The Hollow Turn

Ever since I can remember, my best friend Marcus and I had a strange gift. Whenever we ventured out together for any real length of time, something bizarre always found us. A car flipping on its own right in front of us, a shopkeeper who swore we’d been in his store a week earlier when we’d never set foot in it, a mannequin that changed position every time we blinked. It had become a running joke between us. We’d leave the house, and Marcus would say, ‘Alright, what’s it gonna be tonight? A meteorite or a spontaneous parade of flamingos?’. For years, the universe seemed happy to oblige our twisted sense of humor.

But then, as if the cosmic jokester had grown bored, the occurrences stopped. We kept waiting, half-expecting a piano to fall from the sky, but nothing. The ordinary, blessedly mundane world was almost disappointing. So when a random road trip to a nearby town was suggested at midnight, we both felt a jolt of something we hadn’t felt in months: anticipation.

The drive itself was a quiet, star-scattered affair along the interstate, the hum of the tires on asphalt a monotonous lullaby. We talked about work, about life, about nothing in particular. The town itself was a sleepy cluster of closed shops and dim streetlights, exactly what we’d imagined. We didn’t even get out of the car, just a quick turn around the empty main square and then, satisfied with our pointless pilgrimage, we decided to head home.

As we reached the edge of town, Marcus glanced at the blank face of his phone, then at a weathered road sign almost swallowed by overgrown brush. ‘I know a shortcut,’ he said, a familiar gleam in his eye. ‘Saves us, like, twenty minutes. I used to take it with my dad years ago.’ I shrugged. ‘Lead the way.’ He swung the wheel onto a narrow county road that seemed to swallow the headlights. The pavement was cracked and patched, the trees pressing close on both sides, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching for the windshield.

Fifteen minutes later, the road hadn’t gotten any more familiar. The GPS had long since lost its signal, and the only signs of life were the occasional mailbox at the end of a long, dark driveway. Marcus hummed a tune I didn’t recognize, his knuckles white on the wheel. ‘You sure about this?’ I asked. He didn’t answer, just pointed ahead.

A figure stood on the shoulder, illuminated by our high beams. A woman, or what looked like a woman, in a long, pale dress that seemed to absorb the light. She wasn’t waving or hitchhiking—just standing perfectly still, facing us, her arms straight down at her sides. Marcus slowed, and as we passed, we saw her face, or rather, we didn’t. Where her features should have been was a smooth, featureless expanse of skin, like an egg. My breath hitched. Marcus stomped on the gas.

‘What the hell was that?’ I managed, my voice shaking. Marcus let out a strained laugh. ‘Okay, so maybe the weirdness is back with a vengeance.’ We drove in silence for another ten minutes, the road getting even narrower and more desolate. The asphalt gave way to hard-packed gravel, then to a dirt track with tall grass brushing the undercarriage. I was about to suggest we turn back when the headlights caught another figure. This time, it was a man, tall and gaunt, dressed in a worn flannel shirt and jeans. He was holding a wooden sign, the kind you’d see at a protest or a yard sale, with a single word scrawled in dripping black paint: TURN.

‘That’s cryptic,’ I said, forcing lightness into my voice. ‘Probably a local artist,’ Marcus replied, but he was gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles were white. The man turned his head as we passed, and I could have sworn his eyes were empty sockets, dark and cavernous, boring into the side of the car. But we drove on. The road began to curve, and a few minutes later, we saw another sign, identical, held by a woman in a floral dress, her face a blur of static, like a bad TV signal. ‘TURN’ it read again.

‘I think we should listen,’ I said, my throat tight. ‘Maybe it’s a warning. Or a detour.’ Marcus glanced in the rearview mirror, then at me. ‘And go where? There’s nothing but trees out there.’ Still, he slowed down. The road ahead split into a Y intersection, one branch continuing straight, the other veering off into a black maw of forest. Between the two, on a small dirt median, stood a third sign, larger than the others, its paint fresh and glistening. It read: ‘TURN BACK NOW.’

