I found a video rental store in a small town. What was on the tape shattered my family.

I’ve always wanted to make this trip.

My whole life, Seattle has been my home, and I’d never ventured far before now. A coast to coast road trip with my husband and children had been a fantasy of mine since I first started dating the man decades ago. It slowly became clear over the years that despite his promises, the trip would never be happening.

At 50, I’m finally on the road. But I never wanted it to be like this. Not under these circumstances. I am alone.

It’s only happening now because my son is dead.

After the divorce, my children were, in my mind, old enough to choose where they wanted to live. John, my oldest, chose to stay with me. My daughter, Bri, went with my ex-husband. I tried my best to maintain a relationship with her, but she never seemed interested. God only knows what my ex was telling her about me.

Growing up, John was my world. I seldom dated after leaving his father. I just never had the time, as I worked two or three jobs while raising him. It was worth it, though. 

John knew about my dream trip. He brought it up several times along his journey to becoming a man.

“You’ll get your trip one day, Ma,” he’d said. “Even if I have to take you myself.”

His funeral was the worst day of my life. My ex-husband and daughter were there, and a piece of me hoped I would have at least some support from them. But it wasn’t to be. The glare my ex gave me said everything, even though he didn’t speak the words:

“It’s all your fault.”

I couldn’t even bring myself to speak at the podium after that. My daughter gave a eulogy instead. Through sobs, she lamented her rocky relationship with John, and how much she regretted her role in them not being close. She even went as far as to tell everyone that he had been her inspiration to become a paramedic.

John had never married, so I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he had appointed me the executor of his estate. It was then I learned he had listed me as the beneficiary of a million-dollar life insurance policy.

I didn’t give a shit about the money. Or really, much of anything. I spent a lot of time watching videos of my son on my phone. Every time I pressed play, I wished the house fire hadn’t destroyed the old tapes from when our family was together. I would have given anything to see those again.

It was at this low point I knew it was time for that road trip. 

It started off normally enough. I made the usual tourist stops, as well as many off the beaten path (discovered through years of research). It wasn’t until the Midwest that the problems started. I won’t name the state, just in case.

I had been driving long enough to not remember what time I had started that day. The sun had long since set when my low fuel warning pinged from the dashboard. The timing was perfect, as I could barely keep my eyes open. I pulled off at the first exit I saw that listed a gas station, and slowly followed an empty road for miles towards a promised town.

“Johnstown.” 

Seeing the name made my spine shiver, but a glance at the gas gauge decided the matter for me. After several uncomfortable miles, the lights of a gas station appeared along the main road into town. As I pulled up to the pump, I noticed the absence of a credit card reader. While I did not want to enter the small building before me as a woman alone at night, the .32 Tomcat pistol in my purse gave me enough nerve to go inside to buy fuel.

Though outdated, the inside was surprisingly well maintained. I went straight up to the counter, where a young man in a camo hat stood, looking thoroughly uninterested.

“Hi,” I said, forcing a smile. “Can I get some gas on the pump out there?”

The man stared at me without a word. Though I held my smile, I felt the hairs on my neck standing up. I could have sworn the lights inside dimmed slightly when he began pushing buttons on the register.

“How much?” he asked in a monotone voice.

“Fifty,” I said, sliding cash onto the counter. “Keep what’s left, if there is any.”

Without breaking his gaze to so much as glance at the bill, the man slowly reached for it. For a moment, the image of him snatching my arm and pulling me over the counter flashed across my mind, but he simply opened the drawer and placed the bill inside.

“Anything else?”

“No, sir, that’s it. Thank you!” I said before speed-walking back to my car. Though I kept my head down, I could feel his eyes on me as I pumped. I considered making a break for the highway, but my eyelids began to flutter once more once back inside my car. I could see the town ahead, and decided it wouldn’t hurt to at least see if the motel seemed safe.

As I made my way down the main street, every building was dark except for the motel. It was an unassuming rectangular building with two floors. Most of the windows were dark, but the few rooms with lights on were somewhat reassuring. I sat in my car for a moment, the engine still running. Nothing seemed unusual as I scanned the parking lot. It seemed safe enough to walk inside.

