Why do tools keep rearranging themselves in perfect geometric patterns? What's causing those oily puddles to flow upward? How did that classic car arrive after hours, and why does no one remember towing it? What's behind that rhythmic tapping from beneath the hydraulic lifts, and why do engines stall when backing into bay number three?
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Take care of your car in the garage, and the car will take care of you on the road.
― Amit Kalantri, Wealth of Words
As my Model T rattled and wheezed down that narrow country lane, I began to sense my journey may have been ill-advised. Twisted oaks leant ominously over the unpaved road, and only my flickering headlamps cast back the deepening shadows. At last a sign emerged, Bob’s Auto Repair, scrawled messily as if by moldering hands. No lights shone within the ramshackle building beyond.
Creaking open the splintered door, I beheld within a maze of rusted machinery, tools strewn in October’s abandoned fury. A nameless presence dwelt therein, for my eyes fell upon devices no mortal had conceived. As my car floated skyward, suddenly and of its own accord, a doomful intelligence seemed to guide its motions. From a black recess issued sounds no healthy mind could tolerate—the churning of unhallowed pistons, the shredding of engineered flesh.
Paralyzed by maddening fears never meant for humanity, I sensed tendrils of blasphemous research coiling around my sanity’s remnants. What nameless mechanics plied their unholy trade within those dilapidated walls? What elder signs leered from the omnipresent shadows? My flight was futile; nameless horrors have always lain in wait along backwoods byways after dark. The locks turned of their own accord—I had become an exhibit in some hellish automotive museum of the damned. If ever I escape this unholy repair shop, its fell secrets shall remain forever unnamed.
