A solitary chime punctuates the silence as I drive home late one night. The basis of all human fears. A gas tank, slightly empty. But lo. On the corner of Old Highway 40 and the 248, it rises up out of the barren horizon, a red-and-white house of horrors filled with pork burritos, Coke Zeros and Slim Jims. “Come dear. It’ll be easier for you than it was for Jason,” my 12-gallon tank whispers as I cut the engine in front of the shiny new pumps. “We all float down here,” it hisses. It’s midnight and the station is deserted. I tap my iPhone on the payment reader, yank the nozzle off its cradle and jam it into my tank, squeezing the handle and watching the screen as the numbers click like footsteps in a dark hallway — $15 … $25 … $35 … $45 … $48 … and still climbing. The demon is insatiable. Finally, at $56.31 it releases its stranglehold, the last drops dribbling onto the pavement. I glance at the screen on the pump. HAPPY HALLOWEEN, YA FILTHY ANIMAL. WOULD YOU LIKE A PRINTED RECEIPT? And my friends wonder why I don’t like horror movies. But who needs movies when the world as we know it delivers some of the scariest stuff imaginable? Like the incredible shrinking Great Salt Lake with the prospect of metal-laden dust blowing across the Wasatch Front, polluting the air and seeping into our bodies. Not to mention settling on the greatest snowpack on Earth, casting its dark shadow over the snow and hastening the melt. And then there’s the prospect of gargantuan data centers guzzling our already dwindling water resources while sucking the life out of the wild places we love. Dracula and Pennywise are amateurs. I recently opened my election ballot and found another reason to pull the covers over my head. I know DEM and REP, but WTF is FWD? Then there’s a slate of about 57 judges I’ve never heard of that I’m supposed to judge for myself. There are also the two proposed amendments apparently written in English, then translated into legalese and back into English by a rogue chatbot. Of course, no Halloween horror show would be complete without at least one ghost. I mean, one would be fine, but lately my dating life has become a full-blown infestation. I see dead people. Everywhere. “I’ll ping you tomorrow,” has become “The Silence of the Lambs.” Then there’s the message that pops up from the Intermountain Health patient portal: You have new test results. We know what you did last summer. The doctor will be with you shortly. Do not go into the basement. I pick up my iPhone to take a picture of my dog snoozing in his bed. The screen fills with shiny flesh, cavernous pores, a white nose hair, cookie crumbs crusted in the corner of a mouth hanging slightly open. A barely recognizable face stares back at me. Mine. The next day, I’m driving down the 248 on my way to the gym. Just then, my phone dings. A new message from a 23-person group chat. “Read it?” Siri asks. “Yes,” I reply. “ “Jaceb sent a picture of a stone-covered storefront with a sign BUILD-A-BEAR WORKSHOP COMING SOON and said, ‘Canyons Village is stepping up their retail game,’ And Larry sent a crying-with-laughter emoji. And Jake loved it.” “Siri, stop,” I say. “And Xander sent a picture of five men viewed from behind pulling down their pants on top of a snow-covered mountain. And Larry sent a crying-with-laughter emoji. And Jake loved it —” “Siri, STOP!” “And someone with a 507 area code said, ‘FOMO!’ with a crying-face emoji. And Larry sent a crying-with-laughter emoji. And Jake loved it.” “Goddamit, Siri —” “And Chris B. said ‘LOL,’ and Kathy B. said ‘HaHa,’ and Nikki said ‘Naur way,’ and Joel sent a peeking eye emoji and Larry sent a crying-with-laughter emoji and Jake loved it.” I toss my phone out the window. It lands in a puddle on the side of the road. Some say that on quiet nights along Old Highway 40, you can still hear her. “And Larry sent a crying-with-laughter emoji. And Jake loved it.” The post Betty Diaries: The horror, the horror appeared first on Park Record. ...read more read less