The Garage

It doesn’t matter if it’s day or night; something about that quiet, stiff-aired box haunts me. The heavy door, the flickering lights, the way you can hear a hum of electricity that circles and surrounds you with no explanation.

The worst thing about the garage is how nothing but white surrounds you. Four white walls and a white ceiling that swallows you except for a tiny white square opening that hangs just above your head. Knowing that with one gentle push it reveals a dark and vacant room that rests above your head at all hours of the day.The attic, a place where someone could be living, walking right above you, sneaking into the house while you're not home. Sometimes I picture that tiny white door sliding open while I stare. Watching long arms stretch out from the abyss above. I can see a creature with dark leathery skin and long limbs that stretch farther than any living creature should. I see its spine protrude from its back, and skin lays loosely over sunken ribs, shifty and stretching as it crawls down in front the attic.

When the lights turn off from the timer, I can hear it. I can hear its low grumbles that bounce off the empty walls and the creaking of its bones. I can hear that tiny gateway to the attic slide open and my heart drops.

Sometimes it’s not the act of being in the garage that actually gets to me; it’s opening the door. Why is the door abnormally heavy? What's hiding behind it? My hands will tremble as I reach for the handle and my chest tightens and begins to ache as if someone is placing at the bottom of my rib cage and pulling. Pulling so hard I hear my bones crack. I take the deepest breath I can and slowly open the door. Peering out the small crack into the darkness.

I picture what lies ahead. I can see it clearly, the corpse snapping its rotting teeth together. I can see its skin slipping from its bones as it moans. My eyes stare directly into the milky blue eyes of an abandoned soul. The stench, unlike any other, like rotting meat and broccoli. The rotting metallic scent would mix with body odor and leaky bowels, entering my nose and bringing tears to my eyes.

When I’m not home I can picture a man. He is dirty and wet with sweat, hiding. I feel him wait for me to come home after my long day of work. He waits for me to park my car and go inside. He doesn’t follow; instead, he uses his grumpy grease-smeared hands to open my car door. He slides himself into my back seat. The dirt from his skin leaves marks on my seat and his stench fills my car. I would never know. I would never know if he left, would never know if he stayed and waited for me to leave. I would never know if he just hid until I drove him to a new location. I would never know if when I slipped into my car the next morning, a thick hairy hand with gritty sausage fingers cupped around my mouth holding a knife to my throat. I would never know until it was too late.

The garage brings me fear day and night. It is the white padded room of my worst nightmares. It’s the opening cell to the outside world. It’s the opportunity for phrogging, it’s the concrete cell waiting with unknown dangers. I hate the garage. I always have and I always will.