There Are Only Left Turns On The Road To Hell
28:24 Share

This podcast brought to you by Ring. With Ring cameras, you can check on your pets to catch them in the act. Izzy, drop that. Or just keep them company. Aw, I'll be home soon. Make sure they're okay while you're away. With Ring, learn more at ring.com slash pets. Travel eight miles off the interstate. Look for the gas station on your right. Take the first left after the station. There is no sign. Drive for two miles and take your next left.

The driveway to the house is on the right. Do not stop at any point or time, please. Continue driving until you reach the house. If you get lost, you may call this number. A phone number is scrawled beneath the directions. It's the only part of the letter that is handwritten. I look up from the letter as my dog, Herbie, finishes peeing and hops back in the car. I follow the directions. I make the left turns. I can see the house.

But there's no right turn, Herbie whines. Sorry it's taken so long, I say, and reach into the car to ruffle Herbie's head. I study the road, but my eyes are drawn to the house. It's up on the hill to the right, just visible through the ever-present woods. I search through the autumn afternoon light for a way to turn right. There isn't one, only left. Jesus, all this for a job? But that's the climate today. Layoffs after layoffs.

everyone fighting for the same position. So when this opportunity came up, I had to. There's a crash in the woods, something big. Herbie growls. "Just a critter," I say as I get in my car, calling Herbie and myself. That was big, whatever it was. I press the ignition, drive on, and take the next left. Then I'm back on the main road,

I seriously think about going back to the interstate and getting the hell away from this rural nightmare. But I've been out of work for months. I turn left. Evenin'. The man greets me as the bell above the door jingles, dull and shrill at the same time. I give the store a quick glance over. Not good. Even the dust has price tags on it.

The hot dogs on the rollers look like they were set there in 1978, and the bags of Fritos have logos from two generations ago. Not wanting to spend more time in the dusty, musty pit than I have to, I get to the point. "I'm a little lost," I say, and pull out my phone. "GPS isn't working out here, so I'm hoping you can give me some directions." I stare at the phone. It's now completely dead. "GPS don't work here," the clerk says.

He reaches under the counter, and I swear for a split second he's going to bring up a sawed-off shotgun and blast my face off. The image of the blast is vivid in my mind. His eyes twinkle as he looks at me, his hand reaching down further and further. I have an irrational desire to just turn and get me and Herbie the hell out of here, but I can't. "I'm sorta in a hurry," I say. "It's a job interview." He only nods.

There's a bark from outside. The clerk's eyes shift towards my car where it's parked by one of those old, ancient gas pumps. The kind with the plastic numbers that roll. You can't pay at the pump at this place. "Got yourself a pup?" the clerk says as he finally achieves his goal and slaps a stack of papers onto the counter. "Good to have around here. Reminds you of who you are." The papers are a map. An actual, physical map. "Alright, here we are.

the clerk says, and jabs his finger on a spot on the map. "All I see is the road. It's a single road that stretches across the map and is lost into the fold. There aren't even side roads like the ones I have been looping around on all day." "You want to be here," the clerk says, and slides his finger until he reaches the familiar blue double lines of the interstate. "All you gotta do is turn around and you'll be back on your way in no time."

Another bark sounds out. "Your pup needs to pee, I bet," the clerk says. "Huh? What? Oh no, he's fine," I say and take the map. "I don't want to go back to the interstate. Like I said, I'm here for a job interview. It's sorta a last chance thing. I gotta get this gig." He smiles at me and nods. "I understand." A different image fills my head. Me behind that counter. Grabbing for the shotgun and putting it in my mouth.

I shake the image off and pull the letter from my back pocket. I hold it up, but the clerk doesn't look at it. His eyes are on me. "Do you know how to get to the Cleary Manor?" I ask. "That's where the interview is. Like I said, it's a last chance for me." "It always is," the clerk says and puts the map away. He doesn't bother folding it. He simply jams it under the counter. Herbie barks a third time, distracting me from that weird comment.

"You wanted some gas?" he asks, his eyes shifting to my car. "It's a long drive back to the interstate." "I'm not going back," I say and shake my letter. "Do you know the right turn or not?" He leans across the counter and fixes me with a look that I can't identify. Caution? Helplessness? Idiot? A mix of all those? "What's the job?" he asks. "Huh?" "The job? What is it?" "I'm not sure. I think something to do with hospitality."

