the infinite whisperings

Inktober: Outpost

I feel like we’ve all wound up at this gas station, late at night in the middle of nowhere.

it’s the quietness of the early morning when you are awake but the world is not. the quietness of a reflection on the surface of a pond. Or perhaps the quietness of a word unknown balancing on the tip of your tongue.

you’ve heard this advice millions of times. but you must listen.

what is back there does not concern you. do not look back. do not meet it’s many eyes.

it is a hunter and you are it’s prey. you are only safe if your eyes are on the road in front of you.

the only sound you can hear is your heartbeat thumping from inside.

darkness is enveloping you. surrounding you. compressing you.

follow the light. get out of the void.

It sits on the desk next to the cash register, by the window. It’s main purpose is so you can call outside and announce things. Like if you’re out of gas, or if customers have to hang up the pumps.

But some nights, when its quiet and there are no customers, the intercom is used by someone else.

You can’t understand what it says; sometimes it sounds like a customer asking for help with the pumps.

Whispers, loud, quiet, and layered, crackling out from the small speaker.

Static over powers It all.

The light glowing faintly on the machine to show it is in use, a little red light, blinking.

And then it will fall silent.

You don’t bother looking outside.

You know the intercom is only one way.

There’s no one on the other end, because there is no other end.