A half-dozen black smeary handprints dotted his jacket sleeves, and something told me they weren’t his. Now that I could see him better, he looked worse than before, his clothes torn in places, both boots caked in mud. Mark flicked his flashlight off and set it on the table. On the cot I noticed a newer looking gray rucksack, a green canvas shoulder bag, and a red nylon duffel bag. Crates and various cardboard boxes were stacked against the curved walls of the oil tank, and against one side there stood a ragged cot, with a few wool blankets scattered over it. The air smelled of wood rot, crude oil, and mildew, with the dull staccato of rain drumming on the outside of our little steel fortress all the while. Under my feet, the floor lay covered in sections of broken wood pallets, with the metal base of the oil drum still coated in a sheen of congealed grease beneath them. The soft click of a bic lighter hissed through in the dark, and the room filled with cheerful yellow light.Īcross from the base of the ladder, a dented kerosene lantern sat atop a dusty old folding table, the tiny golden flame contained in its glass orb. Mark climbed down after me and swung the hatch shut, sliding a thick metal pipe in place as a sort of deadbolt. I stuck my feet into the tank and found another ladder hidden just beneath the rim of the hatch. It’s drier inside.” Mark swept his red flashlight beam over the nearby trees, as if to scan for anyone following us. This one appeared to be derelict, and when Mark climbed the rickety metal steps to tug open the top hatch, it confirmed my suspicions. At first I recoiled, thinking it was the creature, but Mark shone his flashlight at it and revealed a rusty collection drum, the kind used by oil derricks in our rural area for decades. They have to know the truth.Īfter the incident on the road, Mark and I walked for the better part of ten minutes, before a tall, bulky shape loomed out of the blackness. The memories hurt, they sear my emotions and tear my soul, yet I know I have to go on to gain some form of closure. it’s excruciating.Įven as I type this, a deep pain rips at my heart without mercy. I must admit, I thought it would be difficult to make myself relive the terrible night that changed my life forever, but after posting the first segment, I realized how wrong I was.

It’s so surreal, seeing the events of my life put to words, especially on a far-flung corner of the internet.

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