Halloween Short Story: Wrong Turn

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Wrong Turn writing as R. P. Kane "Dammit," Phil growled, slamming his fist against the steering wheel hard enough to make the dashboard rattle. "There's got to be a way back to the highway." He jabbed at his phone, frustration mounting, as the screen refused to budge from its frozen map. "And why the hell isn't this thing working?" Clutching her Thomas teddy bear, the car rolled through a corridor of corn—tall, brittle stalks that loomed on either side long overdue for harvesting—Chloie's voice came soft and tight. "Daddy...are we lost?" "We just made a wrong turn, baby," Jenny said, trying to be as comforting as she could be. "Daddy's good with directions. He'll figure it out." Just then a weathered sign emerged on the side of the road—Hollowbrook-5 miles. Phil shuffled in his seat, and glanced over at Jenny, but didn't say anything. Maybe there'd be a gas station. Maybe someone could point them back to the highway. Just a few more miles and they'd be back on track—weekend saved. Jenny smiled, even if no words were exchanged. She knew what Phil was thinking, and then glanced back at Chloie. Thomas was set aside now, replaced by her notebook. She was drawing again. The same rabbit she'd sketched a dozen times before—wide eyes, red claws, crouched like it was waiting for something. Jenny's stomach tightened. She said softly, "Sweetheart...maybe draw something else for a while?" Chloie didn't answer. Jenny turned back around, her jaw clenched. This trip was supposed to help. A break from the drawings. A break from the night screams coming from Chloie's bedroom in the middle of the night. Phil didn't notice. He was already pressing the gas. Chloie kept drawing. ---------- A few minutes passed, the corn thinning into patches of dry grass and rusted fence line. They were finally rolling into town. On the left, a sagging farmhouse leaned into the wind, its paint peeled to bone. There was a patchy field where animals probably should have been, but the fields were empty. Lifeless. In the distance a barn slouched, half collapsed, it's roof clinging on for dear life but holding back no elements. Phil scanned ahead of him, expecting a sign of life—a billboard, a gas station, anything. Then he saw it. A crooked wooden sign, half-swallowed by tall grass. The letters were hand carved, uneven, and barely legible beneath the moss and weathering. Welcome to Hollowbrook. ---------- As Phil rolled into Hollowbrook, he felt a sense of dismay. It barely qualified as a town. It was just a scattering of sagging houses, their windows dark and hollow, and driveways cluttered with rusted cars that seemed to not have moved in years. The place felt paused. Forgotten. Like a ghost town. Except for one building. Marnie's Mercantile. It was old—no question. Worn but not neglected. Out front stood a single gas pump, the kind you'd expect from an old Norman Rockwell painting. A small sign hung crookedly beside it: Call for attendant. Phil slowed the car, scanning the storefront. Then he saw it. Or maybe Jenny did first. It didn't matter. Above the door, nailed into the porch beam, it was clear as day. The rabbit. Exactly as Chloie had drawn it. Wide eyes. Red claws. But the ears—those were different. In her sketches, they'd stood tall, alert, listening. Now they curled back tight against its skull like it found what it was listening for. The silence was thick. Then, from the back seat, a voice cut through it, sharp and sudden. "Mommy. Daddy. My rabbit!" ---------- Phil tried to make sense of it—how they'd ended up here, of all places. The trip was supposed to be an escape. A break from the darkness that had been gathering around Chloie. They were supposed to be heading somewhere bright. Somewhere normal. So, how had they missed that turn? How could they have? And yet, suddenly now, part of him had a sense of knowing. It wasn't a detour. It wasn't an accident. It was a pull. It was a quiet, unseen current guiding them all along. To Hollowbrook. To the Marnie's Mercantile. To the rabbit. It didn't feel like a coincidence. It felt like a summons. The weekend was never meant to be a getaway. It was a union. Jenny suddenly broke the silence. "Are we going in?" Phil stared at the rabbit above the door. "I think we have to." ---------- Inside the shop smelled of wet stone and something older. It wasn't your typical mercantile, though the front shelves tried to pretend otherwise. Canned vegetables. Ramen noodles. Shrink-wrapped beef jerky. But farther in, there were jars of other things. Things twitching inside. Dolls with faces stitched in horror. Toward the rear of the store there was a grandfather clock ticking in a rhythm that didn't match the seconds, but still felt perfectly timed, like it was keeping track of something else. Then the curtain behind the counter stirred and a woman emerged. She was old, but almost more like a wooden carved figure than a person. Stiff and rigid. But still, her smile was soft and warm. "She's early," she said. "By the way, I'm Marnie." She scanned Phil and Jenny before landing her eyes on their daughter. "Is this Chloie?" she said. "Yes, but how do you—" Phil began, but Marnie cut him off. "She's been chosen. Really, you all have." Phil stood silent, and Jenny's hand found his and she grasped it, cold and trembling. "We'll find things for you here," Marnie said. "And you'll still have Chloie. Although it will be different." The clock in the back of the store struck an eerie chord. "Hollowbrook doesn't grow like other towns," Marnie said, and offered a half smile. "It doesn't build. It absorbs. And when it's time, it calls again." She paused. "When the rabbit dies." Tears began to well into Phil and Jenny's eyes. The realization was coming home. Chloie was the rabbit. "Are you ready?" Marnie asked, and Chloie half smiled and said, "Yes." ---------- As Phil and Jenny stepped out of the Mercantile, they paused at the edge of the porch, drawn to the figure on the porch beam. The rabbit. Still nailed into the beam. Still watching. It's wide eyes gleamed in the fading light, red claws curled just so. But the ears—they'd changed again. No longer pinned back. Now they stood tall. Alert. Listening. Just like in Chloie's drawings. Jenny reached for Phil's hand. Neither spoke. There was nothing left to say. The town had accepted them. And the rabbit was ready to call home the next. ©2025 Raymond Patrick Kane