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rejection to keep him from following her across the hall.
    It took hours for him to get back to sleep, but when he did, he had no more visits from demon cars or dead sisters.

Chapter Nine
    Around one o’clock Scott took the I-69 exit to Ft. Wayne. He got off the highway minutes later at W. Michigan Ave. feeling hungry and needing gas. He pulled into a full service Mobil station. A scruffy man in blue overalls approached the car. The patch on his right breast pocket indicated his name was Sam. He looked older than he probably was and very familiar. His shoulders slumped, he appeared beaten down by the knowledge that unless his lotto numbers come in, this is as good as it gets.  
    “Filler up, mister?”  
    “Ya. And check the oil and coolant,” Scott instructed him dismissively.
    There was a small confectionary and Scott went inside. He picked up a small Coleman cooler. A bag of ice and two six packs of Dr. Pepper, some chips and a bag of M&M’s.
    “That all?” said the woman by the cash register.
    “And gas,” he answered pointing to the car.  
    She checked the LED display behind her. Scanned the bar codes on the items in front of her and said, “Fifty-nine dollars.”  
    Scott gave her three twenties and she handed him a single without looking up. Service with a smile, he thought.  
    “Can you recommend a place for lunch close by?”
    Still not looking up she replied, “Charlie’s, across the street.”  
    When he got back to the car, Sam was leaning against the pump. Scott walked past him and opened the door.
    “Nice car, mister,” Sam said. “Oil’s down about half a quart, maybe less. You want me to top it up?”
    Scott just waved him off. He wondered, was it just his luck today or did all the lowlifes in Michigan smell this bad? Back inside the car he heard what sounded like “okie-dokie” and that tongue clicking sound. A chill ran down his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled up against the collar of his shirt. With a flurry of movement, Scott started the car, put it in gear and drove to the edge of the road. Framed in the rear-view Sam leaned against the storefront.
    “For Christ’s sake, Scott,” he scolded himself. “Get that bum out of your head. He’s at least a hundred miles behind you.”
    This worked like a pep talk. Scott considered himself a realist. In his mind, there were no monsters, no ghosts or goblins. Bigfoot is an old Indian myth, perpetuated by tourist centers of the north-west. If you can’t see it, or feel it, then it isn’t real. That is what Scott Randall believed and it’s worked out for him so far. Since it was not possible for a panhandler from Detroit to follow him, then it only made sense to forget about the fucker and enjoy his road trip.
    He took his foot off the brake pedal and began to cross the street. The loud scream of a car horn brought his concentration back to the road. A light blue, maybe grey blur streaked by, missing the front of the Charger by inches. Panic and instinct took over and he pounded his foot back on the brake with all the force he had.  
    The car stopped with the nose jutting out onto the road. Scott took a deep breath. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. So, this is what junior in the Honda felt like when the front end of his car was scattered all over the road. Well maybe Junior felt worse. Scott checked for traffic, and then proceeded to Charlie’s.
    It didn’t look like much. The neon sign by the road definitely lacked inspiration. “Charlie’s” in big red print. Below that, printed in blue, “Good Food”. The building was a small wood frame structure with a second level over the restaurant. There was probably an apartment, maybe two on the second floor. Clean looking, and nicely painted white, with green trim. The door looked like something from an old farmhouse. Panels on the bottom, and windows at the top divided into nine sections. An Open sign hung on the inside of the door.  
    It looked