Exit 21

One of the scariest things in life is the feeling of being lost. When you find yourself in these situations panic sets in—your heart beats faster, your senses become keener; sweat builds on your brow… If you’re reading this then obviously you managed to find a way out. But honestly, for the seconds you were lost, the fear can be unendurable.

My best friend Jake called recently to tell me about r/nosleep. He begged me to share our story. If only one of you listens and is prevented from living through what we experienced, then it’ll all be worth it. If only one of you listens…

On November 2nd, 2008 Jake and I drove home from Toronto, Canada. I realize this year will mark the fifth anniversary of our experience but that night is burned so fresh in my mind that I can still easily recall the details. We had gone to Canada to see a live show of a very popular (at that time) comedian from YouTube. He primarily filmed about kittens, puppies, and other cute animals—I think it was the vulgarity with which he presented himself and the sense of how much he hated what he did that drew us to him. I laughed harder that Saturday than I had in a long time.

The next day we left at roughly 2 in the afternoon. Bags packed, phones charged, we begrudgingly left to return to Ohio. Customs and the drug dogs were a separate adventure, but barring that our drive was uneventful. Soon we realized we could pass straight through Erie, Pennsylvania. Jake and I had a mutual friend who was studying at Mercyhurst and knew that a visit would make her evening.

Having just been Halloween a few days prior, Adrienne (our friend) happily greeted us with leftover candy and homemade cookies—she snapped into total mom-mode and wanted to make sure we were well-fed for the trip back. [Jake if you happen to read this, her hot roommate did indeed flirt with me]. After a few hours (and since Jake had to be up for morning classes) we decided to leave. Adrienne noticed how tired we both appeared and (again, in mom-mode) said she was going to call us periodically to make sure we weren't falling asleep at the wheel.

I already mentioned that I can recall the details of this evening very well. I guess you could refer to this as a flashbulb memory. A flashbulb memory is an event that could have been extremely important or terrifyingly tragic…something that happened in your life that you won’t ever forget. Most of us can recall exactly where we were on 9-11. Most of us cannot, however, recall what we had for dinner three Wednesdays ago.

When this happens you remember very minute details. For example, when Jake and I passed the Ohio border, the album “Black Parade” by My Chemical Romance was in the CD player. I was staring at the floor, listening to the words, and happened to glance over and see that our gas gauge almost read empty.

“Hey,” I said, “Dude, we need gas.”

In response Jake typed a few things into his Garmin and pinpointed the nearest station. I went back to staring at the ground and made it through a few more songs when my phone rang. I tried to answer Adrienne’s call but my phone immediately died. I remember thinking at the time how odd this was since Jake and I made sure our phones were fully charged before we left Toronto. But I didn’t dwell too long and instead asked Jake if I could borrow his. I didn’t want Adrienne to panic and wanted to call her back as soon as possible. Jake didn’t say a single word to me, and without looking at him (since I was focusing on what was wrong with mine), he handed me his phone. I tried to dial Adrienne’s number but quickly saw that his was dead as well.

“Jake,” I said, “there’s something wrong with our phones.

He didn’t answer.

I finally looked to him and saw he was staring straight ahead—ignoring me—trying to see through the darkness. The expression on his face was immediately unnerving and told me that something was wrong. I glanced out of the windshield and saw that we were driving on a dirt, back country road—a far cry from the freeway we had just been on.

“Are we going to get gas?” I asked.

“This is where it’s telling me to go,” he whispered back.

We drove in silence until we came upon the main road in this town. It was a typical main street—houses were lining both sides—expect that everything was dark. There wasn’t a single light in any of the buildings, nor were there any cars or people on the streets. It looked completely deserted. It was only 10:30 at night.

We passed some businesses in town—grocery stores, McDonald’s—all were blackened and closed. I cannot describe the eeriness of this. We drove into the parking lot of our first gas station to find that it also was closed. Figuring we’d count our losses because we desperately needed to refuel, Jake searched the Garmin for the second closest one. Near to us was a Marathon. Being a name brand gas station we assumed it would be open and so we drove in that direction.

We ended up, yet again, on another dirt, back country road—one that I specifically remember was called “Gore.” At the end of this road the Garmin instructed us to turn right. As we did, our headlights flashed the length of a rather large cemetery. Driving past we noticed that in the far corner was an old man with shaggy hair (we would later jokingly refer to him as Evil Dead Santa). This man, the first that we had seen since entering the town, was working hard. At 10:30 at night, in the farthest corner of the cemetery, illumined by our headlights, we saw him digging.

We averted our eyes, locked the doors, and continued in silence. Halfway down this road was our Marathon. We rejoiced slightly until, yet again, we pulled into the parking lot to find that it was closed. Jake was becoming more frantic by this point. Both of our phones were dead so there wasn’t any means of communication. No one knew where we were and we had no idea how much longer the tank would last. As we sat in the station’s parking lot he turned to me pleadingly. I immediately put an end to his thought process by declaring, “No. I will not go door to door to ask for help.”

