Chapter 1: The Wrong Turn

Elton "E" Scooter gripped the handlebars of his electric scooter, his gloved fingers cold despite the warm night air. The hum of the motor buzzed beneath him, the only sound cutting through the silence of the deserted back road. He had taken this route a dozen times before—straight through town, a left at the old diner, then a shortcut past the cemetery.

But tonight, something felt different.

His GPS flickered, the screen distorting like a scratched CD. The blue navigation line stretched in a direction he didn’t recognize, a narrow road branching off where there shouldn't have been one. The name on the screen read:

DEAD MAN’S ROUTE.

A chill crept up his spine. He frowned, tapping the screen. Static hissed from his Bluetooth earpiece, followed by an eerie silence.

"Great. Just great," he muttered.

The road ahead was shrouded in darkness, a thin mist rolling across the cracked pavement. His gut told him to turn back, but something about the road drew him in. A sense of déjà vu gnawed at his mind, like he had seen this place before—in a dream or maybe a nightmare.

He exhaled and muttered, “Screw it.”

Kicking off, he let the scooter glide forward. The moment his wheels crossed onto the new path, a gust of wind howled through the trees, rustling dead leaves across the asphalt. The world behind him seemed to stretch, elongating unnaturally, as if reality itself were warping.

Then the first sign appeared.

A rusted road marker leaned at an odd angle on the side of the road. The paint had chipped away, but beneath the decay, faint letters remained:

LAST STOP GAS.

Elton squinted ahead. A gas station stood just beyond the mist, its neon sign flickering weakly. The pumps were old, the kind with spinning dials instead of digital screens. The glass windows of the convenience store were coated in grime, and inside, the shelves were half-stocked with dust-covered snacks.

There was no sign of life.

Elton slowed to a stop, his foot scraping against the asphalt. The air smelled wrong—like burnt rubber and something metallic, almost like… blood.

A lone motorcycle was parked near the entrance, its engine still clicking as if recently turned off. The door to the store creaked open slightly, as if someone had just stepped inside.

His instincts screamed at him to leave.

Then he saw it.

A single bloody handprint smeared across the gas pump.

Somewhere in the distance, a voice whispered his name.

"Elton..."

Elton’s breath hitched.

The bloody handprint glistened under the flickering gas station light, fresh enough to still be wet. His eyes darted to the entrance of the convenience store. The door was cracked open just an inch, swaying slightly as if someone—or something—had just slipped inside.

A voice whispered again, barely audible over the hum of the streetlights.

"Elton..."

His fingers tightened around the handlebars of his scooter. He knew better than to ignore his instincts—every nerve in his body screamed for him to turn around and gun it back the way he came. But something held him in place. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.

He stepped off the scooter, his boots crunching against the gravel. The silence pressed down on him, thick and suffocating. The wind had stopped. Even the insects had gone quiet.

He approached the gas station door and pushed it open.

Ding-ding.

The old service bell above the entrance jangled weakly, echoing in the emptiness. The fluorescent lights inside buzzed, flickering like dying fireflies. The place smelled of mildew, burnt coffee, and something rotten lurking beneath the surface.

The aisles were lined with outdated snack foods—dusty bags of chips, expired candy bars, faded soda cans stacked in neat rows. A newspaper lay open on the front counter. The date was October 12, 1987.

He frowned. 1987? That can’t be right.

Then he heard it.

A soft shuffle.

From the back of the store.

Elton turned his head sharply toward the aisles. At the far end of the store, past the empty shelves, was a door labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY. The metal knob twisted, slow and deliberate.

Someone was inside.

Or… something.

He swallowed hard. Every rational part of his mind told him to leave, but his feet refused to move. Instead, he took a cautious step forward, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

The knob turned completely.

The door creaked open an inch.

Elton’s breath caught in his throat as a single, bloodshot eye peered through the gap, staring directly at him.

Then, in a voice that sent ice through his veins, the figure behind the door whispered his name again—this time, unmistakably clear.

"Elton... you've come back."