Rust-Tinted Prairie's Reach

"…and then it just—it just went quiet, you know?" Thomas’s voice, raw from miles of singing along to the tinny radio, ended on a questioning lilt. He picked at a loose thread on the frayed seatbelt, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the streaked windscreen. The flat, unyielding prairie had given way to an endless tunnel of rock and pine, the highway a narrow grey ribbon unspooling beneath their rattling Ford Pinto.

Sadie hummed, a non-committal sound that vibrated in her throat. She shifted, her denim-clad hip pressing against the console, a cassette tape of a local band—something with a warbling harmonica—tucked halfway into its slot, unplayed. Her finger traced the dusty outlines of the map splayed across her lap, a relic from an Esso station, its folds softened from repeated use. "Maybe they just… finished talking, Thomas. People do that. There's only so much to say sometimes."

He shook his head, a quick, jerky motion. "No, it wasn't like that. It was… abrupt. Like someone just hit a switch. One second, all that shouting, then nothing. Not even the crickets." He swallowed, the back of his throat dry, tasting like the stale coffee and petrol fumes that perpetually clung to the car's interior. A particularly deep pothole rattled the car, sending a tremor up his spine. The spring thaw had left the roads pockmarked and treacherous, like old scars on the land.

"And you said it was cold in there? Even with the fire going?" Sadie asked, her tone flat, almost clinical. She wasn't really asking for clarification. It felt more like she was cataloguing his anxieties, filing them away under 'Thomas’s Latest Obsession'.

"Bone-chilling," he confirmed, pulling his thin denim jacket tighter, though the heater, blasting on full, was making his legs sweat. The contradiction made his skin prickle. He glanced at her, her profile sharp against the passing blur of grey and green. Her hair, tied back with a faded bandana, seemed to catch the weak afternoon light, making it look almost auburn. He wondered if she truly believed him, or if she just humoured him, waiting for him to snap out of it, whatever 'it' was.

He'd been seeing things, feeling things, since they left Winnipeg. Not just the usual road fatigue hallucinations—the trees that looked like marching figures, the shifting shadows that played tricks with peripheral vision—but something else. A whisper just at the edge of hearing, a persistent chill that no amount of car heat could dispel. It was like the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for them. He knew Sadie thought he was just worked up, a consequence of the 'situation' they were fleeing. But he knew it was more.

"Look," Sadie said, pointing a finger. A dilapidated billboard, bleached and peeling, leaned precariously at the side of the road. Its painted message, mostly faded, still hinted at something about 'Lake of Dreams' and 'Holiday Cottages'. One corner was ripped clean off, revealing the skeletal wooden frame beneath. It looked less like an advertisement and more like a warning, a forgotten monument to a failed promise.

"Creepy," Thomas muttered, accelerating slightly. The speedometer needle quivered around 90 km/h. They'd bought the Pinto, used and weary, from his uncle’s neighbour for a pittance. It had a peculiar smell, like old cigarettes and wet dog, but it ran. That was all that mattered right now.

"It’s just old," Sadie reasoned, folding the map with a sharp crease. She tucked it away, out of sight. "Everything out here is old. That’s the point. People try to build something, then the land just… takes it back."

He felt the truth of her words in his gut. The trees pressed in closer now, thick stands of black spruce and jack pine, their needles dark and dense. The road dipped and climbed, following the ancient undulations of the Shield, and the light, already fading towards an early evening grey, seemed to struggle to penetrate the canopy. It was beautiful, in a wild, indifferent way, but it was also… heavy. A presence.

"I don’t like it," he admitted, his voice barely a murmur. "It feels like… it knows we’re here."

Sadie finally turned, her eyes, usually so clear and direct, softened with something like concern. "It’s just the wilderness, Thomas. You’re not used to it. No streetlights, no city hum. It’s loud in its own way. You just have to listen differently."

But he *was* listening differently. He was listening to the wrong kind of quiet. The kind that felt like a held breath. The kind that absorbed sound rather than reflecting it. He could hear the faint, insistent tapping of a branch against the roof, a whisper of wind through the cracked window seal, but beneath it all, an emptiness that vibrated in his bones.

They passed a turn-off, marked by a rusted sign that simply read 'The Glade'. A few hundred feet down the gravel path, barely visible through the budding alders, stood a cluster of what looked like abandoned playground equipment. A seesaw, one end buried in the damp earth, pointed skyward like a forlorn antenna. A swing set, its chains corroded, swung eerily with the passing breeze, though there was no one to push them. It was a macabre, forgotten tableau, a child’s dream turned nightmare.

