0.08 per Cent Pt. III

The torrents drenched Keith to the bone before he managed to slot the key into the lock.

By the time he got the door open, cold shivers had begun to rack his body. Keith squelched into the driver’s seat and slammed the door closed. He gasped — a cloud of vapour from his blue-veined lips. His fingers curled around the steering wheel, slaked with water. Droplets drip-dripped from his nose and trickled down from his plastered hair. Keith armed it all away with a damp shirtsleeve.

Hush, whispered the rain as it drummed against the roof of the car. Shh. Shush now. All better. Hush, hush. All good, now. Much better.

Keith gritted his teeth and put the key in the ignition. It took him more attempts than he’d care to admit — his hands shook. He blamed the rain, told himself the fear had nothing to do with it. Before he turned the ignition, he got the awful premonition that the car had no fuel. It had oxidised here on his driveway for a decade, and all the petrol had evaporated from its tank. It wouldn’t start, and even if it had gas, the battery would be dead, becau—

The car growled into life. He issued a yip, the noise a dog makes when you step on its paw. The explosion of sound died to a steady thrum beneath his feet. The rattle of the engine vibrated through his bones. This beast had life in it yet, and it would well let the world know it. Keith glanced around, sure his neighbours or the police would rush from the shadows and pull him out of the car. But nobody did.

He laughed and slapped the steering wheel. His hand darted for the gearstick, but he paused. No. If he would do this, then he better do it right. He flicked on the air conditioning, to clean away the condensation. He tapped the dials, saw them all in the green. He adjusted his rearview mirror t—

Dead eyes glared at him from the back seat. Two black holes in china-pale faces. Their lips moved. His blood turned to ice. His neck creaked — an old door hinge. He turned to the passenger seat. Kay stared at him through absent eyes. Two ink splotches on her alabaster countenance. The moisture evaporated from his mouth, his heart collided with his ribs. No. He’d expected this. Of course they’d try to make him stay. They were his ghosts, after all.

Keith faced the street, dropped the handbrake and rolled down. All the while, the holes the dead called eyes burned him. He wasted no time. Down on the road, he thunked the car into gear and put his foot down. Tires squealed, the rear end fishtailed. He peeled away and didn’t look back. It had never been a home, anyway.

Litwich blurred past. Not once did he ease off the accelerator. The thin grey road narrowed to a strip, the endless chasms loomed on either side, the eternal rains fell and fell. And still, the dead stayed. Still, they whispered their accusations. Father. Husband. Protector.

You can never be free of your ghosts, Keith realised. No matter the distance you put between. They’ll haunt the hollow chambers of your heart until you die. And beyond that, still.

He closed his eyes and let go of the wheel.