Can’t talk to a psycho
like a normal human being.

— Anne Decatur Danielewski

—

They are about 10 minutes away from a routine stay at the cabin, a small rock house at the end of a tiny dirt road. The opening movie credits roll over the obligatory shot of the mountain scenery. A Poe song plays on the radio, a cautionary tale of what lies ahead.

They are full of pizza and slightly tipsy from the wheat beer Jami had made them stop for. It put them behind schedule, but they owed her. Besides. Beer.

“Wouldn’t it be funny,” he asks, “if we ever came to the cabin and somebody was already there?” They both laugh, although it isn’t really funny at all. A combination of 8,000 feet elevation and High Desert Hefe.

Up the highway from them, an old red Toyota four-wheeler ambles along. Not unusual at all.

And then it turns at the scruffy county road where nobody turns. THEIR road.

Still, there are a lot of houses on the road and it isn’t THAT unusual. The only ominous signal is the radio switching to the “Friday the 13th” theme song. They fidget in their car seats and pretend not to notice.

And then.

The faded red truck turns off the highway onto THEIR road, the tiny path that leads to a dead end at the cabin. There is no reason anyone but them would take it.

They have just turned onto the 0.6 mile road when they see the truck park just in front of the cabin gate. The driver turns it sideways and sits.

They discuss possible scenarios as they drive nearer. Someone hoping the people who reserved the cabin won’t show up? Not likely. The place is too popular. Someone looking for a quiet place to have lunch? No one would drive so far for such mundane scenery when nearby panoramas beckon. Psycho killer intent on chopping them into pieces and having a barbecue? Clearly this is the only logical explanation.

The heroine of the movie, feeling emboldened because the heroine always survives to star in the sequel, pulls up next to the truck. A woman has just gotten out of it. What may be an escaped convict in a red prison jumpsuit, or possibly a large backpack, is in the passenger seat.

“Hello!” our heroine exclaims to the woman. “We are staying in this cabin!”

“Oh, there’s a cabin?” the woman asks as she stands 10 feet away from it.

“Yes,” the heroine says. She adds, “It’s just the two of us. We have no weapons, no self-defense skills, and an alarming amount of cash in unmarked bills in a bag in the back of the car. Have a nice day!”

The couple close the gate behind them and sit outside the cabin. What to do? The truck remains there. Quietly. Ominously. Why won’t it leave??? And then.

It slowly, almost imperceptibly, starts down the little road. They finally breathe a sigh of relief.

And then it stops. Halfway down the road. And does not move.

The heroine pulls out her binoculars, for what she says is bird-watching. But she reports that the woman has gotten out of the truck and is walking to the pasture. It’s too far away to see if she is carrying hacksawed body parts. This is a low-budget indie film, and there’s no money for a drone because the entire budget was blown on that Poe song used in the opening credits.

Finally, the woman gets back into the truck. And sits.

The couple can’t leave. The road is blocked. They can’t defend themselves, because they are sissies. They can’t have ice cream, because they have none. They can only sit, pretending not to be terrified. It’s not working.

And then. Finally. The truck begins to creep down the road. It gets to the intersection. One right turn and they will be safe.

But.

THE TRUCK KEEPS GOING STRAIGHT DOWN THE LITTLE ROAD ON THE OTHER SIDE TO A SMALL SPOT WITH A CLEAR VIEW OF THE CABIN, NEXT TO THE COWS FROM HELL!!!

The truck is facing them, a mile away, for no reason other than an obvious plot manipulation.

They are now in a full panic, remaining at the cabin only because they fear confronting the truck down the road, and a reluctance to abandon their bagels in the fridge.

With the movie audience beginning to lose interest, the male co-star, always the first to meet a horrific death early on in low-budget slasher films, dons his running attire and sets off to confront the driver. He is going to die later in the week in a death march anyhow and has nothing to lose.

And then.

The truck begins to move toward him. Slowly, menacingly, like that car in the Stephen King movie. Or possibly Herbie the Love Bug. Scary movies all look alike.

The truck pulls up next to him.

He pauses his Garmin.

Because getting killed shouldn’t count toward total time.

And the truck keeps going. Turns on to the county road, then onto the highway, then becomes just a faraway red dot on a green landscape.

He finishes his run, miffed that he’s still alive and will have one less excuse for Coach Bruce Denton.

They sit quietly, eating their bagels. The heroine seems to have forgotten about the whole incident. Cheery music plays in the background.

But soon, the sun will go down. The moon is on vacation. Then there will be only an ink blot of blackness. Them, in a tiny cabin, alone with no weapons other than a fly swatter left by the cabin hosts and a pair of foul-smelling trail shoes.

And they will watch the tiny road.

Fighting sleep, and ice cream depravation.

Waiting. Always waiting.

For the headlights to return.