Skin of Terror
Skin of Terror
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
(Lights slowly rise on a lone figure, MICHAEL, hunched over a steering wheel. His knuckles are white against the worn leather. Pre-recorded sounds of a desolate highway hum faintly in the background.)
MICHAEL (Voice weary):
Ten thousand miles on this desolate strip,
each mile etched with memories,
not landmarks.
Trucker's blood, spilled on asphalt years ago,
a crimson stain that bleeds,
into the pre-dawn bruise staining the sky.
Here, the air hangs heavy,
thick with the ghosts of breakdowns and flat tires,
a graveyard of forgotten journeys.
(The pre-recorded highway hum intensifies slightly. Michael's voice trembles.)
The engine's a familiar thrum,
a lullaby turned death knell.
Two years back, this very stretch,
a spectral hand reached out,
squeezed the life from the world,
shrunk it to the confines of this car.
Gasping for air, a drum solo on my ribs,
convinced I was dying,
a fly trapped in amber.
(The pre-recorded highway hum intensifies further. Michael's breaths become shallow and rapid.)
The memory, a serpent, slithers up my spine,
coiling tight around my heart.
Static crackles from the radio,
a chorus of doubt clawing at the edges of sanity.
Every bump, a jolt through my body,
a physical echo of the dread gnawing at my insides.
The air thickens, a suffocating blanket.
The highway, a funhouse mirror, distorts reality.
Headlights become malevolent eyes,
burning with an unnatural hunger.
A truck rumbles past,
a monstrous roar that vibrates through my bones,
a landscape of fear conducted by madness.
(Michael fights for breath, his voice ragged.)
I… Can't… BREATHE… Lungs constrict,
like balloons deflating in slow motion.
Sweat slicks my palms, the steering wheel,
a slimy serpent in my grasp. "Not again!"
I rasp, a stranger's voice in my ears.
Vision swims,
yellow stripes blurring into a hypnotic dance,
at the edge of perception.
A pale, terrified caricature stares back,
in the rearview mirror,
a stranger wearing my skin.
(A low, rhythmic hum fills the air, growing louder and more menacing. Michael slams his fist on the wheel.)
This buzzing sound,
a physical manifestation of terror.
Is it real?
Is the highway itself conspiring against me,
twisting the fabric of reality,
into its own nightmare?
(The hum fades abruptly. Silence descends, heavy and oppressive. Michael slumps back, exhausted.)
Where did that come from?
Disbelief washes over me.
Still dark, the same desolate stretch.
A shaky cry escapes,
tinged with a bitter edge.
Twenty minutes ago,
the world was unraveling,
now silence is deafening.
But beneath the relief,
a prickling unease remains.
The memory, a chilling reminder.
The creature lurks within,
a predator in the shadows,
waiting for its next opportunity to pounce,
for the highway to morph back into,
a twisted reflection of my own horror.
(The pre-recorded highway hum begins again, slowly at first, then growing louder and more menacing. Michael's breaths become shallow and rapid. His grip tightens on the wheel.)
Dear God,
No.
Please, No,
NOT AGAIN!
This endless road, this endless fear...
I JUST CAN't...
(Lights slowly fade to black as the sound of the highway hum reaches a crescendo.)
Copyright ©
Daniel Henry Rodgers
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