He responded, “We don’t have enough gas to get back on the freeway and off at the next town. So what should we do?” I looked at him and honestly couldn’t answer.

“Would you at least knock on the station’s door and see if anyone’s in there? It couldn’t have closed that long ago.”

I did so reluctantly.

Inside the front window was nothing but darkness, save for a large clock on the wall. It was the kind you’d see in a school room (the oval ones with brown/black casing around it), except that it was lit in neon green. The hands strangely read that it was eleven. I looked back at Jake and asked what time it was. “10:40,” he said.

I didn’t think much about this and assumed the clock was either fast or stuck on this hour. It was, though, our first 11 o’clock reference of the evening.

I got back in the car and we continued down the road. At the bottom of a hill, within sight of the cemetery, was an underpass. This was lit in orange. No matter how hard I try, I cannot forget the orange. It happened so quickly. Out of nowhere came a man riding a bicycle—the second person I’d seen in this town. He was riding his bicycle directly in the path of our car. Jake’s face didn’t register that he realized this was happening at all.

I only had a second to think.

In retrospect, this probably wasn’t the best decision I’ve ever made. You see, I grabbed the wheel from my best friend. His reaction was instantaneous but I fought to gain control of the vehicle. We spun out of control—I don’t remember us stopping. I just remember the look on Jake’s face.

For the sake of civility I won’t recount the exact words we exchanged after this happened, or even the new words I learned from him that evening. If I clean it up it’s not much of a sentence, but in essence he looked at me and asked, “Why did you do that?”

I was now convinced that during the spin-out we had hit that gentleman. Jake’s screaming brought me back to reality. “You hit that guy on the bike,” I yelled, trying to make him see what he had done.

“There wasn’t any guy. What the hell are you talking about?” [side note: Jake, again if you’re reading this, I know you still don’t believe me, but there was a guy]

Our arguing continued for a while. I’ve always believed that brother’s fight but at the end of the day they’re still brothers. Jake is family to me. We had never fought like this before and I pray to whomever listens that we never will again.

Eventually he threw up his hands and said, “So what?”

I was flabbergasted.

“Say we did hit this guy. What the hell do you want me to do about it? I don’t know where a hospital is and even if I did we wouldn’t have the gas to transport him. I can’t call for help. I can’t call anyone. What do you want me to do?”

Again, I honestly couldn’t answer.

“Let’s find some gas before we’re stranded and then maybe we’ll come back.”

I hate myself for how I just gave in. I sat next to my best friend and sobbed.

We saw the lights of the third gas station before we arrived. I was so grateful that they were open and so grateful to get away from Jake that I jumped out of the car to pay for the gas. But when I did so, even as unbelievably furious as I was, even after I had slammed the door in his face, I stood quite still in that parking lot. Slowly I opened the passenger door and instructed him to get out.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Just get out of the car.”

We stood side by side listening to this town—the only sound stimulating our senses was the streetlights changing colors. From green to yellow. From yellow to red. Nothing else could be heard.

“Please come in with me,” I asked feebly.

Inside, my nausea began to take hold so I scanned the racks looking for anything salty to calm my stomach. But something was odd. Everything seemed odd. The snack packages were all wrong. They were expired—and not expired by a day, mind you…but by years. This wasn’t the kind of food that would smell as it rotted. They were chips and pops and the like.

Ignoring this and ignoring my stomach I went to the counter. From behind walked an old man with shockingly white hair. He approached me unspeaking.

“Can we have twenty dollars on pump number two,” I asked nervously. The old man held out his hand for the cash. His fingernails were coated in dirt. I pretended not to notice and handed him the money. Jake left first, but just as I was about to walk outside the man called to me.

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

I stopped in my tracks and started to ramble: “We’re just passing through…need to make it home…friend has class in the morning…”

“But it’s almost eleven,” he chanted. This was our second 11 o’clock reference of the evening.

“Thanks,” I said, knowing full well what time it was.

Jake was standing outside, hunched over in front of the gas tank, scanning the streets when I walked to the car. When he finished and sat down beside me I whispered breathlessly, “Can we please go back?” He shook his head, said “Yes,” and put the car into drive.

We returned to the underpass, orange lights blazing overhead. Jake parked and upon exiting and shutting our doors asked, “Where did I supposedly hit this man?”

His skepticism wasn’t unfounded since there weren’t any marks on the car. Still I walked him to where I assumed the accident had taken place. There, resting on the ground, was a bent bicycle wheel. It wasn’t resting there recently but rather had rusted thoroughly and sprouted weeds that twisted through its spokes.