"Did you see that?" Thomas asked, his voice tighter than before. He’d slowed the car, almost without realising it. The air in the car felt suddenly colder, a faint, earthy smell invading the usual petrol fumes.

Sadie had already turned away. "Another ruin, Thomas. Just like the billboard. This whole stretch is full of them. Failed ventures. Ghosts of ambition."

But it wasn't just a ruin. There was something about the way the swings moved, too deliberate for the gentle breeze, too heavy. And the chill… it lingered. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to turn the car around, to speed back towards the familiar, if troubled, sprawl of Winnipeg. But they couldn't. Not now. Not ever.

He pushed the accelerator, the Pinto coughing in protest before grudgingly picking up speed. The sun was now a bruised smear of orange and purple on the horizon, painting the clouds in a spectacular, but ultimately ominous, display. The highway seemed to narrow further, the trees now a solid, impenetrable wall on either side. He felt his shoulders tense, his grip on the steering wheel becoming white-knuckled.

"Are you hungry?" Sadie asked, pulling a bag of stale crisps from her backpack. The rustling sound was surprisingly loud in the confined space. "There should be a town up ahead. Ignace, maybe? We can grab something hot. And fuel. We’re running low."

He glanced at the fuel gauge. It hovered dangerously close to 'E'. He hadn't noticed. His mind had been elsewhere, fixed on the feeling of being watched, the growing certainty that something was wrong. "Yeah. Fuel. Definitely fuel."

The town, when they found it, was more of a collection of buildings clinging to the highway than a proper settlement. A few houses, a diner with a faded 'Open' sign, and a single gas station, its pumps looking ancient and neglected. A flickering neon sign in the window spelled out 'GAS' in letters that buzzed erratically, throwing weak, blue light onto the wet asphalt.

Thomas pulled up to the only pump that looked operational. The air here was heavy with the smell of damp earth and pine, laced with something metallic and vaguely sweet, like rotting fruit. No other cars were around. The silence was absolute, save for the hum of their own engine, which he quickly shut off. The sudden quiet was jarring, almost painful.

He stepped out, stretching his cramped limbs. The cold bit immediately, a damp, penetrating chill that seeped through his clothes. He shivered, despite himself. Sadie remained in the car, rummaging for change in her purse. He looked around. There was a faint mist coiling around the base of the distant trees, like smoke from an unseen fire.

A figure emerged from the small, dark office attached to the pumps. It was a man, thin and gaunt, wearing a greasy coverall. He moved slowly, deliberately, almost gliding, his face obscured by the low brim of a baseball cap. Thomas felt a prickle of unease. The man moved too smoothly, too quietly. Like he wasn't quite solid.

"Fill up?" the attendant asked, his voice flat, devoid of inflection, like a recording. His eyes, though shadowed, seemed to fix on something just past Thomas's shoulder, not quite on him. The lack of direct eye contact unnerved Thomas more than if the man had glared.

"Yeah, please," Thomas managed, fumbling for his wallet. His fingers felt thick and clumsy. He kept glancing over his shoulder, a constant, nagging feeling that something was behind him. Nothing. Just the dark, waiting trees. And the mist, thicker now.

As the attendant began to pump the fuel, a sudden, sharp smell hit Thomas—not petrol, but something else. Something rotten, like stagnant water and decaying leaves, but with an underlying sweetness that curdled his stomach. He coughed, a dry, rasping sound. The light from the 'GAS' sign seemed to intensify, pulsing with a faint, internal rhythm.

He blinked, and for a split second, the attendant wasn't a man in a greasy coverall. He was a blurred, elongated shadow, his limbs too long, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. A faint, greenish glow seemed to emanate from his eyes, just beneath the cap. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. The attendant was back, looking perfectly normal, if unusually still, observing the numbers climb on the pump.

"You alright, kid?" the man asked, the flat voice pulling Thomas back to reality. "You look a bit green."

"Just… tired," Thomas lied, his heart thumping hard against his ribs. He felt dizzy, the ground seeming to tilt beneath his feet. He had to get out of here. He had to get Sadie out of here.

He paid, the attendant’s hand brushing his as he took the money. The skin felt oddly cold, almost clammy, like a fish. Thomas snatched his hand back, trying to act casual. He hurried back to the car, fumbling with the door handle, desperate to be inside.

"Everything okay?" Sadie asked, looking up from her phone book, which she'd been using to check for motels further down the road. The orange glow of the dashboard lights reflected in her eyes.

"Yeah. Fine. Just… cold," Thomas said, forcing a smile. He started the engine, the familiar rumble a welcome sound, a sign of normal, mechanical life. He pulled away from the station, the neon 'GAS' sign shrinking in the rearview mirror, its erratic pulsing making the trees around it seem to breathe.

