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墨書 Inktalez
Alan's fingers dug deeply into the crack of the door, his knuckles cracking from the strain. The roll-up door remained immovable, as if welded shut. Suddenly, the motorcycle engine behind him let out a sharp wail, the headlights casting his shadow against the door, which appeared to sprout two twisted arms beyond his own.
"Who's there?" He grabbed a crowbar and turned around, but it slipped from his grasp with a clang, as if an invisible force was wrestling with him. The tachometer of the Yamaha was wildly fluctuating, and the glass of the dashboard shattered with a pop, shards slicing across his cheek.
As the metallic scent of blood filled the air, the rear wheel of the motorcycle lifted three inches off the ground. Alan stumbled back into a tool rack, wrenches raining down like a storm. He saw his reflection splintering into dozens of grotesque smiles across the scattered metal. The sound of nails scraping against the ventilation duct echoed, perfectly matching the rhythm of scratches beneath the seat.
"Jack Morrison!" he suddenly screamed into the void, that name seeming to unlock some forbidden switch. The headlights extinguished abruptly, revealing two points of eerie green light in the darkness—the Yamaha's tires were leaving a bloody S-shaped trail on the concrete, reminiscent of a giant python shedding its skin.
Sparks erupted from the charging station, and in that brief flash of light, Alan saw a young man in a leather jacket from an old photograph sitting astride the motorcycle. The man lifted his decaying face; black tar-like substance oozed from beneath his helmet visor, trickling down along the gold embroidery on the fuel tank that read "J.M. 1998."
"July 15, 1998..." Alan suddenly recalled an old headline from a local newspaper; he had seen that yellowed copy of West Suburb Daily at a scrap yard. In the photo, before the charred remnants of a garage, firefighters were carrying out a body bag leaking dark red liquid. The caption read: "Garage explosion leaves three dead; suspected gang shootout."
The roar of the motorcycle now perfectly overlapped with the explosive sounds in his memory. Alan's temples throbbed as his nostrils filled with the burnt smell from twenty years ago. He staggered toward the workbench, knocking over a box of bolts with his oil-stained gloves; rolling metal fragments formed an inverted pentagram in the pool of blood.
The scratching sound from the ventilation duct suddenly morphed into an infant's cry, causing Alan's pupils to constrict violently—the Yamaha's exhaust pipe was seeping a milky liquid. When he felt the USB drive on his keychain at his waist, it struck him like lightning. This was what Old Jack had handed him that morning—"vehicle data." Now, under what little battery remained on his phone, a video file played back with chilling dialogue:
"This bike is alive." In the surveillance footage, Old Jack was caressing the Yamaha's fuel tank; his fingers pressed against the scorching metal surface as sizzling flesh accompanied maniacal laughter. "See those bumps on the exhaust? Those were three thugs' teeth... Hahaha!"
The video suddenly jolted violently; Alan saw himself from 1998 appear on screen. The younger version of Alan, clad in a blood-stained leather jacket, was shoving some flickering red metal piece into the motorcycle engine. As this scene began to loop for a third time, blue light burst forth from the scratches on the roll-up door; those winding bloodstains formed clear sentences:
At that moment, the motorcycle completely levitated; the seat automatically lifted to reveal a gaping black cavity underneath. Alan felt something cold pressing against his lower back and turned to see his right hand gripping an acetylene torch for repairs while his left hand uncontrollably twisted open the gas valve.
"No!" he screamed as he lunged toward the tool rack but saw something even more horrifying through shattering glass—the reflection of himself in each shard grinning maniacally, each mirrored self holding dripping pliers. The ventilation duct crashed down as charred corpses from twenty years ago crawled out like puppets on strings; their melted fingers pointed toward the black void beneath the Yamaha seat.
When the headlights flickered back on, Alan finally saw clearly into the pool of blood: his 1998 self straddled the motorcycle while he was slowly crawling out from its exhaust pipe...
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