The Things That Pretend To Be Still

I love fixing cars..my dad build his own mechanic shop to fix cars after he returned from the military. Following the footsteps of your childhood hero isn’t that bad..well I mean it stresses me out sometimes trynna understand each parts.

But growing up around him, I didn’t really have a choice. The garage was always louder than the house—metal clanking, engines turning over, the smell of oil stuck in everything we owned. He didn’t teach me the way schools do. No explanations, no step-by-step. He’d just hand me a tool and say, “Listen to it.”

At first, I didn’t get what he meant. An engine is just noise, right? But the longer I stayed, the more the noise started to change. It wasn’t just sound anymore—it was patterns. Rhythm. Something you could feel in your chest if you stood close enough.

He used to tell me that every machine talks. Most people just don’t have the patience to hear it.

So I learned. Slowly. Frustratingly. Messing up more times than I can count. But every mistake stuck with me. Every wrong bolt, every misdiagnosed problem—it all built into something.

And eventually… I stopped guessing.

I started knowing.

Not perfectly. Not like him. But enough that when something felt off, I could tell before anyone else even noticed. Like there was a delay… a hesitation… something just slightly out of place.

I thought it was just experience.

I didn’t think it would matter outside the garage.

I didn’t think that same feeling—

that same something’s not right—

would follow me somewhere it didn’t belong…

I was 20 when it happened.

Not a kid anymore, but not old enough to pretend I had life figured out. I was in college, barely holding my grades together, and I didn’t really care. What mattered was what happened after classes—after I took off my uniform and put on something I didn’t mind getting stained with oil.

I worked at my dad’s auto shop. Nothing fancy. Rusted tools, old lifts, engines that looked like they had stories older than me. The kind of place where you learn not from books, but from sound, smell, and instinct.

My uncle took over the place after my dad passed away 6 years ago..

But I knew better.

People called me a helper.

I knew how to fix things. I knew how to listen to an engine and understand what it was trying to say—misfires, worn bearings, slipping transmissions. I could feel it before I even touched the car.

And at night…

That’s when I felt alive.

Street racing wasn’t just about speed. People who don’t understand think it’s just about going fast.

It’s not.

It’s about control. That moment when your foot presses down, your heart syncs with the engine, and everything else disappears.

No worries. No future. No past.

Just you, the road, and the sound.

That’s why I went that night.

That’s why I ignored the feeling in my chest telling me not to.

It started like any other night.

We were supposed to meet near the highway. It was a known spot—straight road, wide enough, easy escape routes if anything went wrong. We’d done it a hundred times before.

But someone suggested something else.

“There’s a mountain road,” he said. “No cops. No traffic. Pure corners. Way better.”

I laughed at first.

Mountain roads? At night? That’s not racing—that’s asking to die.

Don’t get me wrong I am a big fan of togue racing..but this one feels different..A sensation of dread but excitement at the same time..

But then someone else agreed. Then another.

And before I knew it, we were already driving.

Looking back… that’s the part that bothers me the most.

Not what I saw.

Not what chased us.

But how easy it was to say yes.

The drive up started normal.

The city lights faded behind us, slowly replaced by darkness. Real darkness—not the kind you get from broken street lamps, but the kind that feels deeper. Like light itself doesn’t belong there.

The air got colder.

The road got tighter.

And the silence started creeping in.

At first, I didn’t notice. I had music playing, the engine humming, tires gripping the asphalt as I followed the car ahead.

Then I realized something.

There were no other sounds.

No dogs barking.

No insects.

No wind through the trees.

Just engines.

And even that felt wrong.

Like the sound didn’t carry properly. Like it was being swallowed.

We reached the clearing after maybe 20 minutes.

Gravel crunched under the tires as we parked. The place looked abandoned—not in a dramatic, horror-movie way. Just… forgotten.

Like it used to matter.

A long time ago.

Then it didn’t.

I stepped out of the car.

That’s when I felt it.

That pressure.

You know when you walk into a room where something bad just happened, even if you don’t know what? That feeling that makes your body tense without asking permission?

It was like that.

But stronger.

“Perfect spot,” someone said.

His voice didn’t sound right.

