“Welcome to North Carolina,” says the captain’s voice. “It’s currently 12:03 A.M, twenty-eight degrees, and snow flurries are expected. Your flight 227 from LAX to North Carolina National Airport took us about six hours and twenty-four minutes. Thank you for flying American Airlines. Hope to see you again and Happy Holidays!” 

I stand up, swing my bag over my shoulder, and follow the blue rug down the aisle. Suitcases swish and compartments click as the passengers put on thick coats and rush to disembark, reminding me I’m far from home. I walk out of the plane door, following the line of slow-moving people into the attached tunnel. I immediately pull out my orange puffer jacket from my bag and put it on. 

As I walk through the small airport, I scroll through my phone to the messages from my good buddy Nate. The last time I texted him was eight months ago, and the last time I saw him was at a philosopher’s meeting, where all the biggest names were. Nat and I were roommates in college at Harvard. Although we were hardcore philosophy majors, we would chill in the lounge writing stories and screenplays until four A.M some nights. 

I find his address buried in our texts and enter it into my Google Maps: 30 miles, 75 minutes. What can go wrong in 75 minutes? There won’t be traffic since it’s the middle of the night, and the woods of North Carolina are relatively safe. I follow the other passengers through the mostly empty baggage claim, illuminated only by a few lights with numbers and one moving conveyor belt. 

The green car rental sign points ahead. I head out the double doors into the cold, snow-flurried air. Inside the dim car rental, one old man with a beard stands. “Hi, I’m David Carlston, I booked a Toyota Corolla for pickup today. Are there any cars I can upgrade to?” I ask, wanting a luxurious ride for a night like this. 

“Yes,” the man mumbles, with only the bottom half of his face lit from the computer screen.

He turns the computer screen 180 degrees so I can see. “I’ll take the Lexus,” I say without hesitation. My recent best-selling book sales can cover the cost. 

After I sign some papers, the man says, “Here’s the keys. Get to where you’re head’n. We’re supposed to get some black ice tonight.

“For sure, goodnight sir,” I say leaving out the double doors into the snowy dark.

“Directions to 627 Redwood Lane,” my Google maps says.

I turn onto the empty, dark freeway and I’m met by a big change of scenery. The town stays behind me as it seems like I’m accelerating into a void. I keep my eyes fixed on the road. In Los Angeles, my bedroom in the hills with the blinds closed and lights off isn’t nearly as dark as the freeway I’m driving on. Here, the tall silhouettes of trees could be mistaken as the shadows of giants. “Continue 20 miles and get off exit 29 to an unnamed road,” Google maps says.

I set my phone down and stare at the half circle of road in front of me illuminated by my headlights. I keep my hands on the wheel just in case a turn or deer comes up. I can’t stop thinking about how Nate will look when I finally arrive. It’s been eight whole months since I’ve talked to him. Good thing I talked with this sister before I came. She had said, “Oh you should surprise him! He hasn’t had a conversation with anyone in months. He lives like a hermit out there.”

Nate has always had the craziest views, which makes him a famous philosopher, but also a recluse. But eight months with minimal human contact and a philosophical mindset is dangerous. Could he forget me and think I’m an intruder? Could he murder me in his front yard? Could he shove me into his shed full of tools? Could he be crazy? I grip a little tighter on the leather wheel. It feels like it’s been a good ten minutes. I pick up my phone and look at it for further directions. “Take the next exit and merge onto unnamed road,” Google maps says.

Unnamed road? That’s new.

My phone displays 12:58 and two new notifications. I keep driving into the straight, dark void and peek at my phone. “Hey Siri, read my notifications,” I mumble, staring at the dark road ahead of me. 

“Text message from Olivia Sister at 12:48, Tomorrow we’re going to the lake next to my house to spread mom’s ashes, are you coming?”

“Text message from Los Angeles Times at 12:53, David, when’s the next chapter gonna be finished? It’s been a few weeks.”

I keep staring into the darkness,”Hey Siri, text Olivia Sister no I’m in the east for a while.” Ever since my mom died, life’s felt like it repeats the same thing every single day. 

I slow my car down to make the exit. I come to a complete stop as a hole cuts through the barrier leading to a dirt road surrounded by trees. I turn the wheel, leading my car into the trail bouncing over rocks and splashing through puddles. I come to a stop about 1/2 mile into the dirt road. I pull my phone out of my pocket and stare blankly at the map's screen as ‘reconnecting…’ replaces the usual directions. For two minutes, I wait, but the screen won’t change. I put my phone back into the side pocket of my jeans, and I continue into the void, the car tires crunching over rocks and branches. 

I vividly remember that the last direction on the list was to turn onto this dirt road, so I follow the dark road dotted by the occasional pair of eyes in the trees. Deer? Owls? Who knows. I pass the thousands of trees that tower over me like wooden planks standing upright. A bright light in the distance stands out from the yellow eyes. I step a little harder on the gas, and my car speeds up to 20 miles per hour. I run through puddles, mud, and a few melting clumps of snow as the light at the end of the road appears. 

