The Odometer’s Chorus

The Eagle’s Nest Casino lot was a graveyard of secondhand sedans and rusted hatchbacks, and I was its night shift caretaker. From 6 PM until 12:30 AM, I circled the cracked asphalt, checking for expired tickets, listening to the hum of the interstate that ran parallel to the lot like a hungry river. My name is Danny, and this was supposed to be a quiet job, a way to pay for my last semester of community college. But the quiet hours after closing were the dangerous ones, because that’s when the drive home began.

My route took me down County Road 17, a desolate stretch of farmland and dying oak trees. The only landmarks were the abandoned silo at the old Meridian Feed Mill and the shuttered gas station with its pale, glowing sign that buzzed like a trapped wasp. I knew every pothole, every flicker of the streetlights that grew sparse as I got closer to my apartment in the outskirts of Harrowfield. But on a Tuesday night in late October, the road felt different. The fog had rolled in from the river, thick and yellowish, and my headlights seemed to swallow the light instead of scatter it.

I was bone-tired, my eyes gritty from staring at the security monitor for hours. To keep myself awake, I blasted the radio and sang along, my voice a ragged counterpoint to the songs. I always had a strange habit: I needed fuel for the drive, and coffee did nothing, so I sang. It was my private karaoke, and I was mercilessly off-key. That night, the station was playing old 90s alt-rock, and ‘Santeria’ came on. I grinned, cranked the volume, and belted out the chorus: ‘What I really want to know, my baby…’

I wasn’t expecting company. But as I sang that line, I heard it—a voice from the back seat, a scratchy, female voice that sang ‘but I’ve been in a coma, woah-oh’ a half beat after me. My heart slammed against my ribs. I froze, hands tight on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. The back seat was empty, just the dark shapes of my gym bag and a discarded energy drink can. I told myself it was the radio, a delay in the signal, the wind whistling through a cracked window. I didn’t have the courage to look back directly.

I drove in silence for a whole mile, the song still playing but my voice mute. The voice didn’t return. I exhaled, my grip loosening. ‘You’re hearing things, Danny,’ I muttered to myself. Then, to prove I was sane, I started singing again, louder this time for the second verse: ‘I don’t practice Santeria, I ain’t got no crystal ball…’ And there it was, right on cue: a voice, close and warm, echoed ‘crystal ball’ in a whisper that seemed to come from just behind my ear. My skin crawled. I stopped singing immediately, but the voice continued, independent now, humming the next line ‘I had a million dollars but I spent it all’ in a flat, off-key tone that was eerily like my own.

I didn’t dare move. The car hit a pothole and the voice stopped, leaving only the sound of my own ragged breathing. I pulled over to the shoulder, my hands shaking. I checked the back seat again, even got out and opened the rear door, but the empty lot of the road was quiet, the fog swallowing my breath. I convinced myself it was exhaustion, that I was hallucinating from lack of sleep and the humming of the engine. I got back in, but I didn’t turn the radio on. I drove in silence, my eyes glued to the road, my ears straining for any whisper.

Then, after two miles of dead air, my own voice came from the back seat, clear as if I were speaking through a thin wall. ‘Danny,’ it said. ‘You’re going to fall asleep at the wheel.’ That was all. But it was my voice, my exact timbre, and it sounded tired, like I was hearing a recording of myself from a bad dream. I slammed the brakes, skidding to a stop on the gravel shoulder. The engine idled, a rough vibration through the floorboards. I looked in the rearview mirror, and this time, I saw something: a faint outline, like smoke, in the shape of a person huddled on the back seat, its head tilted toward me.

I don’t remember how I made it home that night. I think I just drove, white-knuckled, not looking back again, not even when the voice hummed along to the clicking of the turn signal. I parked in my apartment’s lot and sat there, hands trembling, until dawn. I threw the keys on the table, collapsed into bed, and slept for fourteen hours.

The next night, I called in sick. But the drive home still had to happen, and I took a different route, a longer one through the city. I thought maybe it was the road, the lonely stretches, that had conjured the thing. But as I merged onto the expressway, I heard it again: a soft, rhythmic breathing from the back seat. I didn’t react, just turned the radio on and sang ‘Santeria’ on purpose, my voice shaking. It sang with me, note for note, and I swear I felt a cold draft at the nape of my neck. I pressed on the gas, not caring about speed. It kept singing until I reached home, and then it fell silent.

That was three weeks ago. I’ve stopped driving at night, or at least I try. I take the bus now, leaving my car parked in the lot, but the car is always there, waiting, and sometimes, just before I fall asleep, I hear that voice sing the last line of the song, but with different words: ‘What I really want to know, my baby, is when will you let me drive?’ And I know, deep down, that if I ever let my guard down, if I ever sang that song alone again, the odometer would keep rolling, and the voice would be the only thing keeping me awake on the road home.

But the worst part is a piece of paper I found under my windshield wiper the other day. It was a printed receipt from the parking lot, but written in the margins, in my own handwriting, were the words: ‘You’re not driving. I am.’ I have no memory of writing it. And last night, I saw my reflection in the rearview mirror, and behind me, for just a second, there was a face—my face, but gaunt and dark-eyed, smiling at me with broken teeth.

I still have to work, I still have to drive that road, because I can’t afford to lose my job. And every night, that voice grows a little louder, a little clearer. Sometimes it sings, sometimes it talks. Tonight, as I start the car, I don’t turn on the radio. I just whisper, ‘Santeria, Sublime, 1996,’ and I listen for the echo. Because I know now it’s not just a song. It’s a passenger. And it’s been there, hiding in the back seat of my skull, all along.