Too loud.

Like it didn’t belong there.

That’s when I saw the poles.

They were scattered around the clearing. Some near the edges, others deeper in the trees. At first, they looked like old wooden posts—maybe leftovers from some structure.

They were tall.

Too tall.

And too thin.

They looked fragile… like they should snap under their own weight.

But they didn’t.

They stood there.

Perfectly still.

I walked closer to one.

I don’t know why. Curiosity, maybe. Or something else—something pulling me toward it.

The surface wasn’t normal wood.

It had texture, sure—but not like bark.

It looked dry.

Cracked.

Like skin stretched too far and left under the sun.

I told myself I was imagining things.

I always did.

Then it moved.

Not a big movement.

Not obvious.

Just… a shift.

Like something adjusting its balance.

At first, I thought it was my eyes playing tricks—the kind of thing that happens when you stare too long in the dark.

But then I noticed something else.

The trees weren’t moving.

There was no wind.

Nothing else shifted.

Just that one… thing.

I stepped back.

“Did you see that?” I asked.

Nobody answered.

But I could tell they felt it too.

That silence.

That tension.

Then another one moved.

And this time… I knew.

They weren’t poles.

They were things standing still.

The realization didn’t hit all at once.

It crawled.

Slowly.

Piece by piece.

The way your brain refuses to accept something impossible, breaking it into smaller, safer lies.

It’s just wood.

It’s just the wind.

It’s just your eyes.

Until those lies stop working.

The one closest to me…

It bent.

Not like wood snapping.

Not like something breaking.

But like a joint.

Like a neck that had been locked for years finally deciding to move again.

Slow.

Careful.

Controlled.

And it turned… toward me.

I couldn’t see its face clearly.

But I saw enough.

There was a shape where a face should be.

Indented areas that might have been eyes—or holes where eyes used to be.

And a line.

A thin, unnatural line.

Like a mouth that forgot how to open.

I froze.

Not because I wanted to.

But because my body refused to move.

Every instinct screamed at me to run.

But something deeper held me in place.

Like prey realizing it’s already been seen.

Then someone dropped their keys.

The sound echoed across the clearing.

And everything changed.

All of them moved.

Not fast.

Not suddenly.

Just… at once.

Like a signal had been given.

That’s when the truth settled in.

They weren’t random.

They weren’t separate.

They were aware.

I don’t remember deciding to run.

I just remember being inside my car again, hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the wheel.

I turned the key.

Nothing.

For a second, the engine didn’t respond.

And in that second…

I felt it.

Something watching me from right outside the window.

Close.

Too close.

Then the engine roared.

And I didn’t wait.

I hit the gas harder than I ever had before.

Gravel shot behind me as the tires fought for grip.

The car lunged forward, and I didn’t even check if the others were following.

I just drove.

The road down wasn’t the same.

It couldn’t have been.

Because it felt longer.

Much longer.

Every turn stretched.

Every straight dragged on.

And the darkness…

It got worse.

At one point, I looked at the side mirror.

I shouldn’t have.

But I did.

Something was there.

Running.

Not like anything human.

Its limbs were too long, bending in ways that didn’t make sense. Each movement covered too much ground, like it wasn’t bound by the same rules.

And its head…

Tilted.

Looking straight at me.

Not chasing nor attacking .

Just… keeping up.

That’s what scared me the most.

It didn’t feel like it wanted to kill me.

It felt like it wanted to make me struggle to escape it.

Knowing that it knows I can’t get away by the speed it’s going.

I pressed harder on the gas.

The engine screamed, pushed past its limits,red lined.

I didn’t care if something broke.

I just needed distance.

Eventually…

It disappeared.

Or maybe I just stopped seeing it.

I don’t know which is worse.

We made it back.

All of us.

Somehow.

We didn’t talk about it.

Not that night.

Not the next day.

Not ever.

I stopped racing for a while after that.

Not because I lost interest.

But because I started noticing something on the roads at night.

Streetlights.

Posts.

Shadows.

I know it’s weird to feel this way.

but still..

i can’t feel at ease nor relaxed because I know up in the mountains..

something Is pretending..

to be just a pole.