March 11, 17:26, rainy.
Blonney: Our heroine stands next to the highway patrol officer, feeling a fleeting, but probing gaze laying on her.
Officer: Where did the robbery take place?
Blonney: Just off of Interstate 77. If you'd listened to me earlier, you wouldn't be asking again now.
Officer: Just taking things down for the record, Miss. Can you tell us more about the incident? Do you have a description of the robbers?
Blonney: I'd just parked near the stop sign when a bunch of masked crooks swarmed over. About six of them.
Blonney: Before I even knew what was happening, one of them had hopped into the passenger seat, and pointed a gun in my face.
Blonney: They wanted cash. But I never carry much cash on me, so I gave them my checkbook and credit card.
Officer: Was anything else taken away?
Blonney: Yeah, my suitcase! It had my first aid kit in it, my camcorder, and most importantly, my damn film reel!
Blonney: That was my entry for the festival! If I don't get it back, this whole trip will be pointless!
Officer: Understood. Thanks for the info, Miss. We'll do our best to get your stuff back ASAP.
Blonney: And just how soon is "ASAP"? Because I've gotta submit that sample to the judges.
Officer: Just jot down your contact number on this form for us, Miss. We'll let you know if we get any leads.
Blonney scribbles her parents' contact info on the form, signing off on a whole hour of nothing but boring questions and stress.
Blonney: This whole trip could end up being a waste of time.
Blonney: Whatever. At least I'm still in one piece, and so is my car.
She turns her trusty car onto the highway, foot slamming on the pedal, heading south along the main road as she leaves the patrol officer behind her.
She drives through the heavy rain, past gaudy vinyl banners and signs that sway in the misty downpour.
Driving through the night is not the best decision, especially in her current state.
Blonney: Well, looks like I'm crashing in the back seat tonight.
Blonney crawls back over the console and slumps into the seat, only to find her back meeting a sudden sticky sensation.
Blonney: Urgh! What the ... Is this grease?! Oh, my God!
She almost springs up from the shock, only just managing to avoid smacking her head on the roof.
Blonney: Huh?
Blonney: Alright, whatever, Blonney, do you have any other options? Whatever happens next, I just don't give a damn!
She curses, then reluctantly lowers herself back into the seat, pulling the blanket up over her head.
The drumming of the rain lulls her into a grumbling sleep and then into a dream.
She is running down a hallway with a raging fire following behind her. The flames suck in the air around her, leaving her choking and gasping.
Blonney: ...
Beneath the blanket, Blonney's expression becomes fierce and agitated as she tosses against the nightmare.
Of course, reality is not much better.
???: RAAAUUGHH.
A hoarse, crackling voice drowns out the rain.
???: Help me.
Blonney: ...
The knocking on the window grows more and more frantic.
"Knock-knock-knock."
Blonney: Who's there?!
She pulls out a lighter from her pocket, its tiny flame illuminating the darkness around her.
Everything comes back into focus.
A pitch-black handprint appears before her.
Blonney: ...!
???: Help us!
She holds her breath, and hears nothing, not even the figure's own breathing. The pounding stops, and all goes silent.
Blonney: Is it over?
She opens the car door, slowly and cautiously. But the figure has already disappeared into the night, leaving only the echo of heavy footsteps.
She runs her fingers over the handprint, pulling off a fine black powder as she does, with a lingering scent of burnt wood and ash.
Blonney: Charcoal?
The footprints extend from her car into the shrouded forest close by. An ominous darkness that seems to radiate out from its shade.
Blonney: Huh. Did I just have a run-in with an honest-to-goodness highway ghost?
She smiles and turns toward the forest. The rain drenches her clothes and hair as she begins to follow the footprints.
The grass is bent unnaturally in one direction. She hunches down for a closer look.
Blonney: Drag marks. Looks like our highway ghost isn't the only one haunting this place.
The footprints and drag marks intersect, and together they lead to a den beneath a leafy ash tree.
A black and yellow critter jumps out, baring a row of sharp little teeth.
Critter: Squeak! Squeak-squeak!
Blonney: Was it only just a critter?
Critter: Squeak-squeak! Squeak-squeak!
Blonney: You didn't eat that ghost for dinner, did ya?
COMBAT
The critter squeaks again before scurrying back into its den.
Blonney: Wonder if he's scared or just going back for reinforcements?
Blonney: Weird, the footprints and drag marks are gone. So, is this some kind of critter prank?
Blonney: Another rough night. You know what, I'm just gonna look around for a hotel nearby.
The Night Owl Inn is nestled about four miles off the highway in a secluded spot.
Blonney: Could be worse.
Blonney flips down the mirror, takes off her earrings, kicks off her tennis shoes, and puts on a pair of black satin cowboy boots. Followed by a wrinkled white linen shirt, with a couple of buttons undone below the collar.
And from the passenger-side glove compartment, a plastic handgun with "Nicole Lace Model Corp." engraved on its side.
Blonney: Sure, it's fake, but it's the only fashion accessory no girl should leave home without.
She jumps out of the car and walks briskly toward the hotel from beneath a dim streetlight.
She pushes open the door.
The lobby is furnished as if it had been a grander place in better times, an antique crystal chandelier, cushioned sofas, hand-crafted coffee tables littered with dated magazines. From a radio behind the reception, Hotel California plays out with odd serendipity.
Blonney: "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave."
The hotel owner is leafing through a copy of Seventeen magazine.
Blonney: Got anywhere I can lay low for a while?
Hotel Owner: Rooms start from $120 per night.
Blonney: Uh. What planet are you living on, buddy? You think I'd pay that much to stay in a dump like this?
Blonney: Geez, a rat! Ugh, and it smells like a sewer.
A rat scampers dangerously close to her shoe. Her frustration boils over into rage.
Hotel Owner: Yeah, could be. Pipes are backed up. But hey, could be worse? You got any other options, little lady?
Blonney: So, about that price, you've gotta be joking, right?
Hotel Owner: Like I said, Miss, you got any other options?
Hotel Owner: Think of it this way, the walls are so thin you'll be able to listen to the radio here free of charge. So, could be worse.
Hotel Owner: You're out of cash, got nowhere else to go. I've heard it all before, but this ain't a charity. You want somewhere to eat, drink, and sleep? You're going to have to pay up somehow.
Blonney: Fine. How's this for collateral? It's a one-of-a-kind, worldwide limited edition!
Blonney slams the film festival invite on the counter.
Hotel Owner: Ah. Nice! Thanks for playing ball, Miss. What's your name?
Blonney: Call me Blonney.
After she leaves the counter, the hotel owner peeks over his magazine.
Hotel Owner: Blonney, sure, just you're everyday typical Blonney.
Hotel Owner: Enjoy your stay.
The hotel room is tiny, barely bigger than her car.
Blonney: Ugh, that musty smell! Is this really all $120 a night gets you?
Blonney: One night—that's all I'm giving this place.
Who would have guessed that getting robbed would suck. She huffs as she flops on the thin spring mattress and grabs the TV remote.
The screen flickers to life, as a talking head on the news reports on a certain "Highway Killer" known as Baptiste. The police have yet to release their findings.
A light breeze flutters up the threadbare curtains on her window.
Blonney: Is someone there?!
She cracks the window fully open, and a symphony pours in—the soft, rhythmic patter of rain, punctuated by yells, shattering glass, and the click-clack echoes of high heels coming from the restaurant.
Blonney: Geez, can you all quiet the hell down!