I grabbed my backpack, stepped out of my car, and paused for a moment. I couldn’t help but think of how much safer I would feel if John had been with me. 

When I walked towards the entrance, I looked back towards the street. 

To my surprise, the closest building was lit. I guess I had been too tired to notice it before. The neon sign out front read TrueVideo. 

A video rental store still open in 2026? Wow, guess the town’s a little behind, I thought.

The motel manager greeted me as I stepped inside the front entrance. To my immense relief, she seemed to be a perfectly normal lady, roughly my own age. Now much more at ease, I opted to rent a room, and she gave me a physical iron key.

Room 211 was exactly what you might expect. Old, small, with decor not updated since 1970. What paint that was visible in spots above the dreadful floral wallpaper was a weathered yellow. A queen bed sat against the back wall, facing a dresser with a TV on it. I set my backpack on the bed before turning back towards the TV. It had been years since I had seen an old tube television. And right next to it, an honest-to-God VCR.

My mind went straight to 1999, when John was little. Once a week, I would take him to Blockbuster, and we would choose a film for a family movie night. I thought back to TrueVideo across the street. The nostalgia was too enticing. I made my way out into the cool night air.  

The hum of the neon sign soon broke the silence of the empty streets as I approached TrueVideo. A bell on the door dinged as I stepped inside, but nobody approached the empty counter. I paid little attention, instead focusing on finding the family movie section. After a brief search I held in my hands a copy of my son’s favorite childhood film; All Dogs Go to Heaven.

I stared at the tape as I stood at the counter, lost in my memories.

“Anything else for you tonight, ma’am?” came a familiar voice.

My eyes snapped upward to see the same young man from the gas station smiling at me from behind the counter.

I felt a chill race throughout my body. I couldn’t respond. While the young man’s clothes and demeanor were entirely different, it was definitely him. This time, however, I noticed a small, circular scar on the side of his neck, as well as a nametag: Michael.

My silence seemingly didn’t affect the man, as he held his warm smile for several silent seconds.

I regained control of my body and shook my head vigorously.

“Alright, then,” he beamed. “Your total is $5.37.”

Quickly, and with a shaking hand, I pulled a five and a one from my purse and dropped it on the counter, ignoring his outstretched hand. The man simply scooped the bills off the counter as if I hadn’t been so rude, and handed me my change.

“Thank you for your business, ma’am!” Michael said cheerfully. “Have a wonderful evening!”

I hurriedly left without a word, tape in hand.

I didn’t stop until I was safely locked back inside of my room, now wide awake. It probably took half an hour to calm down, but eventually I reasoned to myself that the men must be brothers, or maybe even cousins. It made sense with the limited employment options in a town this small. That had to be it. While still on edge, I was finally relaxed enough to push the tape into the VCR, and settle myself in the bed.

Of course, I was crying within the first five minutes of the film. It was like being brought back in time without my son there waiting for me. 

I cried harder as I thought of his heart attack. He wasn’t even 30 yet. The coroner said it had been quick, but John had still died alone in the dark.

An hour into the film, I had run out of tears. In a way, the brutal experience had made me feel closer to my baby boy. It had been worth it.

I closed my eyes, ready to drift off as the movie played in the background, when I heard it.

Static.

I guess that’s why we got away from tapes, I thought. But before I could even open my eyes, I heard my ex-husband’s voice from the TV speakers.

“He’s beautiful. Good job, Grace.”

I’d know that moment anywhere. Sure enough, when my eyes snapped to the TV, there was the home video my husband had taken when John was born. The image of me holding our son in my hospital bed came into focus. Every fuzzy pixel matched the old tapes I’d lost in the fire. As I watched myself beam on the screen, the video again cut to static.

After a moment came a video shot on the day we first brought John home. My ex gave a tour of the house on camera, proudly showing off the nursery we had built and decorated together. 

The screen cut again. My cheeks were soaked in tears. I was entirely transfixed. It hadn’t even entered my mind how impossible this was.

John’s first Christmas. My dearly departed parents beamed as John happily beat the hellfire out of the toy they had gifted him. I saw the pride and joy on my own face. The video ended just as I remembered it: with John shitting himself loudly in his high chair. My parents’ laughter was broken by another wall of static.

John’s first birthday played next.

