Chapter 2 2

I turned around and walked slowly to the side of the road, listening to the wind whimpering in the woods, the sound of running water in the stream and the croaking of frogs, suddenly I heard another terrifying sound, a sound of breaking ground and uprooting, like a A dying hand reached out and grabbed one of my rubber boots. My feet tripped and I fell, my elbow hit a tombstone, and my body swayed, almost on the back of my head, and I fell to the grass with a muffled thud.Then I saw the moon, and it lit up the woods, white now instead of orange, bright as polished bone. This fall did not make me panic, but more sober.I don't know what I saw, but it can't be that I saw the sentence I thought.This sort of thing only happens in John Carpenter and Vince Craven movies, not in real life.

If I just walk out of here, I will believe this thing, and believe it all my life, it must not be true.Yes, look again, the thought crossed my mind. "Fuck." I cursed and stood up.The buttocks of my jeans were wet, and I tugged at them to keep them from sticking to my skin.I worked up the courage to look again. It was not easy to walk to the tombstone marking the final resting place of George Stauber, but it was not as difficult as I thought.The wind is still blowing, sighing in the woods, which means that the sky is about to change.Tree shadows danced around me, their branches rubbed against each other and creaked in the woods.I bent down to look at the inscription again:

George Stauber January 19, 1977 - October 12, 1998 start well end shortly I stood there, leaning my upper body, with my hands on my knees. After my beating heart gradually calmed down, I took a closer look and it was completely different.This is the case in the original text. Could it be that my eyes misread the inscription under the name and date?Even if I am not mentally burdened and fatigued, I may read wrongly in the moonlight. It is the fault of the moon. Now everything is clear. If, as I think, what I see is "play it and do it", then my mother is really dead. "Fuck." I cursed again, turned and walked away.As I walked, I saw the mist curling up through the grass, wrapping around my feet and starting to glow.I heard the roar of motors approaching from a distance, and a car was coming.

I hurried through the gap in the stone wall and grabbed my backpack.The car was driving uphill, I stretched out my hand and gave a thumbs up, the headlights came from afar, and I felt dazzled all of a sudden.Before the car slowed down, I knew the driver of that car would stop.Interesting to say, how do you know that some cars will stop, but a veteran car ride can know which car will stop. The car passed me, brake lights flashed, and turned onto the shoulder near the end of the stone wall.I hurried over, and the backpack I was carrying swayed and hit my knees.The car I saw coming up was a Ford Mustang, one of those cool cars that were popular in the late sixties and early seventies.But the roar of the motor in the muffler is very loud. Such a loud sound may not pass the next annual inspection due, but this is none of my business.

I opened the car door and sat in, put the backpack between my feet, and the general strange smell rushed towards me.A familiar and not-so-pleasant smell. "Thank you, thank you very much." I said. The guy driving the car was wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He was tanned, muscular, and had a blue thorny vine tattoo on his right arm.He's wearing a green cap with the John Deere logo on it backwards, and a badge pinned to the crew neck of his T-shirt that's unclear from where I'm sitting. "Never mind, are you going into town?" he asked.

"Right," I said, and "into town" here and now meant Lewiston.It's the only place north of Portland that counts as a town.The moment I closed the car door I saw pine-scented air cleaner hanging on the rear view mirror, that's what I just smelled.I can't avoid these strange smells tonight. It was urine before, and now it's artificial pine.But I was riding in someone else's car, so I could only endure it. In fact, I should have endured it long ago.With the roar of the old Mustang engine, the guy backed the car back into the middle, and I tried to relax.

"What are you doing in town?" the guy driving the car asked me.I reckon he's about my age, a city guy who goes to vocational technical school in Auburn, or maybe works in the two remaining textile mills there, and maybe fixes his Mustang in his spare time car.Because this is what young people in the city often do, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, repairing cars or motorcycles. "My brother is getting married, and I'll be his best man." I lied casually.I don't know why, I don't want him to know about my mother.I always feel that something is wrong, but I don't know what is wrong, and I don't know why I lied like this in the first place, but I feel that I am doing the right thing. A party for men."

"Oh? Tomorrow night?" He turned his head and looked at me sideways, with big eyes, a handsome face, a smile on his thick lips, and a look of disbelief in his eyes. "Yes." I said. I felt scared, like the previous scared feeling, and maybe it started when the old man in the Dodge told me to wish on the evil moon instead of the stars, or when I picked up the phone and answered McCaw. It begins with Mrs. Tiffany's bad news about my mother.But this time it didn't feel so bad. "Well, it's a good thing." The young man wearing the peaked cap backwards said, "It's a good thing for my brother to get married. Brother, what's your name?"

