by Jerod L.
When I was growing up I lived in Texas. I lived in a small town and there were some useful shops on Main Street. But one night made me have nightmares for a week.
My friends and I went off-road go-carting at around six at night. We were near an old WW2 plane refueling station. One of my friends tried
to start his truck but it wouldn't. Then out of nowhere a man with sunglasses and brown hair, smoking a cig comes walking by and says, "It's getting late, you'd better start heading for home."
"We can't," I said, "Our truck won't start."
"Let me help you," said the man. "I used to work on the Spitfires and Mustangs."
"You don't look that old," I said.
"Well, I need help, too," said the man. "My plane went down as I was trying to land at the service station over there."
"How'd it go down?" I asked.
"German Recon planes."
"Come again?" I said. "There hasn't been any Recon planes since World War 2. We're at peace with the Germans."
Then we heard a mysterious shout from the old service station.
"No one has been there since the 1930s," I said. After that I heard a plane engine in the distance, then machine gun fire. I quickly got up and hit
my head on the open truck bed I was under. The last thing I saw was the man falling to the ground dead. I was knocked out.
I woke up and it was dawn and where the man was there was nothing but a grave marker that said, "HERE LIES CAPTIAN CHRISTOPHER ROBINSON 1889-1941."