The last thing they heard, fading into the static of the radio, was a single, scratchy line:
“Jeepers creepers, where’d ya get those peepers…” Jeepers Creepers
The voice was a low, ragtime warble, tinny like an old phonograph. It drifted from the drainage ditch ahead. Riley slowed. A rusted culvert pipe jutted from the bank, and something was blocking it. Not something. Someone. The last thing they heard, fading into the
“Gonna get you, too…”
The harvest moon hung low and swollen over the backroads of Poho County, a jaundiced eye watching the rusted Chevrolet Impala crawl along the asphalt. Inside, sixteen-year-old Riley tapped the steering wheel, her younger brother, Jamie, snoring softly in the passenger seat. They were three hours from home, taking the “scenic route” back from a college visit. A rusted culvert pipe jutted from the bank,