T H E
Z E P H Y R
__ M A G A Z I N E
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Issue #20 6-28-86
A weekly electronic magazine for users of
THE ZEPHYR II BBS
(Mesa, AZ - 602-894-6526)
owned and operated by T. H. Smith
Editor - Gene B. Williams
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(c) 1986
THIS ISSUE:
Imagine this.
You've been at one of the best parties that was ever held.
It was a wild time for everyone, but eventually it had to end,
and then came the drive home.
You go outside, start your vehicle and head off. Maybe you
had too much to drink (or whatever) - knowing inside that you
shouldn't really be on the road. Maybe you dozed at the wheel,
or maybe the road him is so familiar that you just weren't
paying attention - for whatever reason you find yourself on a
road in the middle of nowhere.
You have no idea where you are. Nothing looks familiar. It
seems that you are on a mountain road somewhere. And it must
be a long, long way from civilization because there is no
sign of a city anywhere, and the radio has nothing but static
on it.
Just as you're trying to figure out where you are - and how
you got there - a creature appears and wants to take your
life. It looks human enough, but nothing you do affects it.
THE GHOST OF HIGHWAY 12
Bob felt great. He had the road all to himself. For hours his
only company had been the thousands of tiny insects dancing in
the beams of the headlights.
Cool mountain air rushed into the cab through the open window.
It carried a hint of rain, but the sky was cloudless, marked
only by the countless sparkling stars and the thin glow of a
cresent moon.
The feeling of freedom and power as he pressed down on the
accelerator was overwhelming - almost intoxicating. Only one
thing bothered him at the moment. He didn't know where he was.
Not that he was lost. Bob never got lost, at least not for
very long. He just didn't know where he was. Or why. Or how
he'd come to be there, or where he was going.
He was just driving, all alone, in the middle of nowhere,
for no reason that he could remember.
He knew other drivers who would fall into a semi-sleep at
the wheel. They'd experience a temporary disorientation. But
Bob knew that he hadn't dozed off. He was wide awake, and fully
aware of everything around him.
He thought back, trying to remember when he'd stopped last.
Two days before he'd been in Tucson. That's where Sara
lived, so he certainly couldn't forget that.
After Tucson . . . nothing. Two days were missing.
He looked straight ahead through the darkness, trying to find
the telltale dome of light of a city or town. Eventually he must
come across a town - something that would give him his bearings.
The road stretched out, surrounded by dense forest, on and on,
with no signs of ever ending. The view in the mirror was the
same.
The radio was silent. Its light tried to tell him that it was
working, but nothing came through the speaker but soft static.
Every channel was the same. Either he was too far from any
transmitter, or absolutely nobody was on the air.
Without warning a man appeared in the road ahead. In the
frightening and helpless second before collision Bob saw that
the man was just standing there, arms raised, and smiling.
Bob's hands automatically tightened on the wheel. But there
was no impact. No thud. Bob clearly saw the image of the
man slide through the cab and then disappear through the back
wall of the van.
Bob braked hard and fought to keep the van from going out of
control. The right wheels bit into the gravel of the shoulder
and sent up a wake of dust. Just inches from a large and very
hard tree the van came to a stop.
Adrenalin shot through his veins as he hopped from the van.
He looked back through the darkness and saw that the man was
now walking toward him, and still smiling. Just fifty yards
away the man stopped, then waved.
"Hello. I was wondering if you'd be by tonight. I've been
waiting for you."
Bob felt the blood rush to his face, leaving a streak of icy
cold along his spine. His hand was shaking badly. Fighting a
desparate flood of panic he reached into the van and pulled
out a large wrench.
"Hold it right there, fella," he commanded.
The man shrugged. "Okay, if that's what you want. But you
might as well put the wrench away. It won't do you any good."
"Step closer and we'll see just how much good it does. Now
who the hell are you, and what do you want with me?"
"It doesn't really matter who I am. You're Bob Sawyer, right?"
"Yeah. So what?"
"Well, Bob, I've come to release you from this world."
The chill along his spine exploded, spreading a tingling
numbness all through his body. Breath came hard. The man
began walking toward him again, arms open.
"Stand where you are!" Bob screamed, choking.
The man ignored it, and was smiling even wider than before.
"There's no need to be afraid, Bob. Accept it, and it will be
much easier."
Using both hands Bob raised the wrench and hurled it at the
approaching stranger. It sailed through him and slid along the
road behind.
"Calm down, Bob. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm going to
help you. I'm here to release you from this world."
Bob tightened his fists, knowing very well that all his
strength wouldn't help him against this . . . this creature
of darkness. "How can I fight a ghost?" he thought in panic.
The man came very close before he stopped, and then stood
looking at Bob and smiling. "Being dead isn't so bad. You'll
see."
"But I don't want to be dead!"
"I'm afraid you have no choice, Bob. There's nothing you can
do about it." The man opened his arms again, as if to take Bob
into his embrace.
Bob backed up quickly and yelled, "Get away from me. No spook
is going to touch me!"
The man smiled and lowered his arms. "Do you know what a
ghost is, really?"
A drop of sweat fell down Bob's nose and into his mouth. "Yeah.
They're dead people."
"Not all dead people are ghosts, but you're right, in a way. Some
who have died just wander around, and won't let go of this
physical world. They sometimes stay around the spot where they
died - such as this road."
Cold kept spreading through Bob until now he was shivering. He
swallowed hard, trying to remove the grapefruit sized lump in
his throat. "Then why don't you just leave!!! Why do you want to
go haunting a road for?"
The stranger stared at Bob, the smile gone. "You don't understand
yet, do you Bob? It's not me who's haunting this road. I'm quite
alive. YOU are the ghost. You died on this road three years ago
and have been driving it ever since. Now you can leave. There's
no reason for you to stay lost any longer.
"You're dead, Bob."
UNTIL NEXT TIME
Well, response was a *little* better this past week. True,
the discussion turned into electronic, hairless cats (with
and without RAM) - but that was more or less in keeping with
the general silliness of the issue.
I wonder what this week will bring? Maybe a few personal
ghost stories? Or just opinions on the subject? I just hope
we don't go back to the little or no response routine.
What should the magazine be? Weekly? Bi-weekly? Monthly? Not at
all? (Out of maybe 200+ users I hear from 4?)
Is it worth a couple of minutes of your time? Or am I spending
hours each week to entertain myself?
Well, if you care enough, there ARE several ways you can assure
that the issues will keep coming each week.
1.) Post some participatory remark on the magazine board.
2.) Send me some mail, if only to give me your opinion of the
present issue.
3.) Attempt an issue as a "Guest Author" (contact me in E-mail
first).
4.) Bring a new user to Zephyr (and let me know about it).
5.) Download the file called "Question" then fill it out and
send it to me, then make copies and hand it out to every
appropriate person you can think of. (After well over a
month, I have yet to get a single response.)
(on the other hand, if having weekly issues doesn't really matter
to you, all you have to do is to continue doing what you're doing
now - nothing at all.)
That's simple enough, isn't it?
Next week:
It depends on how much time I have. In the past I've given the
issues of the magazine a position of priority. But since this is
the "lowest paying market" I have (writing *is* how I make my
entire living) . . . .