Road Regret

📅 Published on April 15, 2020

“Road Regret”

Written by N.M. Brown
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by Otis Jiry

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: Scary Stories Told in the Dark – 🔑 Podcast (Extended Edition) (feat. Otis Jiry)

ESTIMATED READING TIME — 7 minutes

Rating: 8.00/10. From 3 votes.
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“My god, boys… will you just stop?!? If you keep messing around you’re going to miss your bus and I can’t afford to be late today.” My spirits far too defeated to attain the authoritative tone needed for the situation. Stewie and Collin are still wrestling on the floor. In all of the commotion, I haven’t noticed that Stewie still didn’t have his shoes on.

“Stewie, bud, where are your shoes?” I ask in a panic.

“He probably left them at Brad’s house,” Collin remarks snidely.

“Who exactly is Brad, and why does he have your shoes?” I ask my youngest son.

Stewie looks up at me cautiously. “Brad is Mommy’s new friend. But I didn’t leave my shoes there Daddy, I promise.” As I went to continue our conversation I found my jaw was already hanging open in shock. That’s the third ‘friend’ my wife’s had this year, and it’s not even the end of March! Not to mention the ones she had while we were married. It sickens me to think about it.

At this point, Collin comes running up with Stewie’s battered shoes. They look utterly defeated and sad, the soles separating from the bottoms in disgust as the tongues sagged lazily into the centers. “Hey, sweetie? Didn’t your mom buy you new shoes? I gave her money for yours and Collin’s school clothes last week.”

Collin spoke up this time, incredibly eloquent for his eleven years of age. “Mom bought us some candy during the weekend. Then she dropped us off at Grams and Papaw’s while she and Brad went to Bike Week,” he explained dismissively before grabbing his backpack and running out the front door.

I was still knelt down on the floor, assisting Stewie with his shoes. “Daddy, I can get it myself!” he demands. “All the other five-year-olds tie their own shoes!”

An unwanted sigh puffs off of my tongue before answering him. “Not today, buddy, okay? I’m sorry, I know you’re a big boy, but we’re running really late.” My little guy was finally ready, bus safety harness and all. He puffed his chest out proudly as he left the threshold of our home and stepped into the outside world, ready to take on the day the Stewie Grey way.

Unfortunately, the tail lights of the kids’ bus are barely visible in the distance as it pulled around the corner leading away from the house. Collin was still standing on the porch waiting for us, so he wasn’t visible from their normal stop.  “Sorry, Dad,” was the only response he could give.

“It’s not your fault, Collin. It’s okay. Have your brother grab the change jar off the counter while I call work to let them know I may be a little late.” After I punch in the number, I’m met with a shrill tone and an automated message: “We’re sorry. Your account has been suspended due to nonpayment. Please dial 611 if you’d like to make a payment. Goodbye.”

I draw in a breath to start yelling in frustration but stop short as Stewie hands me the change jar. I light a cigarette to disperse some internal tension as we climb into the car, rolling all of the windows down as if it would make a difference. It’s a shallow and feeble attempt at justification, but for right now it’s enough.

The half-full water bottle in my passenger cup holder sizzles and smokes as I drop the lit cigarette butt inside. Collin and Stewie giggle as the car rolls over the speed bumps at the entrance of their school.  A stout crossing guard with a ‘no funny business’ look on her face waves us forward immediately. We barely get to a stop before she’s opening the door for the boys. “Have a good day, boys! I lo-” That’s as far as I get before the car behind me honks and the crossing guard slams the back door shut.

About five miles down the road, a glaring orange glow reflects off of my glasses as the low fuel light comes on. The trembling gas gauge illuminates tauntingly in the corner of my dashboard as I pray to make it to the next intersection.  My heart settles a little once I see the Circle K in the distance. Maybe today won’t be so bad.

The light ahead turns yellow. I’m convinced its sole purpose is just to fuck with me if I’m honest. There’s only one other car on the road right now and they’re right beside me. My foot eases onto the brake, a perfect representation of my day. The chances of me being on time crush flat along with the brake pedal as I settle to a final stop.

I can’t help but look at the car next to me. It is a pristine shade of red, not a smudge or a dent on it. A gorgeous couple who look to be around the same age as myself occupies the front seat. A redheaded woman’s delicate hand caresses the back of the driver’s neck as they giggle into each other. Their clothes are stylish but comfortable. The latest iPhone model is perched inside the driver’s side cup holder as the woman’s rested comfortably in her lap.