Then his first words. (Well, we recorded those later in the day when he did it a second time.)

A video I had taken of him racing through the house in his father’s cowboy boots came next.

Then the day his sister Brianna was born. Three-year-old John grinned ear-to-ear as he held his little sister. The scene played out just as I remembered, but there was one difference. And that difference became a recurring theme.

Whenever my daughter’s face looked directly at the camera, the entire screen wavered and slid out of focus for a moment before returning to normal.

Every video I had ever taken of the kids played in order. Every. Single. One.

Their dance party at ages six and three. Their first bike rides. The silly moments, each of their milestones, the “blog” I filmed for seven-year-old John, wherein he rambled about how the Easter Bunny must be a trained killer. I remembered how hard it was to keep a straight face during that.

I moved to the edge of the bed, leaning forward as the next film started. I knew this was the final tape, but I didn’t want it to end.

In the video, my children were playing pirates. My son was sword fighting my daughter, and despite being a full head taller, he had been letting her get strikes in against him. John had clearly intended to lose, throwing an exaggerated lunge, and leaving himself wide open, holding that pose to give Bri a chance to strike. She saw the opportunity, and stabbed him in the chest with her foam sword. John “died” in the most over-the-top way he could, falling dramatically to the ground and announcing his defeat.

Bri straddled him, and paused. I thought she was “making sure he was dead” or maybe even legitimately concerned.

Then she brought her sword down on his face in a rage. Over and over, shrieking “die, die, die!”

The video ends abruptly then, as I shut the camera off to separate my kids and explain to Bri that there was no need to be so violent.

The screen went black. I stared into it, barely holding myself together. This impossible, one-way conversation with the past had drained my soul. I tensed to stand up, but then the screen began a new video. One I had taken on my phone.

John’s sixteenth birthday. He sat with a scowl as I sang Happy Birthday to him with his friends.

I grimaced. The moment was cute for me, but John had gotten a lot of flak for that video on social media. I was brought back to the moment I came to regret posting it.

The screen flickered again. This time, the video wasn’t one I recognized.

In it, my teenage kids were arguing. He held a sandwich bag of something I couldn’t quite discern, and a look of utter disappointment.

“Answer me,” he said. “What is this? Where did you get it?.”

“Screw you!” my daughter shouted. “You’re not our dad! Give that back!”

“Sis… This stuff can get you arrested.”

“I don’t care! It’s my life, not yours! I don’t answer to you!”

“I’ll tell mom if you don’t tell me where you got it right now.”

“Go ahead!” Bri shouted. “I don’t give a fuck what Mom thinks! Dad won’t believe either one of you anyway!”

At this, John winced. The camera zoomed in on his face. He looked helpless.

“I just don’t want you to lose everything,” he said quietly.

“I’m not gonna, you idiot!” she screamed. “You think I’ve never done this stuff before?! I’m gonna party if I want, and you can fucking deal with it!”

Before I could acknowledge the frozen brick that had fallen into my gut, the video changed again.

It was the home I shared with John after the divorce. The shot came from somewhere across the street. The house was dark, and nothing seemed amiss. Then, an orange glow appeared in one corner of the house.

The fire.

And worse, a figure passed by the flames, fleeing the scene. My heart nearly fell out of my body. The fire department had suspected arson, but no concrete evidence had emerged in the investigation. At the time, my ex-husband and I had been in legal battles to increase my visitation with my daughter. Once John had told me about the drugs, I tried to get more involved in her life. My ex fought me every step of the way. The police immediately questioned him, but told me his alibi had been rock-solid.

I was numb. But I didn’t have time to dwell on the revelation, as the next video began.

John’s high school graduation walk. A happy memory out of place for this time, but one I had filmed myself. His father had chosen not to attend, but his sister had.

Then the final video appeared before me. John sorted the same new haircut as he had the year he died. My two kids were sipping vodka at John’s kitchen table. Things had been strained between them for at least a decade, but my daughter had grown up quite a lot after she moved away from my ex and his influence. It was nice to see them getting along.

The two were playing a card game, with the loser having to take a sip from their glass every round. My daughter pounded down the last drops, and excused herself to refill her glass.

