The beat-up old station wagon sputtered to a stop in the moonless, pitch-black darkness, its exhaust giving one last percussive cough before the engine was shut off.
The driver, Rupert McGee, husband and father of two, finally beaten into submission by his wife and daughters' insistence that he admit he was lost and to "for God's sake, Rupert, there's someone, just ask them where we are!" "Yeah, dad! Justin's concert is tomorrow!", rolled down the window and squinted at the shape approaching them. "Hi, so sorry, could you tell me how to get to New York? I think I took a wrong turn somewhere." He gave a sheepish chuckle. "It's so dark here, and I haven't seen any signs in hours."
Gershlok, Custodian of The Pits Of Everlasting Night With Your Most Terrible Nightmares In It, scratched the top of its head with one of its tentacles. It'd been drawn to the weak light in a place where there should never be any, and had come to investigate, but... It had never expected to find this.
They weren't supposed to be here. It would be in so much trouble if anyone else found them here. And if Management heard about this... A full-body shiver went through it.
It stayed outside the faint pool of anemic light cast by the car's 5 volt dome, and burbled phlegmily. "Turn right, and keep driving for... about 15 minutes, then aim towards a blue glow. That should get you back to a main road."
Ignoring the effusive thanks from inside the strange metal box, Gershlok faded back into the darkness, confident it could hustle over to prepare a transport circle to take these humans out of its domain, and back to the mortal plane, where they belonged.
Hopefully it was also enough time to figure out what a "New York" was.