As I get closer, the dim light shapes into a house, then into a cabin with a grand yard. All the windows are lit by lights inside. Steam rises from the chimney, and the sound of water running comes from the fountain in the front in the shape of a fish spitting out water. The grass is fake and perfect, surrounding the driveway. The cabin looks brand new. I park my car next to the dusty Ferrari that looks like it hasn’t been touched in a month. I walk up to the door without fear, as the whole yard is brightly lit.

Ding Dong. 

I ring the doorbell and wait for Nate. The door opens slowly, and he stands there in his red sweater. He looks 20 years younger and far less stressed than I remember. No eyebags, no wrinkles, and in perfect shape. “David! What a surprise!” Nate says smiling, showing his perfect white teeth. 

I stare in shock for a good five seconds, “Did you get plastic surgery?” I ask in real curiosity. 

“No, I’ve just been focusing on myself and internally locking in,” he chuckles. “I can teach you if you want.”

Is it possible he has makeup on?  Did he go on a half-year diet? 

“Long time no see!” I offer my hand for a handshake.

Nate backs up, almost stumbling on the stairs.

“Sorry, I don’t know what germs I have. You never know what could get to your system in the woods,” Nate chuckles.

He leads me through a plain hall with a long chandelier that hangs from the ceiling 60 feet above. The paintings that line the hall are all at least 100 years old and made by famous artists like Rafael Aburto and Florence Akins. “Please, sit down,” Nate says, motioning at the bright white leather sofa facing the lit fireplace.

I sit down and sink into the cushioning. “You were on a roll Nate, posting articles nearly every day and a book every six months. What happened? You’ve ghosted the internet for over half a year!” I say.

“Things happen,” Nate says, staring at the cheetah print carpet without looking up.

“What?” I say in confusion.

“I’ve been thinking about what happens after death. Have you ever thought deeply about what happens after death?” Nate says, still showing his bright white smile.

“No small talk? I haven’t seen you in three years!” I respond in shock. “Of course, that’s our job,” I say suspiciously. Is he on drugs?

“I’m talking about in-depth. You’ve never had any proof behind your ideas,” Nate says, with his hand on his chin.

“It’s not possible to get proof. That’s the whole point of philosophy,” I say. 

“Let me just tell you this,” Nate says slowly. ”Don’t let life and death fool you. I was just like you a few weeks ago, believing everything I saw.”

“We’re that same age. What are you even talking about?” I start feeling uncomfortable. ”Are you feeling okay?” 

“Yeah, better than ever,” Nate says seriously. 

My dry lips and rumbling stomach remind me I need to eat. “Can I have some water and a snack, please? Sorry, I’ve been on the plane for hours and those pretzels made me even more hungry,” I ask.

“Oh yeah, of course!” Nate says in an uneasy voice. 

I hear a wooden door open. Dust floats through the kitchen, and the crunch of a plastic wrapper breaks the silence. “I got crackers, sorry. I haven't been to the store in a minute,” Nate laughs while talking.

Crackers? How am I going to be full with crackers?

“Thank you,” I say, keeping my composure. 

I eat the crackers and feel a bit better. “You should go to sleep. You’re going to have an adventurous day tomorrow. Trust me. You’ll learn a lot as a philosopher,” Nate says while leading me to one of the guest bedrooms. He flicks on the lights and then closes the door, leaving me in the room. It is decorated with a dusty dresser and a bare mattress with a blanket. I brush my teeth, but I have to stop brushing when my teeth start chattering. I put on my puffer jacket and climb into bed. Why is this room so cold and dusty? It’s nothing like the rest of the house.

In the morning, my eyes open to the white ceiling. My stomach rumbles since I’ve only eaten peanuts and crackers in the last 24 hours. I stand up and swing the bedroom door open. 

I walk down the hall, calling, “Nate?” The double door to the master bedroom is closed. ”Nate?” I say, knocking.

I wait for three seconds. No response. I twist the metal doorknob and push with little force. “BOOM,” the tall door falls to the floor like a big tree. 

My jaw drops. Stained carpet, a dresser with a broken mirror, and graffiti are everywhere. Dust rises from the carpet as I walk across it. It looks like the last time someone stepped in here was months ago. Did I wake up in an abandoned house? I maneuver down the hallway. I peek through all the cigarette-butt-littered and graffiti-covered rooms and don’t see Nate. 

I run down the dusty stairs and turn to the living room. The large paintings are now replaced with graffiti with beer cans on the floor. I run into the living room which has broken glass and dirt littered everywhere. The pantry door is open and empty other than a few crackers. The layout of the house is still the same with the grand entrance and the spiraling stairs, but there is no furniture, and it looks like it’s been a hangout spot for drug heads. 

“Nate! Where’d you go?” I say at the top of my lungs. Did he go on a walk? Is he doing yard work? I run into the empty yard except for a shed. Nate loves to work in nature. Maybe he could be writing  in his shed about the talk we had last night. I approach the green wooden structure that has a barn design. I wrap my fingers around the silver door knob and twist slowly. The sound of flies buzzing becomes louder as I creek the door open. 

My heart stops beating but accelerates right after.

Nate’s body is on the floor. Dried blood forms a lid-like shape over his open mouth. The puzzle pieces come together. The sight of Nate decaying on the floor explains the last 10 hours. I turn back and use all the power out of my legs to get through the overgrown grass. I remind myself, The car is out front. Just make it to the car.