This question made me feel not just fear, but terror, that everything was going so wrong now, and not knowing why things were going so fast, made me panic.But I knew it very well: I didn't want him to know my name any more than I didn't want him to know why I went to Lewiston.While we were on our way to Lewiston, I suddenly had the feeling that I would never make it again, fearing that he would die on the way and the car would stop.I also knew the smell in the car, not from the air freshener, but something ominous. "Hector." I said my roommate's name casually. "My name is Hector Passmore." The words came out of my dry mouth calmly, and it was a good lie.I had a strong desire not to let the guy driving know how nervous and scared I was.So I had to lie.

He turned his body slightly towards me.I saw the badge that said: I rode the roller coaster at Thrillerland, Reconia.I know that place and have been to it before, but I haven't been there for a long time now. I also saw a big thick black line around his neck, like a tattoo on his arm, but this black line on his neck is not a tattoo.It was stitched with a lot of vertically crossing black threads, post-surgery stitches that reattached his head back to his body. "Nice to meet you, Hector," he said. "My name is George Stauber." I was taken aback, and raised my hand involuntarily as if in a dream.I wish it was a dream, but no, it's all very real.The smell in the car was like rosin, but it was actually some compound, probably formaldehyde.I realized I was riding with a dead man.The Mustang sprints through the white moonlight at 60 miles per hour on Adventure Road.The trees on both sides of the road danced wildly in the wind, constantly squeezing over.George Stauber smiled at me through his empty eyes, put my upraised hand down, and concentrated on driving again.In high school I read the story of Dracula the vampire, and now something similar happened to me in the book.Dead people drive fast, and the thought is like a crackling clock chiming in my head.