"The manor is a bed and breakfast, right? I have a degree in... go home. Last chance." I blink a bit, then shake my head. "I can't." "You can and you should." He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. "I'm required to ask if you want the job." "What? Required by who? What are you talking about?" "Do you want the job?" "Yeah, I want the job." I snap. "It's why I'm here."

I stuff the letter into my pocket and stare at the guy for a second then shake my head. "You know what? Thanks for nothing. I'll find the place on my own. You won't need to." The clerk says, eyes locked onto me. "It already found you. Right." I say and walk to the door. "Nice place you got here." I'm out of that store and in my car before the bell stops jingling. "He was no help, Herbster." Herbie leans in from the back seat and licks my face. "Herbie is about all I have in life.

He's gotten me through the layoff and months of unemployment. He whines like he needs to pee again, but there's no way I'm getting him out of this place. I pull the letter from my pocket again and scan it, skipping past the greetings and salutations, and get to the phone number at the bottom. I grab my phone, plug it in. No green bar. No chime. It's dead. Son of a... Then I see it.

It's a shock, since it isn't 1985. But there's a payphone on the side of the gas station, next to a rusted-out ice locker. I hunt through my car and find two quarters. Nice. The phone is answered on the first ring. "Mr. Nixon," an ancient voice answers. "We are so happy you have accepted the job." "Wait, what? How'd you know it was me?"

and I haven't accepted... Static explodes in my ear and I jerk the phone away. It calms down and I press the receiver back to my ear. "Hello?" I ask. "Keep going, Mr. Dixon," the voice says. "You will arrive eventually. The directions..." "I have been!" I snap. Crap. Gotta calm down. This is for a job. Sorry. I can see the house from the road, but there are only left turns.

Why am I pleading with this guy I don't know on the other end of a freaking payphone? A payphone for God's sake! I laugh unintentionally, and the person on the other end laughs with me. "Good for you, Mr. Dixon," the voice says. "The shifts can be long, sometimes lasting forever. Best to keep those spirits up." Then the line goes dead. No dial tone, nothing. I step away from the phone and turn back to my car.

"You should have gone home," the clerk says, standing right behind me. "Jesus Christ!" I yell. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, shakes one out, lights it, and points the glowing ember at me, and then at my car. "You could have taken that pup of yours, turned around, and gone home. Now you work for Cleary Manor." "What the hell are you rambling about?" I say with a little more anger in my voice than is needed. "But screw this weirdo.

Just tell me how to get there and you won't see me again." The clerk takes a long drag on his cigarette, snorts smoke out both nostrils at me, laughs and walks away. I hurry back to my car. "Screw this place. Screw that guy." I start the car, put it in gear, and drive. An hour later I'm back in the woods, taking lefts like an idiot. Herbie whines. I look at him in the rearview mirror.

"Gotta pee again, boy?" I ask. He whines a little louder. His head is turning from side to side. "Geez, I guess so," I say before pulling over onto the soft shoulder of the road. I get out and open the back door for Herbie. "Piss away, boy," I say as I move my eyes on that far-off house. All of the windows glow fiery red, their light reaching for me through the dusk. "Just give me a right turn." I take a deep breath.

my nostrils filling with the scent of rotting leaves and a scent that I can't quite place. A deeper, danker rot that isn't leaves. I hear something in the woods. "Shit, where's my dog? Herbie, time to go!" I clap my hands. "Come on, Herbster, let's go! Herbie!" I yell as I take a few steps away from the car. Nothing.

"Goddammit!" I mutter. I move back to the car, reach inside the rear window, and snag his leash. "Herbie!" I plunge into the woods to find my dog. No way I can leave him out here. "Herbie!" The dusk is almost gone. It's dark in the woods. And I don't have a flashlight. The house is off in the distance. Maybe I can just walk to it. Maybe that's where Herbie went. There's a crackle. A shift of dry leaves. Heavy, plodding footsteps.

A growl. "Herbie?" The growl is deep and throaty. In the gloom, I see two glowing eyes. Huge eyes. I take a few steps back. The growl gets louder, and suddenly something is rushing at me. Its huge paws snapping sticks in half, crushing dry leaves to dust. It's not Herbie! I run like hell!