They drove in silence for a while, the landscape growing steadily darker, the stars slowly pricking through the velvet blackness above. The radio, after a burst of static, had settled on a distant country station, the twangy laments of forgotten love songs a strange counterpoint to the growing dread in Thomas's chest. He kept glancing at the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see the gas station attendant, or the shadowy figure, behind them. Nothing. Just the endless dark.

"You’re tense," Sadie observed, her voice low. She reached over, her fingers briefly touching his arm. "It’s just a long drive, Thomas. The woods get to everyone after a while. Makes you imagine things."

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to dismiss the phantom smell, the blurred vision, the unnerving silence of the attendant. He wanted to think it was just his mind playing tricks, a consequence of stress, of too many days on the road, of the heavy weight of what they’d left behind. But the feeling in his gut, a cold, solid knot, insisted otherwise. This was different. This was real.

The road curved sharply, a sudden, unexpected bend that plunged them into an even darker stretch of forest. The high beams cut through the gloom, illuminating a tunnel of trees that seemed to lean in, their branches scraping against each other in the rising wind. He could see their breath misting in the cold air, even with the heater on full blast. The car’s old suspension groaned over every bump, every rut. It felt like they were being swallowed, slowly, deliberately, by the land itself.

Then, a sound. Not on the radio, not from inside the car. A low, guttural thrum, a vibration that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It resonated through the floorboards, up the steering column, into his very teeth. It was deep, ancient, like the slow grinding of tectonic plates, or the rhythmic beat of a gigantic, slumbering heart.

"Did you hear that?" Thomas asked, his voice barely a whisper. He knew Sadie had heard it. Her hand, which had been resting on her lap, clenched into a fist.

"Hear what?" she said, but her eyes darted nervously to the rearview mirror, then to the dense, dark woods on either side. Her feigned nonchalance was paper-thin.

The thrum intensified, a low, pulsing bass that seemed to vibrate his very organs. The trees outside began to shimmer, not quite reflecting the headlights, but absorbing them, twisting the light into grotesque, fleeting shapes. He saw faces in the bark, shadowy figures lurking just beyond the beam's reach. He knew they weren’t real. He knew. But the certainty felt thin, fragile.

A small red light flickered on the dashboard, a tiny, insistent warning. The engine light. No, not just the engine light. The battery light. And the oil light. All of them. In quick succession, like a dying constellation.

"What's wrong?" Sadie asked, her voice sharp with genuine fear now. Her act of strength was crumbling, and Thomas felt a surge of cold, stark terror. If Sadie was scared, then it was real. All of it. The hum, the chill, the gas station, the feeling of being watched. It was real.

The Pinto gave a violent shudder, a final, despairing gasp, and then the engine died. The sudden silence was deafening, suffocating. The headlights, too, winked out, plunging them into absolute, terrifying darkness. The country music on the radio cut out mid-note, leaving behind a hiss of static that quickly faded into nothing. The only sound was the ragged sound of their own breathing, and the wind, now howling through the pines, carrying that low, ancient thrum with it.

"No!" Thomas whispered, frantically turning the key. Nothing. Not even a click. Just dead, cold silence. He hit the dashboard, then the steering wheel, a desperate, futile act. They were stranded. Miles from anywhere. In the absolute black of the Northwestern Ontario wilderness, in the middle of a very long, very cold spring night.

Then, from the impenetrable darkness of the forest, directly to their right, a new sound emerged. A faint, high-pitched scratching, like something enormous dragging its claws across the rough bark of a giant tree. It was getting closer.

Sadie gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Thomas… look."

He followed her gaze, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Through the gaps in the trees, perhaps a kilometre or two away, a light had appeared. A faint, greenish-yellow glow, pulsing with the same slow, rhythmic intensity as the thrumming sound. It wasn’t a farmhouse light. It wasn’t a car. It was too low, too strange, too… alive. It seemed to expand, then contract, like a vast, unseen eye opening and closing in the heart of the ancient forest, watching them. And it was coming closer.

The scratching sound intensified, now accompanied by the distinct snap of branches breaking, the heavy tread of something enormous moving through the underbrush. Whatever it was, it was no longer just a feeling. It was here. And it knew they were trapped.

"Thomas… what do we do?" Sadie's voice was barely audible, raw with terror, her face illuminated by the faint, eerie glow of the approaching light.

He stared at the light, the pulsing green-yellow eye in the darkness, and then at the black wall of trees from which the heavy, deliberate sounds now emanated. There was no escape. Not in the car. Not on foot. They were caught. And something was very, very close.