run errands for my dad. In other words, to pick up his anxiety prescription because we don’t even have a pharmacy. Or so I can obtain the parts I need for the restoration of my 1967 Classic Ford Bronco; the passion project I started to work on last summer.
At first, it started as an attempt to try and keep certain memories alive and untouched by the looming fog of death that unearths and resettles into the soil of Indigo Pines. But then it eventually turned into a hobby to keep other, more depressing, memories from surfacing; to keep me from driving myself insane. Sometimes the only way to escape the horrifying reminders is to pretend like they don't exist. And though the rest of the town has seemingly moved on and done just that, for me it isn’t really a choice—to forget the shadows that stalk me in the night as the past I can barely bring myself to remember slithers in the air like a thick and constricting serpent.
The truth is, for me, those memories truly do not exist. But I feel them . . . lurking.
I step into the vacant garage of Riff Raff Autobody and approach the gleaming Bronco .Walking around it I let my fingers slide over the freshly dried, glossy turquoise paint. I admire the way the smooth surface cools my skin as I analyze just how far I've come in its resurrection. Aside from the few odd jobs that I seem to manage in this compact town, this beauty is the only thing that's kept me busy the past year. The only thing I can truly say I care about any longer.
Part of me knew that this approaching year was going to be the hardest, knowing that with it comes amilestoneanniversary. Five years. It’s so close. Yet so far. And it’s agonizing. Suffocating. So I started really thrusting myself into the restoration of my most prized possession; upgrading it with matte, white leather seats, restored stock wheels and a black rampage soft top. It’s stunning. The only problem is that it doesn't run.
I haven't been able to get a hold of an engine for it just yet, and at a price that I can dish out. My search left off last week when I went to meet some self-proclaimed car guru in the city. I found him online and he had great reviews but still somehow turned out to be a scam. So now I'm kind of shit out of luck until another one shows up on the market. But more than just that, the weather is going to turn wicked any day now and getting off this mountain is damn near impossible during the height of snow season.
I watch as the last of the sunlight shines through the dim window of the shop's garage, lowering as the hours fall behind us. A reminder that the days are getting shorter as the sun sets earlier.
As I take a step around to the front of my Bronco, the sound of paper crinkling reaches my ears. I look down and my heart thuds in my chest.
Another reminder.
Thriller Nights.
A weekend of tradition where the town gets together to join in on Halloween festivities by entering the Pines . . . now morbidly known as the Final Forest.
Every year during Halloween weekend, Mount Clyde University—the reputable college tucked rightbetween the outskirts of the town lines—ignites its tradition in the Pines, putting together an entire ordeal for the weekend. There's no real point to the event really, rather than to be a vessel for the teens and college kids to pour their steam into. Playing forest games, holding Halloween festivities and breaking rules when no one is watching. It's been a tradition for Finalas long as I can remember, for as long as this town has been around, and it’s the only thing Indigo Pines really has to look forward to, other than college football games, of course.
Thriller Nights Weekend usually starts on the Friday of Halloween week or weekend and goes until Sunday, sometimes lasting well past midnight. It’s always been fairly harmless, only leaving behind a mess in the forest oftentimes. But now, ever since the murders, some refer to the tradition as something more sinister: The Final Forest Anniversary. And now, the harmless fun seems tainted by blood and horror. Sometimes even just thinking about it makes me sick, especially as I reach down to pick up the littered flyer under my shoe and read the header.
Celebrate the life and loss of the Final Four by joining the MCU Marauders football team for a timely tradition.
Will you be able to survive the Thriller Nights Weekend or will you be the next victim of the FinalForest?
That last question causes me to fall nauseous, bile crawling up my throat. Like real people didn’t actually die on that mountain four years ago. Like it’s some kind of fucking attraction.
Final four.