It's almost on me. I can hear it and feel it. The hair on the back of my neck is standing straight up, and I know in seconds teeth will clamp down and rip the hair, the skin, and the whole back of my neck right off. I think about my car up ahead. I fumble my keys out, press the unlock button, rip the door open, and throw myself inside. The car shudders as something big slams into the door. I push the starter and jam the gear shift into drive.

Whatever is out there smashes into the door again, but my foot is on the gas and I'm speeding away. I take two more lefts and I'm back at the main road when it hits me. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. "Yeah, it's me again," I say, trying to sound casual and not terrified as the bell above me jingles. "Listen, I really need your help. My dog got out." I trail off as soon as I see the clerk. He looks considerably older. I blink a few times.

"Welcome back," he says. "Ready to start?" "What? No, I need to find my... took ya longer than I thought." He interrupts. "A whole year." He shrugs and shakes his head. "You probably need gas. Been a while." "What are you talking about?" I say. "The guy must have dementia or something. He should hire help." I pull out the letter. "The Cleary Manor. How do I get to it?"

"Your dog got scared," he states. "Ran off." "Yeah, he ran off when I stopped to let him pee. I need to find that house. He may have run that way." The clerk snorts and holds his hand out. I frown. He makes a grabby motion with his fingers. "Oh, right," I say and hand him the letter. He turns it to me, pointing at a sentence. "What's that say?" he asks. I read it. "Do not stop at any point, please."

"Did you stop at any point?" he asks. "Yeah," I say. "My dog had to pee." "Then what?" "He didn't come back." "What else?" I think for a second. "Right." "Uh, something chased me back to my car." "Shouldn't have stopped," the clerk says. "But you did." I close my eyes and rub my face. The catch on the leash scratches my cheek and I feel blood begin to well up. I don't care. "How do I get to the house?"

"You don't get to the house, the house gets to you. You're nuts!" He shrugs. I glare then shake my head and leave. Screw that guy. I'm gonna find my dog. And I'm gonna find that house. And I'm gonna get the damn job! The sun comes up as I take yet another left turn back onto the main road. No dog, no closer to the house. And now I am almost out of gas. Shit! I pull in front of the ancient tanks and find my wallet.

I get out, open my gas cap, put the hose in, and try to figure out how to start the pump. "Gotta pay first," the clerk says from the store's doorway. It's the same clerk, but he ain't looking so good. He's a lot older, it looks like he got lung cancer overnight. He shakes as he coughs and coughs and coughs. Then he hawks up a loogie and spits it onto the ground. "How much you need?" he says with a wry smile.

I debate whether to even engage with the wacko, but I need gas. "You take credit cards?" I call out to him. He shakes his head. "Phone's out. Darn machine can't connect. We take cash." "I have 40." He eyes my car. It's a compact and seen better days, but runs well. "That'll fill her," he says then disappears into the store. A couple of seconds later, I hear a clicking from the pump and he returns. "Go ahead."

I squeeze the handle and the gas flows. "Have you seen my dog?" I yell over to him. "Not yet," he says. "He's either dead or learned to survive all these years. But if he's strong, he'll make it here." Then the clerk goes back inside. The pump clicks off. I should go and drive off. But Herbie. But the job. I get out my wallet and walk into the store.

The hot dogs are burnt sticks. The bags of Fritos look deflated. Their packaging faded to almost nothing. The guy needs to learn basic inventory rotation. "Here," I say and toss the 20s onto the counter. The clerk doesn't say a word. He takes the bills and stuffs them in the register. "My dog's name is Herbie," I say. "He's about this big, brown. Looks like a generic short-haired mutt. I can give you my phone number if you see him."

Phones ain't working, he says. You could use the payphone, I suggest. They took it out after your call, he replies. Don't you worry. He knows where you belong. That pup of yours will turn up. Okay, maybe, yeah. I don't know what I'm agreeing to. I just say the words to keep me from losing my shit.

"Listen, I have an interview. It was for yesterday, but they have to make an exception when people get lost. All I need from you are direct-" "You already got the job." The man interrupts. He's big on interrupting. "You forget or something?" "I'm sick of this crap." "This is crazy!" I snap and leave, nearly ripping the bell out of the wall as I jerk the door open as hard as I can. "I'll find my dog and I'll find that house!" I turn and give the store two middle fingers. I should have gotten something to eat.