I can't let him know what's on my mind, this idea is also ringing in my mind.It doesn't matter, but I just can't let it go, can't let him know, can't, never.I thought of the old man, where is he now?How is his brother?Is he still walking alone?Maybe he's behind us in the old Dodge, hunched over the steering wheel and yanking at his hernia belt.Is he dead too?Probably not, according to Bram Stoker, dead men drive fast, but the old man never went faster than forty-five miles.A nervous laugh welled up in the back of my throat at the thought, but I held back.When I smile he knows what's on my mind.But he must not know now, because this is just on my mind. "There's nothing like a wedding," he said. "Yes," I answered, "everyone should have at least two in his life." I clasped my hands together and gripped so hard that my nails dug into the skin on my knuckles, but it didn't hurt.I just want to not let him know what's on my mind.The forest surrounded us from all sides, and there were no other lights, only the bright white moonlight shining indifferently.I can't let him know that I think he's dead.But he is not a ghost, which is scary. Ghosts don't stop to carry people like him.So what is he?Zombies, ghouls, vampires, or neither. "Yes, brother, it should be held twice, all my family." "My family too." I said quietly, like a person who spends a whole day hitchhiking and discussing with the owner to pay a little fare.I went on: "There really is nothing like a funeral." "Wedding," he said softly.By the light from the dashboard in the car, I saw his pale face, the face of an unmakeup corpse in a funeral home.The inside of the reversed peaked cap was even more terrifying, and I wondered what it contained.I've seen reports of undertakers sawing off the top of a dead body's skull, removing the brain matter and stuffing it with chemically treated cotton balls to prevent the face from possibly sinking. "Wedding." The words slipped through my numb lips, and I chuckled. "I want to talk about weddings." "I think we're always saying what we want to say," he said, still smiling. Yes, Freud believed this long ago too, I read it in Psychology 101.I suspect this guy knows a lot about Freudian psychology.I don't think a Freudian would wear such a sleeveless T-shirt and reverse cap, but he knows enough.And I said the funeral, my God, I said the funeral.I don't want him to know that I think he's dead, and he doesn't want me to know that he understands that I think he's dead.So I couldn't let him know that I found out that he understood that I thought he was dead. The whole world started spinning and spinning before my eyes, and then it turned upside down.I lost all feeling at once, I closed my eyes and rested for a while.The shadow of the moon still hung in front of the dark eyes, turning green. "Are you alright, bro?" he asked, but the concern in his voice made me shudder. "It's okay." I opened my eyes, and the scene in front of me calmed down again.The pain of being picked by my nails on the back of the hand was real and intense at this time, and the car smelled not only of rosin air freshener and chemicals, but also of dirt. "Really all right?" he asked. "It's just that I'm a little tired after riding for a long time, and sometimes I get motion sickness." I suddenly had a burst of inspiration and said a reason casually. "You'd better, I think you'd better let me get out of the car and get some fresh air, my stomach will feel better. There will be other people passing by, and I'll just…" "I can't do that," he said, "drop you off here? Never get off here, it might be an hour before a car comes by, and they might not take you. I should, How's that lyric? 'Take me to church on time' right? I can't let you get out of the car here, just roll down the windows, it'll be better. I know it doesn't smell too good, I Hung an air freshener in here, but it doesn't do much. Some smells are harder to get rid of." I wanted to reach out and crank the window handle to let in some fresh air, but my arm seemed to be failing.I just sat there with my hands clasped, my nails digging into the flesh on the back of my hand.It's funny, the arm muscles are weak, but the fingers can't relax and hold tightly. "It's like a story," he continued, "it's about a kid who bought a Cadillac for $750. You've heard that story, haven't you?" "Yes, that's a well-known story." I moved my numb lips. I hadn't actually heard the story, but I had to pretend that I had, because I didn't want to hear any stories from him.The road ahead of us is like a picture in a black and white movie, flashing past and flashing past. "Yeah, it's fucking trendy. There's a kid trying to buy an old used car and he sees a nearly new used car parked on a dude's lawn." "I said I listened..." "There was the owner sitting in the window, with a sign saying 'for sale' next to it." A cigarette was stuck to his ear and he took it off.When I took it off, the front collar of the T-shirt was ripped up, and I saw another wrinkled black thread with more stitches on it, and then he bent down to get the lighter, and the front collar of the T-shirt returned to its original position. "The kid knew he couldn't afford a Cadillac that was close by, but he was curious, so he went up to the owner and asked, 'How much does a car like this cost?' The owner was washing the car, and he turned off the valve on the hose. The dragon head said to the child: "Little devil, you are lucky today, and you can drive away if you give seven hundred and fifty yuan."" The igniter popped out of the dashboard, he picked it up, put the flame on the cigarette butt and lit it.He took a puff on the cigarette, and I saw little whiskers oozing from the needle hole in the broken neck. He continued: "The kid looked through the driver's window and saw that the odometer was only 17,000 kilometers away, and the kid said, 'Oh, really? That looks like a great deal.' No kidding, Kid, take the money and it's yours. You seem so honest, I can even take fucking checks. The kid said: '… " I looked out the window and remembered hearing this story many years ago, probably in junior high school.The version I heard was identical except the car was a Thunderbird instead of a Cadillac.I remember the kid saying that although I'm only seventeen, I'm not an idiot.Nobody wants to sell this car for seven hundred and fifty bucks, and it's only been such a short distance.The car owner told him that the reason for doing this was because there was a strange smell in the car that could not be removed. He tried many times, but nothing could remove the strange smell.The owner of the car has traveled for a long time, at least..." "...two weeks," Stauber continued.He was smiling like he was telling a good joke. "When he came back, he found the car parked in the garage. His wife died in the car. He died while he was on a business trip. It's not known if she committed suicide or had a heart attack or something. She was swollen and the car was full of That smell, so he had to sell the car for cheap." He smiled and asked me, "It's interesting, isn't it?" "Why didn't he call back during the business trip?" I asked involuntarily, but my mind went blank. "He was away for two weeks and never called back to see what his wife was doing?" "Well," he said, "you'd be wrong if you said that. I'm talking about this deal. Who wouldn't be tempted? That's the point. Because you usually drive with the windows open so you can't smell it. , isn't it? That's the way the story is. I think it's the smell in the car that makes the story believable." We