Jake took a few steps back when he saw this. “Are you ready to leave now?” he asked me.

“Yes,” came my reply unhesitatingly. We hurried back to the car.

All of the doors were locked.

Now I’m not an expert on cars, but I do know that with my mom’s van the second you depress the gas pedal the doors automatically lock. From what we can figure, Jake’s foot must have slightly touched it upon exiting.

Had this been my care I would have smashed out the windows. Had this been Jake’s car, he would have found me the brick. Sadly this was a rental and neither of us could have afforded the repairs.

“What are we going to do now?”

“I have an idea,” Jake slowly told me.

“Okay.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Okay,” I slowly told him back.

“Look, there’s only one guy we’ve passed in this town who is near enough to help us.”

Comprehension dawned on me. “…I’m not walking to the cemetery,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Just listen. We saw him digging, right? He must be a maintenance man, and if so he probably would have a coat hanger or something handy we can use to get back in the car…”

As much as I hate to admit when he’s right (as much as I ALWAYS hate to admit when he’s right) he had a point.

So we walked.

From the man’s position in the cemetery, he could easily see the Marathon station, the underpass, and our car parked to the side of the road. When we approached the back corner of the chain-link fence that separated us from him, we noticed that he had completed digging one grave and was halfway through a second.

“Excuse me,” I said, “We locked ourselves out of our car and were wondering if you could possibly help us?”

“No you didn’t,” the man replied, mid-dig.

“Yes we did,” Jake interjected. “We locked ourselves out.”

“No you didn’t,” the man replied, mid-dig.

My frustrations were starting to show. I looked to Jake as if to laugh at him for thinking Evil Dead Santa would be any help to us and then said to the man, “Whatever. Thanks anyways.” As we turned to leave he finally glanced up.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he asked. “It’s almost eleven.”

That was our third 11 o’clock reference of the evening.

That was the excuse we needed to run back to our car.

That was when the man dropped his shovel.

That was when he hopped over the chain-link fence.

That was when our doors strangely were unlocked.

That was when Jake floored it.

I know for a fact [as do you] those doors were locked. Regardless, we ran every stoplight and stop sign as we fled the town. There wasn’t anyone to prevent us, so why not?

We arrived at my house close to 2 a.m. Jake lives 45 minutes from me and not wanting to part so soon (since we were clearly still shaken up) he asked if he could stay a little longer.

We entered my living room and that’s when we decided to research the town. We spent over an hour on the internet and were able to come up with a few interesting articles. Yes I remember the name of the town. No I will not write here. I don’t want anyone to try and retrace our steps, especially after what I’m about to say.

I will tell you that the town’s name was a bastardization off of a native American phrase, “Those who have been gone a long time.” This knowledge led us in the direction of the town’s historical purpose. Being so close to Lake Erie it became a habitual walking trail for Native Americans and slowly, through time, the town was built around it. What we found next still terrifies me.

Jake and I discovered that in the 80s, when the town was prosperous, they would host a carnival near the lake every fall. It wasn’t a carnival with rides, but rather food vendors and a few games for the kids to play. The town was small and close-knit and this was a reason for the neighbors to come out and enjoy the company of others.

Late one evening, in the fall of 85, there was a pair of teenagers that stumbled upon the town. As they sped through the deserted streets (neither paying attention to where they were going), their car hit and killed an elderly gentleman.

The man they killed was exceptionally rich and beloved by the town residents. He had singlehandedly paid to restore the school, the library; and it was out of his pocket each year that they had the carnival. At the time he was walking home with little bags of goldfish he had won for his grandson. Everyone knew him. Everyone cared for him.

The townspeople heard the accident and came running. When they saw who had been murdered they became enraged. To make matters worse (according to the article) the teenagers had re-entered their car (after checking that he was dead) and were attempting to drive away.

When you are that upset; when your rage is that insatiable, especially in a large group of people…well…a mob mentality takes over. In this type of instance you would do things you’d never believe possible; things that would make your skin crawl when you thought clearly again. Things you would never do alone…

In their anger the townsfolk dragged the teens from their car. They beat them as they were brought to the cemetery. They mocked them as their spades cast aside the earth. They spit on them as they were buried alive. The article concluded by stating that this had happened at 11 o’clock.

Naturally the press from this and subsequent arrests was enough to damage the town’s reputation. Eventually people stopped coming. Eventually people moved away. Eventually the town died off.

Jake and I couldn’t (and still can’t) wrap our heads around this. I have tried retracing our events many times. I’ve tried so hard to find a logical explanation or to attribute things to mere coincidence. I simply can’t.

We don’t know exactly what happened to us that evening or what would have happened had we stayed. But we do know one thing: Someday you’ll be out driving and your fuel gauge will read empty. When this happens, please, take our advice and never get off at Exit 21.