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The following is a true account of something I experienced several years ago... 15 miles outside of Northfield, Vermont. January 21st, 1997, 2:00am: I was returning home from a church gathering. Called a "Super Bowl", the gathering consisted of a drive all over New England taking in the sights and stopping several times to see a hockey game, visit the Basketball hall of fame, hit the lanes(bowled a 150), and take part in a rollerblading competition for charity. Alone in my GMC Jimmy, fondly named "Lemon", I passed the road sign for Burlington Vt. Home was about 20 minutes away. My eyes had grown heavy, and I worried about falling asleep at the wheel. The radio was on full blast, bass turned to the max. Hell, I even had the vent on for a time, to chill myself alert. The winter cold began to freeze my joints so I flipped the switch activating the heater, which in turn caused my car to sputter and choke as if someone had a stranglehold on it. I could smell the faint odor of cooking Radiator fluid a few minutes before the mist began to rise from under the hood. The warning light on the dash flashed a dreadful red. I pulled to the side of the road.
Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you without hessitation if you need help fixing a car take it to ANYONE before me. I'm a mechanic's equivalent of Jack Kevorkian. I once topped off my transmision fluid fill with motor oil...
So, to say the least, I wasn't too happy with my current state. Even though I had just left church not an hour before, a steady string of profanity fogged up the windshield of my hurting Jeep. A quick glance under the hood, after letting the steam escape, told me all I needed to know. A spray of fluid came from a hose, as if it were a cut artery. Its function I couldn't tell you to save my life.
I slammed the hood down with agression, and looked at my surroundings. The road in front of the headlights is all I could see. Compacted snow mixed with dirt and melting salts tread off into a darkness that never seemed so black. The trees outlining Vermont roads are incredibly thick. They actually make an arch overhead, blocking out all help from the guiding moon. I swore once more under my breath, then instantly asked forgiveness. The bitter cold prompted me to return to the confines of my Jimmy. I opened the glove compartment and removed the owners manual. My numb fingers flipped through the book and ceased on Radiator warnings. To avoid an engine fire, it is advised to turn off the ignition until repairs are made. Off went the engine. Away went the heat. Out went the lights.
I figured I had about 5 hours until sunrise. A passerby would surely come before then. My emergency road kit was opened. Inside was a Heavy Duty Blanket, two road flairs, a bottle of water, and several packages of Peanut Butter Crackers. Unfortunatlty, a cell phone wasn't an item in my inventory. If one were, I could have spared myself the terror I would soon experience.
Perhaps 30 mintues passed. Or maybe it was 2 hours. Time stops when stranded. A couple of times I felt panic. Unneccessary fears of hypothermia plagued me early on. But I grew more comfortable as I realized the blanket and layers of clothing I wore were protection enough. I blindly felt around for a package of crackers. Hmm, one empty wrapper. And another. And yet another. In a short time I had exhausted my food rations. I shook the water bottle clenched in my right hand. "At least the water is still half full," then catching the opportunity to pun I added, "But maybe that's being too optimistic." My grin from the corny statement vanished when I felt the car thud from impact. It felt as if someone had put their weight on the hood. I strained my eyes to look out before me. I would have had the same results staring at the back of my eyelids. The car's front end was definitly being pressed down by something. I waited for whatever it was to lift itself off again. I briefly considered turning on the headlights, but anything could have been out there. The last thing I wanted to do was startle some rabid beast. I heard some shuffling on the hood, as if something was repositioning itself. Then the weight was removed. The front end bounced back to it's original place.
I waited for another impact, further investigation by whatever it was. But it didn't come. Every gust of wind scared me shitless. The car wouldn't buckle as it had before, but each minute movement felt like a tease. It began to aggrivate me, how scared I was, not having control of this situation. I reached for the lights, and placed my finger on the button for activation. I pulled away not once, but twice in insecurity. I pictured what my friends would say about me if they were witnessing this. How much of a coward I was. I pep talked myself until I was ready. I turned on the lights.
Completely fogged up was my windshield. My courage quickly disappeard. What I might find when I wiped away the haze frightened me to no end. The pit of my stomach was a cinderblock. I noticed my hand was trembling as I approached the glass. With my eyes forced open, I wiped my hand across the cold surface.
A single bloody handprint tainted the hood of my car. The image burned itself into my memory. The sight of the crimson against white paint sends shivers through me now. The blood ran down the hood from each of four digits. All fingers were represented excpet one. The handprint was missing an index finger. I looked at my own hand in some kind of surreal comparison, the moisture from the glass ran over my fingers. I frantically dried them on the blanket.
I became immediately nauseated. My breathing increased even more. I was near hyperventalation.
The hand swipe on the windshield began to fog up instantly. I was relieved as the fogging began. But then droplets of condensation, from the area I had wiped, began to run down the glass. Completely clear streaks formed. The handprint wasn't going to go away.
I pressed the power locks, as I had several times before, to make sure they were still secure. I then reached for the ignition. Engine fire or no engine fire, I couldn't stay here. I turned the ignition, and the motor started with much effort. The choking and gasping was horrible to hear. I put the car into drive, and lifted my foot off the break. The tires squealed in place. Not an inch of progress was made. I stopped accelerating when movement was seen through the fogged glass; I peeked between the streaks of clarity.
A figure stood 10 yards away. I've never been able to describe this sight adequately. My vocabulary, the words I have to express sheer horror are all obsolete to what was felt, what was seen. A tall individual, naked from head to toe, staring at me just under a menacing furrow, stood still, without a shiver, in sub-zero conditions. The mangled hand was held out in front, as if it were a weapon of some kind. I don't understand to this day why I wasn't approached then and there. I was sure I would be attacked. I reached down into the seat next to me and found a raod flare. It wouldn't be much of a defense, but it was all I had. To my surprise, and ultimatly my relief, the man turned away from my headlights, and dashed into the woods.
The engine died.
The heat went off.
But this time, the lights stayed on.
It would be another half hour before my savior, an eldery dairy farmer with room in his beat up Ford pick-up, would arrive.
The police ran a fingerprint search on the handprint, but came back with no matches. That was the end of any kind of investigation on their part. I still travel through that area now and then. Never at night though. Often times, not alone. I truthfully feel like I met evil on that road. Evil that will haunt me for the rest of my days.
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