were all silent.I think he's waiting for me to say a few words to end the subject.I'm going to end the subject, so I won't speak unless he continues, and if so, what will he say? He rubbed the ball of his thumb against the badge pinned to his T-shirt, which read: I rode the roller coaster at Thrillerlands, Reconia.It was black between the fingers.He said: "I went to this place called Thriller Park today. I did some work for a guy and he gave me a ticket for the whole day. My girlfriend was going to come with me but she called to tell I'm not feeling well, she's had her period these days and it does make her worse than being sick sometimes. It sucks, but I also think if the period doesn't come, ah, not at all, then I'm in trouble, we're all in trouble .” He babbled a lot, not humorous at all. "So I went by myself, no reason to waste this opportunity. Have you ever been to Thrillerland?" "I've been." I replied. "I was twelve years old then." "Who went with you?" he asked. "You're not going by yourself, are you? Because you're only twelve." I don't tell him the truth.He was playing with me, playing me left and right.I wanted to open the door, put my head in my arms, and roll out of the car, and he'd just reach out and push me down.So I can't put my hands up and put my head on my head in case he finds out my intentions.I can only hold hands tightly. "No," I said, "me and my dad, dad took me." "Did you ride the roller coaster? I rode that bird thing four times. It went straight up and straight down." He looked at me and let out another hollow laugh.The moonlight rippled in his eyes, making them all white, like the eyes of a statue.I knew he was not only dead, but also crazy. "Are you sitting down, Alan?" I want to tell him he's called by the wrong name, my name is Hector, but what's the use?It's time for a showdown. "Sit down." I whispered.Only the moonlight fell, and the trees on the side of the road twisted their branches and rushed back quickly, like crazy dancers in a sacrifice ceremony, and the road flew under the car.On the speedometer I saw him going over eighty miles an hour.Dead people drive fast.The two of us were on a roller coaster. "Yes, I rode that roller coaster," I replied. "Yeah." He responded.He took another puff, and again I saw wisps of smoke escape from the broken seam where his neck had been stitched. "You've never been on a ride, especially with your dad, you waited in line, yes, with your mom. The line was long, the wait for a roller coaster is always that long, and your mom didn't want to be in that hot Standing with you in the sun. She was fat then, so the heat made her feel bad. But you pestered her all day, pestered her, pestered her to sit. But the funny thing is, when you finally When you got to the front of the line, you got scared, didn't you, brother." I was speechless, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. His hand sneaked out, his skin looked yellow under the light of the Mustang dashboard, and the nails were black. He grabbed my hand, and a force came out of his hand, mine The hands were separated, like a knot that magically opened automatically under the light touch of a magic wand.His skin was a little cold as a snake. "yes?" "Yes." I whispered, unable to raise my voice any longer. "When it was almost our turn, I saw it was so high, so fast, rushed to the top and turned upside down. The people sitting in it were screaming loudly. I was scared. She slapped me hard and was walking home. She angrily refused to talk to me on the way, so I haven't sat down yet." Yes, I haven't sat down until now. "Brother, you should go and sit, that thing is very exciting to sit on, at least there is no more exciting than this. Back from Thriller Park, I bought some beers at the small store on the state road, and I was going to my girlfriend Go home, give her a badge, and make her laugh." He patted the badge on his chest lightly, rolled down the car window, and flicked the cigarette butt outside into the howling autumn night. "You should know what happened next." Of course I know, isn't it like every ghost story I've ever heard?He had been in a car accident, and when the police arrived they found him still sitting in the wreckage of the car, his body in the driver's seat and his head in the back seat, his hat on his head backwards, his eyes fixed on the roof.From then on, on nights when the moon was full and the wind was high, woo... woo...he appeared on Liqi Road.Now I understand what I didn't understand before: the worst stories are the ones you've been hearing your whole life, and that's the real nightmare. "There is nothing like a funeral." He smiled and said, "Didn't you say that? Alan, you sneaked there, you must have been there, and when you got there, you tripped and fell." "Let me out," I whispered, "please." "Hmph," he turned to me, "we've got to get down to business. Alan, do you know who I am?" "You are a ghost!" He snorted impatiently, and through the light of the dashboard, I saw the corners of his mouth curled downward. "Come on, you'll be more like a ghost. Casper is the ghost. Will I stay in the air? Am I transparent?" He raised a hand and waved it in front of me, and I could hear it clearly. The tendon in his arm was dry and creaked. I want to talk, but don't know what to say.But it doesn't matter if you can't say it, there is nothing to say anyway. "In a way, I'm a messenger," Stauber said, "like a FedEx from the fucking grave, isn't it? People like me come out a lot, whether the timing is right or not, you know I Thinking about something? I think whoever is doing things, God or man, likes to have fun. He always wants to see if you value what you have, or make choices in situations you can't predict. Things like today It’s like this in the evening, you said everything yourself, mother is sick, take a ride to..." "If I'm willing to ride in that old man's car, it's all right, right?" I said.Now I can smell him distinctly, along with the scent of rosin air freshener and a faint stink of rotting flesh.How come I never sniffed it out?Or am I mistaking it for some other scent? "It's hard to say, maybe the old man you mentioned is also dead." He replied. I thought of the old man's raspy voice, the jerk of the hernia belt.No, not dead.But I made things worse for myself by not being able to stand the smell of urine in his car. "Anyway, we don't have time to talk that much. Five miles to go and we'll see the house. Seven miles to go and we're at the Lewiston boundary. Now you have a choice." "What to choose?" That's all I want to know. "Who gets on the roller coaster, who stays on the ground, you or your mother?" He turned and looked at me with his lewd moonlight eyes, and the smile grew wider, and I saw most of his teeth were knocked out in the car accident Lost.He patted the steering wheel and said, "I'll take one of you. Since you're here, it's up to you to choose. Who should you choose?" "Just kidding." He swallowed the words again, saying that it's useless .Because he was serious this time, absolutely serious. -------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------ ④ Movies by John Carpenter and Vince Craven: Both are American directors, and their main works are related to horror themes. ⑤ Bram Stoker: Author of vampire stories. ⑥ Casper: The protagonist of cartoons that were popular in the United States in the 1960s and 1970s, and became popular again in the early 1990s.He is a white doll-like, fluffy, lovely elf who can transform into various shapes.This cartoon has been broadcast on domestic TV stations.