Or drink. My water's out and even those deflated bags of Fritos are sounding good. The afternoon sun filters down through the semi-bare branches of the trees that surround each side of the old road. I spend six more hours circling. I'm getting low on gas again, too. But to hell with that gas station. I'm not going back there. I pass it by every time I start another loop. I catch a glimpse of the house now and again. I roll down my window. "Herbie!" I yell. "Herbie!"

Nothing. Just like the last 30 times I've driven this route. I get to the main road and give the middle finger to the gas station and make that dreaded left turn once more and start the process all over. The sun is setting. I check the car's clock. It's flashing 12 over and over. It stopped working five hours ago. I just want my dog and I want out of this hell. The sun fully sets behind the house. I stop the car. I scream until my throat burns.

Then I put the car in gear and drive. I get to the main road and repeat the process all over again. I slam on the brakes. Herbie? I saw a dog hurry behind the gas station. I know I did. It looked just like Herbie. My tires squeal as I hit the gas pedal and swerve into the parking lot. I'm out of my car and racing around the building, calling Herbie's name over and over. Daylight becomes dusk and dusk becomes night. Maybe it's my turn to go crazy just like the old clerk.

"Herbie?" I say quietly. "That's his name. I forgot. It's been a while." My stomach hits my throat as I jump back. A cigarette glows in the darkness, and the clerk pushes away from the dumpster he is leaning against. He's only a husk of skin over bones now. "Herbie? I think you mentioned that when you were here last," the clerk says. "I've been calling him Scars these last years because of all the scars on him. He went through a lot to get here.

"Lucky dog." "Where is he?" I nearly yell. Before he can answer, a phone rings inside. The old man sighs. The sigh breaks into a hacking cough. "It's time for your shift to start." He slips through the open back door. I follow as if I don't have a choice. "Herbie." I whisper as I see what looks like a much older version of my dog lying by the front counter.

He lifts his head, eyes me, then his tail thumps lazily. "Yep," the clerk says as he reaches across the counter. "An old phone handset is offered to me." "It's for you," he looks down at Herbie. "I guess he remembers you after all these years." His words are madness and meaningless. "Years? The man is insane." But I take the phone. "Hello?" "Mr. Nixon, so good of you to take the job," the voice says.

I did forget to mention that it is an interim position, of course. An interim position? I ask. What does that mean? A trial run to see if you have what it takes to deliver. The voice says. Deliver what? Your quota. Quota? What the hell is this job? Mr. Dixon, you know what the job is. But I don't! I protest to no one. The line is dead. Again.

The clerk reaches out and takes the handset from me. He carefully places it on its cradle and grins. His lips are like parchment, and teeth are just yellow nubs. "I'll be going now," he says, and walks around the corner. "I'm glad you found your dog. That can't be my dog." There's gray all over the dog's muzzle. He has scars criss-crossing his haunches. Old scars. Scars that must have taken years to heal. "That can't be Herbie."

The dog lifts his head and whines at the mention of his name. Thump, thump, thump goes its tail. "It can't be," I whisper. "Lots of can't-be's around here. You'll get used to it all," the clerk says, and places a set of keys on the counter. "I'll be taking your car," he holds out his hand. I give him my keys without a thought. "I'm sure not walking all the way to the manor. Not with these old bones."

He leaves the store and pumps gas in my car. All I can do is watch him as he fills the tank and drives off. What the hell just happened? The phone rings. I answer. "Hello, Mr. Dixon," the voice says. "We appreciate your operation. This shall prove to be a fr- day on the job." A million responses cross my mind, but all I can say is, "What's the pay?" The voice laughs. "Do you know what it costs?" Then the phone is dead again.

I hang up, leave the counter, and grab one of those faded bags of Fritos. I open it and mash as many as I can into my mouth at once. They taste horrible, like salted death. I can't stop eating. Herbie whines. I toss him some Fritos and begin to cry as I shove handful after handful past my lips. The bell dings and a young man walks into the store. I scratch my gray stubble and smile. "Evening," I say.

The young man reluctantly steps to the counter. "I need directions," he says. "I don't bother with the map." I hook my thumb over my shoulder. "Turn around. The interstate is back that way," I say. "Can't miss it." "What? No, I haven't." He starts, but I cut him off. "Interview," I say. "You should skip it. Go home. Last chance." He looks startled and leaves immediately. Maybe he heard me. If not,

Then I'll see him next time around.