Intrusive thoughts flood my mind faster than I can keep up with. I bet their gas tank is chock-full, must be fuckin’ nice. They probably fuck each other every night after eating a meal taken from a fridge and freezer full of food. They don’t get cold and lonely at night, rubbing one out in pure frustration and loneliness just to fall asleep.  It looks like they don’t even understand what it’s like to hurt for money. If I could be him, I bet I wouldn’t have a care in the world.

As soon as the light turns green, I attempt to mentally pull my head out of my ass. I turn the radio down and pass the other car so I can whip into the right lane. As I do, a devastating cacophony of a horn honking, metal crunching and glass breaking consumes me as the red car slams into the back corner of my vehicle, sending me spinning. An oncoming, nearby oak tree is the last thing I see before my head slams into the dashboard and I fade to black upon impact.

I come to with a pounding headache, which only gets worse as I take in the scene before me. The red-haired woman’s mouth is moving aggressively but I can’t hear the words over the ringing in my ears. Shattered glass litters my lap. I’m nearly blindsided by a throbbing pain in my left temple as my normal hearing kicks back into place.

“Henry!” the woman screams in my face. “We’ve gotta get the fuck out of here, NOW! The cops will be here any minute.”

What? My name is Todd, not Henry. The reflection of my cracked window reveals a man with a chiseled face and broad jawline, the same one I saw canoodling in the car at the light. Green eyes that don’t belong to me widen in horror as my mind tries to process what’s happening. I look out of the broken dashboard to see a crumpled red hood. My battered Grand Marquis sat at the opposite end of the street, crashed into a tree and equally damaged with a smoking hood. What in the actual fuck?!?

A man identical to the ‘me’ I’ve seen for the past 39 years is slumped over my leather steering wheel cover, blood flowing freely from a garish wound on the left side of his head. How hard did I hit my own? Nothing I’m experiencing is making any sense. The rearview mirror of the car I currently sit in dangles precariously over our laps, glass freeing itself from the cracks and adding the pile the window made. What’s weirder is there are no abrasions to my face or head. My arms and fingers are cut but everything else looks perfectly fine. Why does my head hurt so much?

I finally decided to give my full attention to the woman next to me that so frantically sought it. “Who are you?” Her eyes look sorrowful and alarmed at my question. She doesn’t answer, only brings a shaking, manicured hand to my forehead in response.

“You okay, Henry? Ohhhhhh, no, don’t lose it on me now. Jesus Christ, we don’t have time for this, baby,” she groaned, opening her door and walking around to my side of the car. “Move over, the engine looks fine,” she orders as she shoves me into the passenger seat, making me wince and bring a hand to my temple’s invisible injury. The engine starts and I see the other me begin to lift his bloodied head from the wheel.

“But… that’s my car,” I mumble feebly as she drives away from the scene.

“Yeah, the car’s fucked. We’re gonna stick out like a sore thumb,” the woman snarls over the roar of the RPMs as she slammed down on the gas pedal. “Dammit! That means tonight we’re gonna have to go three towns over and steal another one,” she remarks dismissively.

Her words have a delayed response as I try to quell the agony on the left side of my scalp. Steal? “What are you talking about?” I finally gather the cognition to ask. “Why are you taking me away from my car? My head’s bleeding! You need to call for help!” I plead.

She glances at me sideways, confusedly. “Your head’s fine, Hank. You knocked it when we hit the junker. You’re just havin’ a hard time remembering things.” She placed a hand delicately on mine and I fought the instinct to recoil in disgust. I don’t like to be touched, especially by strangers.

My thoughts are interrupted by a banging resounding from the back end of the vehicle. The woman doesn’t like that. “Aww, hell! I was afraid she was gonna wake up!”

“Who? What is that noise?!” I ask. “Do we have a flat?”

She shakes her head and mutters something under her breath. “Boy, you really are fucked aren’tcha?” she comments wryly. “That… is our latest mark. Things went south towards the end there and we had to take care of it like the last one. If she gets blood on the mat in there I’m gonna be pissed. Don’t worry,” she remarks upon seeing my own blood drain from my face. “You enjoy it every time, I promise.”

It seems I’ve somehow switched places with the man I was envying in the other car, the body of an obvious sadist. And if I’m in his body… then…

A new thought surfaces, one more sinister than anything the trunk of this car can contain.

Oh my god… my boys!

Rating: 8.00/10. From 3 votes.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: Scary Stories Told in the Dark – 🔑 Podcast (Extended Edition) (feat. Otis Jiry)


Written by N.M. Brown
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by Otis Jiry

🔔 More stories from author: N.M. Brown


Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

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