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“Alana!”
A deep silence hangs in the air, sending a chill down my spine. I need to get help. My hands fly to check the pockets of my jeans, but my heart sinks when my fingers don’t land on the familiar shape of my cell phone. Hurrying back to where I woke up, I check the ground, but my phone isn’t laying on the ground anywhere.
“Fuck.”
I’ve got to get the hell out of here. My feet carry me over to where my motorcycle lies on its side. All hope drains from me when I see the gas light glaring back at me. It’s hopeless—without fuel, there’s no way I can make it back into the city. I grab my key from the ignition and put it in my pocket, then stand the bike up and lean it against a tree.
To ward off the nausea, I take a few controlled breaths and head out onto the road. Walking in the direction that will take me back to Carmel, my hope is I’ll spot either a house or car driving by. Careful to not cause pain, I push my hair back and feel the sticky, warm blood that has been leaking from a cut on my forehead. It’s almost stopped bleeding, which is a blessing. At least I don’t have to worry about fainting from blood loss out here in the middle of nowhere.
The surrounding quiet is nerve-wracking, and the darkness makes me jumpy. It feels as though someone is watching me from the shadows, and it makes it hard to focus on walking straight. The entire walk, I check the sides of the road to make sure Alana didn’t go find help and find herself passed out in a ditch.
Still no sign of her. I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t notice the house until I’m almost standing right in front of it. A long driveway leads to a porch that wraps around the house, with bright light shining through the front windows like a beacon. A sense of relief washes over me.
My disoriented feet scrape the gravel path up to the tattered old farmhouse, and I clutch onto the wobbly porch railing to steady myself. I ring the doorbell, but it must not be working because the night is still silent. I knock on the door, but I try not to do it too loudly. The last thing I want is to scare the person who lives here—it’s late and I don’t want to be met with the barrel of a shotgun. A few moments later, a light flicks on inside, and the door creaks open with a sigh, revealing an elderly woman in faded pajamas.
“Please help. I was in an accident up the road from here. A car tried to run us over, and I hit my head. My friend is missing now. Please help me,” I plead.
The wrinkled eyes of the old woman roam over me. She frowns, taking in the blood dripping from my forehead and dark patches of dirt and grass stains on my shirt and pants. I can’t blame her for being suspicious. I’m a stranger, and it has to be after one in the morning. This is the type of thing you see happen in a horror movie, and I would be concerned if she opened her door and welcomed me with open arms.
“Please,” I say again.
Her expression softens a bit, but there’s still hesitation in her eyes and she fiddles with her fingers, nervously.
“I don’t have to come in.” I gesture toward the steps. “I’ll sit right here, but please call the police.”
My hands comb through my hair anxiously, and I hope I’m not scaring her.
“Sit on the porch swing,” she says over her shoulder as she walks back into her home. “I’ll get the cops out here for you.”
The porch swing groans and squeaks under my weight as I sit down. Experimentally, I swing back and forth a few times, and am relieved when it’s sturdy. A cool breeze is blowing softly across my face, and I shiver as I wrap my arms around myself.
I breathe deeply, trying to keep the worry from clouding my thoughts.Could I have overlooked Alana in the grass somewhere back there? Is she lying alone in the grass trying to call out for me? Is she injured and bleeding out? Or was she taken by whoever drove that car?
None of the options sounds good to me, and I’m hopeful she left me to find help before I woke up. Maybe she reached another house, and the cops are already on their way here with her.
The creak of the screen door opening tears me away from my thoughts, and I glance up at the house in time to see the woman come outside. She approaches me slowly, her hands stretched out in front of her. She has a blanket and a bottle of water in her hands.
“Here, you look like you’re in shock,” she says. Her voice is scratchy and deep, most likely from years of smoking. The smell of nicotine clings to her flannel pajamas.
A grateful smile lights up my face, and I take the blanket and bottle of water from her.
“Thank you,” I say.
My hoarse voice surprises me, and it’s then that I realize how sore my entire body is. The throbbing in my head kept me from noticing the scratches and scrapes that burn all over my body. Now that I’m sitting down, I feel every ache and pain.
She leans against the siding of the house and stares at me. She has the weathered face that shows she’s put in hard manual labor on this farm. Her kindness shines through with smile lines around her mouth, and her eyes radiate warmth. I’m thankful I stumbled onto her porch.
“The cops should be here in the next ten minutes.”
“Thanks, ma’am. I appreciate your help,” I reply, and she nods her head and stands alongside me quietly.
Soon, I hear sirens in the distance. The noise is faint at first, but it grows louder until red and blue lights start flashing in the darkness. The two cars slow down and come to a stop across the road. Two men in uniform emerge from each car and walk up the stairs of the porch and stop in front of us.
“Everything okay, Gertie?” the officer asks.
“Yes,” Gertie says. “He’s the one you need to talk to.”
The cop nods and turns to me. “What happened?” he asks.