‘This is too creepy,’ I said. ‘Let’s just find a place to turn around, go back the way we came.’ Marcus nodded, his jaw set. He slowed to a crawl, searching for a driveway or a clearing wide enough to make a U-turn. We found a gap in the trees, but as he swung the car into it, the front tires dipped into a deep rut, and the engine sputtered and died. The headlights flickered once, twice, then went out, plunging us into absolute darkness. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine.

‘Great,’ Marcus muttered, trying the ignition. Nothing. Not even a click. ‘We’re stuck.’ I pulled out my phone, but the battery was dead, even though I’d charged it before we left. Marcus’s phone, too, was a black mirror. It was as if the car itself was dead, and whatever power it had was sapped.

We sat there in the dark, listening to the forest. And then we heard it—a sound that made my blood run cold. It was a low, rhythmic scratching, like something dragging itself across the dirt road, moving away from us. We couldn’t see anything, but the sound was unmistakable. It was a sound of a body being pulled, and it was heading deeper into the woods.

I looked at Marcus, my eyes wide. He was pale, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Okay,’ he breathed, ‘we’re not staying in the car. We’re walking back the way we came. No more signs, no more anything. We just walk.’ We opened our doors, and the dome light refused to come on. The air outside was cold and still, carrying a faint, sickly-sweet smell, like rotting leaves and turpentine.

We started walking, stumbling over the uneven ground, using the faint glow of the stars to guide us. The road behind us was a charcoal ribbon, vanishing into darkness. We’d walked for perhaps fifteen minutes when we saw a faint light ahead, bobbing slightly. It was a flashlight, held by a figure. As we got closer, we saw it was a man in heavy coveralls, holding a lantern. He didn’t look threatening, just tired, like a farmer or a groundskeeper. He raised a hand in a placating gesture. ‘Y’all lost?’ he asked, his voice gravelly but not hostile.

‘Our car died,’ Marcus said, relief creeping into his voice. ‘Can you help us?’ The man nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. ‘Sure can. Got a truck just up the road. Might be able to give you a jump. But first, I need to show you something.’ He gestured with the lantern toward a gap in the trees. ‘There’s something you need to see.’

We hesitated, but what choice did we have? We followed him off the road, into the woods. The path was narrow, overgrown, but he moved with the ease of a man who knew it by heart. After about a hundred yards, we came to a clearing. And there, in the center, stood a single tree, ancient and gnarled, its branches twisted into unnatural shapes. Hanging from one of the branches was a rope, and tied to the end of that rope was a scarecrow, stuffed with straw, dressed in a tattered suit. But it wasn’t the scarecrow that made my stomach drop.

It was the fact that the scarecrow was wearing a familiar jacket, a weathered denim jacket, the same one Marcus had been wearing since high school. And its face, crudely stitched from burlap, had two buttons for eyes—buttons that were the same bright blue as Marcus’s eyes. And it was grinning, a grotesque, painted-on grin that seemed to mock us.

I grabbed Marcus’s arm. ‘We need to go. Now.’ But when I turned, the man with the lantern was gone. In his place stood the woman from the road, her featureless face now bearing a single, wide mouth, stretched impossibly from ear to ear. The scarecrow began to twist, slowly, on its rope, its button eyes seeming to follow us.

‘Am I dreaming?’ I whispered. Marcus didn’t answer. He was staring at the scarecrow, his face ashen. ‘That’s my jacket,’ he said, his voice hollow. ‘I remember now. I left it at a rest stop years ago. I never told you.’

We ran. We didn’t care which direction, just away from that clearing, crashing through the undergrowth, branches tearing at our faces. We burst out onto another road, a paved one this time, with streetlights and a sign that read ‘Welcome to Fairhaven’, a town we’d never heard of. We flagged down a passing car, driven by a kind elderly couple who looked at us with concern, asked if we were okay. We told them we’d had a breakdown, and they gave us a ride to a gas station. From there, we called a tow truck, and somehow, we got home.

We never talked about that night. Marcus sold his car a week later, and we rarely go out anymore. But sometimes, late at night, when I can’t sleep, I hear that scratching sound, dragging along the side of the house. And I think of that scarecrow, and the way it spun slowly on its rope, watching us, and I wonder if it’s still there, waiting for us to forget. Because we haven’t forgotten. We’re just pretending. And I know, deep down, that the universe isn’t done with us yet.