The Innsmouth Syndrome

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It was only when the indicator light of the car in front began to blink that Carla realised how dark it was getting. The sky beyond the left side windows was still purple with sunset, but on the right it was already black and studded with stars. The other vehicle began to climb the sliproad, leaving her alone on the narrow two-lane. Carla flipped on the main beams and pressed her foot down, coaxing another ten miles per hour from the rented Honda.

It was almost seven pm and she was supposed to be at the hotel already, but her plane had spent an extra hour in a holding pattern over Logan International because of some security scare. A missing pilot’s uniform or something. She hadn’t bothered to seek out the details. All she knew was that it meant she was going to arrive late; and she was tired, and she was hungry.

The GPS chimed, interrupting the Handel concerto she’d found on one of the Boston stations. “In – two – hundred – yards, turn right.” It was the first thing it had said for ten minutes. Carla slowed down.

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