The camera followed her to the counter. With her back to John, she filled her glass from a water bottle. The frame stopped with a smirk on her face as she did so, I assumed she was proud of cheating in their contest.

The screen glitched again. 

And there was John. My son was sprawled on the floor, drooling over himself and giggling profusely.

“Hey, siiiiiiiis,” he slurred from the floor. “I’m so glad you came over. I missed drinking with youuuu!”

My daughter’s face wavered on the screen again.

“No, thank you, bro,” she said, slowly reaching into her bag, before kneeling down beside her big brother. “You’ve done your part perfectly.”

“Part?” he said. “Ooooh, am I an actor now?”

The camera suddenly shifted to my daughter’s point of view.

“Sure,” she said, glancing down at the syringe in her hand. “A real A-lister.”

John grinned, his head flopping onto his shoulder. 

“I’d like to thank the academy for…,” he started, but the alcohol had taken its toll.

My heart thundered as I watched Bri take the cap off the syringe. 

“I’ve got you, bro,” she said soothingly. “Just sleep.”

I watched helplessly as whatever she gave him took effect. I saw my son cough, convulse, froth at the mouth, and die, reaching out to his sister for help the entire time.

“That bitch’ll get the money,” Bri whispered after John stopped moving. “I’m sure of it. But I’ll figure something out….”

The screen abruptly went black. The VCR ejected the tape.

Tears flowed freely as I came to terms with the horrors I had just seen. I sobbed in the darkness of my hotel room for several minutes. 

I snatched the tape from the VCR and sprinted out of the room.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, my eyes shot across the street to TrueVideo.

The storefront was entirely dark. I didn’t care if they were closed; I would be getting my answers. I stormed up to the building, but stopped dead when I drew close.

The windows were shattered and boarded up from the inside. The neon sign was broken and clung to charred brick by a single rusty bolt, ready to give way at any moment. When I tried the front door, it was unlocked.

When I stepped inside the store, I found it completely destroyed. Half the inventory was long-gone. What remained was caked in dust and ash. My eyes fell to the counter I had stood at hours earlier.

On it, a small television flickered to life. Michael came into focus on the screen.

“Ger her messages,” he said. “She never deleted them. She had help getting the drugs. Her boyfriend also knows she set the fire and will break under pressure. Good luck.”  

When he finished, the TV went dark. 

I don’t know how long I stared at it. It might have been minutes, maybe even hours. When I finally regained my senses, I went straight to the only local I could speak to. 

Bursting through the motel entrance, I stomped up to the counter and threw the tape down on it.

“What the fuck is going on in this town!” I shouted at the manager. “Where did that freak at TrueVideo get this?!”

The manager turned ghost-white, but said nothing.

“Answer me!”

She took a deep breath.

“What did you see on the tape?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

“I saw my daughter…,” I said, as my voice cracked. “I saw her murder her brother.” 

“Did Michael give that to you?”

“Yes!” I said, raising my broken voice once again. “And what the hell was he doing at the gas station earlier?! I want to know what sick game that bastard is playing, I want to know right fucking n-”

“Please don’t talk about my sons like that,” the manager interrupted quietly. 

She sighed.

“Daniel and Michael are my twin boys,” she said. “Daniel works at the gas station, and Michael… Michael worked at TrueVideo. He was killed in a robbery two years ago. He was shot in the throat before they burned the store down.”

She paused for a moment. I recognized her pain, one grieving mother to another.

“They caught the killers, thanks to the security cameras. But last year, another traveler said he rented a video from that store. He said it showed the murder of his sister.”

She looked at me.

“The tape will be blank now,” she said. “But Michael was never one to lie. Please leave. Get justice for your son.”

And with that, she turned her back on me. No amount of screaming made her turn around again.

So I went home. Drove all through the night and all day until I made it home. I found the information I needed. I got the man to talk. The guilt-ridden coward fessed up quick.

My daughter was arrested and charged with John’s murder. Last month, the jury convicted her, and sentenced her to life in prison without parole.

That same day, a VHS tape appeared on my doorstep. With shaking hands, I pressed play.

My son appeared on the screen. He said nothing, but he didn’t have to. He smiled gently, and waved once before the video went black. 

My VCR whirred and opened to eject the tape, though nothing came out.

But I got the message.