It was dark, rainy, and windy. A miserable night, the kind to put up one's feet, and be glad they were inside. Alas, Steve Tesh was stuck out in the elements. He shivered, and clutched the upturned lapels of his mackintosh.
The wind rendered his umbrella useless, and beneath his coat, his suit was soaked. To further ruin his mood, he was stuck in Libertyville, Maine. As far as he was concerned, it was a jerkwater city in a jerkwater state.
What kind of name was Libertyville anyways? As far as he was concerned, he wanted to get his business in the state of Maine done, and get back home. It was his observation that the weather was as hospitable as the people were.
Right now, he would settle for going back to his hotel room, and drying out. He had been standing out there for forty-five minutes, and he hadn't seen a taxi yet. Back home in New York City, cabbies would be fighting each other for the fare. It only deepened his opinion that people outside Westchester County were barbarians.
Then he saw a set of headlights cutting through the darkness. He felt a quick flash of hope that was soon extinguished. Those headlights were round, and not those of a taxicab. Probably some old geezer in his old heap. Maybe he wouldn't be adverse to hitchhikers...
It was then that he saw the dome lights on the roof. It sure didn't look like any taxi he had ever seen before. It was dark red, with four headlights in tandem pairs, and more chrome than he had ever seen in one place.
As it got closer, he saw it had big batwing tailfins. That baby was probably older than he was. Then he shrugged. Any port in a storm. It wasn't like he had a plethora of choices, after all.
He held up his right arm to hail it, and it glided to a stop in front of him. He yanked open the door, and threw himself inside. He gave the driver the address as he did it, and the driver nodded.
Steve was silent for a minute. At last, he looked around, and asked, "What kind of car is this?"
"It's a fifty-eight Plymouth Fury."
A cold shiver went down his spine. He frowned, and asked, "How can you get an older car like this licensed as a taxicab?"
The driver grinned. "It's a gypsy cab."
Steve felt another cold shiver work down his spine. He had a real bad feeling about this. The license on the back of the seat said Rollie LeBay. He decided that he was going to get out the first chance he got. He began feeling along the door, for the door handle.
His hand first recoiled from it when he touched it. The upholstery on the door felt like living flesh. He took a deep breath, and forced down a rising tide of revulsion. He tried feeling for the door handle.
The fleshy surface was pliable and a little warm, giving with ease to his fingers. His fingers probed and probed, but he couldn't feel anything. Not even a door handle.
He tried peering at the door from the corner of his eye. He could see his hand, but he couldn't see a door handle. Shocked, he turned his head to look. There was no door handle, no door latch, no button, nothing.
Then the door panel began to melt. The fleshy covering began to feel like molasses, and began sucking at his fingertips. Wherever his fingers touched the sticky substance, it felt like there was a thousand tiny teeth were gnawing at his flesh.
He pulled away his hand with a yell. Blood dribbled from his fingertips. Then he heard the taxi driver laughing. He looked up, and saw Roland LeBay leering at him in the rearview mirror. "You enjoying the ride so far, you shitter?"
Steve looked around, and realized he didn't recognize this part of town. "Hey! This isn't where I told you to go!"
Roland's smile widened. Then he began to sweat. Or that's what it looked like at first. He realized his face was melting like a candle. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. His breath stopped up in his throat. His left hand curled around his lower jaw.
A titanic scream was building up in his throat, but it was locked in there. If it came out, he knew his sanity would shatter like a pane of glass. However, his entire being rebelled against it.
The stringy hair had turned orange, and a new face could be seen struggling out from underneath the disappearing face. Then the driver had turned into a clown with white grease painted face. The red painted mouth looked like an upside-down scream, and his eyes glittered like silver dollars.
Now the license said Pennywise the Dancing Clown. "Do you want a balloon, Steve? They float, and you'll float too. Oh how you'll float!"
Then the face began to melt again. Now he was Jack Torrance. Now he was Walter Brennan. Now he was Norman Daniels. Now he was Jimmy Dolan. Steve began feeling his sanity slipping away. The Fury was going faster and faster. As it did so, it began detouring onto side streets, then pulled onto a dirt lane.
Now the driver was Carrie White. Steve found the desire to scream melting away. It was replaced by the urge to giggle. The dirt road turned into twin ruts, then disappeared altogether.
Once again, the driver's face started to melt. This time, no new face emerged. The entire body began melting into the seat. The Plymouth Fury was dodging between the trees.
A voice whispered in the passenger compartment, Embrace the deadlights, Steve. It is your destiny. He was giggling, gibbering, and bobbing his head as the car aimed itself at a tree.
The patrolman got out of his Jeep Cherokee, and began looking around. There were reports from hikers in the area of strange things going on around here.
His brows drew together. What was that in the bushes? Frowning, he began walking toward them. Prying back a couple of branches, he peered in, and staggered back a couple steps. Then he overbalanced, and went down onto his posterior. Nausea churned his guts, and he didn't know whether to scream or vomit.
Steve Tesh's body was in a sitting position, drained of all blood. His face was in a mask of unutterable terror. Lying at his feet was a license plate, SQB-241.
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