โWhen the Seatbelt Tuned Inโ
I never thought a seatbelt could betray you. Then again, I never imagined Halloween would tip my brain sideways either.
It started when I rented an old car for the night drive to clear my head. The dashboard ticked midnight and the radio was dead silent except for a whine so faint I thought it was the engine. I strapped myself in, pulled the belt snug, and drove off into the fog rolling down from the hills.
About ten minutes in I glanced over, the seatbeltโs latch looked loose. I tugged it, adjusted, clicked it back. The whine in the carโs quiet turned into a low murmur. I laughed at myself: โOkay, stress, happens.โ But the voice came again, so soft it couldโve been the belt itself whispering: โTighten me.โ My heart leapt. I stared. Nothing moved, except the beltโs fabric shifting ever so slightly, as if it had a pulse.
I pulled over under a dim streetlamp, still rural enough to be weird. I unlatched the belt, refastened it, and said aloud, โAlright, you win.โ The murmur ceased. I breathed. Then in the mirror I caught a reflection of someone sitting in the passenger seat. I turned but the seat was empty. Just the orange glow of the streetlamp in the fog.
Back on the road, weird things stuck: the belt kept pulling itself tighter, making me lean forward. The car heater flickered off and on. I joked aloud, โItโs Halloween, of course this thingโs haunted.โ But the humor fell flat when the belt clicked one more time only it clicked downward, like it locked me in, then whispered: โDonโt look back.โ
My pulse raced. I tried to unsnap it. The latch held firm. My mirror caught movement: a silhouette behind the driverโs seat. I slammed the brakes. My head pounded; rationality flailed. I felt trapped, as though the car had become the stage for something odd inside my brain. Was I exhausted? Wrong? Real?
I yanked the belt out of the latch, got out in the fog, and walked around the car. It was empty. The latch looked normal. I got in again, strapped in for real this time, turned the key. The whine in the radio started, and a voice, clear, as if coming from the belt itself, said: โThanks for riding.โ The warmth of the belt pressed against me. I stared ahead, andd raced mmysellf home as fast as possible.
When I pulled into my driveway at 2 a.m., I unbuckled and laid the belt across the seat. I wanted to ignore it. Sleep sounded like the better option. I reached for the door handle then stopped. The belt clicked itself back into place.
I jumped a little. The seatbelt whispered again โUntil next time.โ
I laughed.. a short, sharp laugh but I didnโt feel funny. I just felt heavy. The car sat silent. The belt still locked. I didnโt move for minutes. I watched the latch. I wondered if I should cut the belt off. I decided to sleep instead.
But before I turned off the headlights, I heard a soft sigh from inside the car as if the belt exhaled. I drove off the next morning and never rented a vehicle again. To this day, when I buckle in, anyone's car I check for loose latches, but sometimes I half-look at the belt, and swear it twitches.
Maybe I was tired. Maybe my brain played tricks. But every time Halloween rolls around, I feel the belt tighten just a little more than it should and the radio hums a tune I didnโt pick.
The end ๐
Friggatone