The Old Road

 

A Halloween Short Story

Ma always told me to be careful if I was out driving late at night. Shortcuts aren't always the best thing to take, and if a road looks abandoned, there's probably a reason why. I always tried to listen. At least until I didn't.

I was running late for my nieces' first birthday. Twins. My sister was going to murder me for being late. Traffic was a train wreck. It was stalled. My GPS decided to reroute me to the fastest route away from the traffic. That meant the old road.

Now, I'd lived around these parts most of my life. I knew the highways, the back roads, and most of the little gravel lanes that weren't worth calling roads at all. But I'd never taken this particular stretch. There wasn't much reason to. The county had built a new highway years ago, leaving the old one to weeds, potholes, and whatever else decided to move in.

Still, the GPS promised I'd save twelve minutes. Twelve minutes meant the difference between arriving before my sister brought out the cake and spending the next six months hearing about how I missed my nieces' first birthday.

I took the turn.

It was Halloween, just after five-thirty, and the October sun was already settling behind the hills. The trees stood dressed in their autumn colors, brilliant oranges and reds fading into the shadows. A few houses along the main road had carved pumpkins on their porches, and I'd passed a group of kids dressed as witches and superheroes waiting for their parents to finish loading a minivan. Nothing particularly spooky about it.

The old road started out looking perfectly respectable. The pavement was cracked, sure, and weeds grew along the shoulders, but I'd driven worse. There was even a faded yellow line down the middle.

Then the houses disappeared.

The trees grew closer together, their branches stretching across the road overhead. The pavement narrowed, and potholes appeared with alarming frequency. I slowed down.

"Some shortcut," I muttered.

My phone chirped.

Continue straight for four miles.

Four miles. I could manage four miles.

A minute later, I passed an old road sign nearly swallowed by vines. The lettering had faded too badly to read, but somebody had spray-painted a crooked arrow beneath it. Pointing straight ahead. I should have wondered why.

Instead, I drove on.

The first car appeared around a bend, coming toward me with its headlights on. It was an old sedan, the kind with rounded fenders and enough chrome to make a modern car look positively naked. I couldn't have told you the year, but I knew it belonged in one of those black-and-white movies Ma loved.

There wasn't much room to pass, so I pulled toward the shoulder. The sedan went by. I watched it in my mirror. Or I tried to.

It wasn't there.

I blinked and looked again. Nothing. No taillights, no car disappearing around the bend. Just empty pavement stretching back beneath the trees.

"Must've turned off somewhere."

Except I hadn't seen another road.

I decided not to think about it.

The next car came a few minutes later. This one was an old pickup truck, faded blue with a white roof. It rattled toward me at a speed nobody with any sense would attempt on a road full of potholes. I braced myself as it approached.

It passed without a sound.

No engine. No tires humming against the pavement. Not even the rush of air I expected from something moving that fast. And there was something else. For the briefest moment, as the truck passed my window, I could see straight through the cab.

I hit the brakes.

The truck kept going. Then it vanished. Not around a curve. Not down a side road. Vanished.

I sat there with both hands wrapped around the steering wheel.

"Nope."

I put the car in reverse.

My phone chirped again.

Recalculating.

"You're damn right we're recalculating."

The little blue line spun around on the screen, searching for a route. Then it settled.

Continue straight for three miles.

"I don't think so."

I looked over my shoulder. The road behind me was gone.

Well, not gone exactly. The pavement was still there, but a thick bank of fog had rolled across it. Beyond the fog, I couldn't see the trees, the yellow line, or anything else.

Now, fog isn't unusual in Kentucky. I've seen it rising off the hills like smoke and settling into valleys thick enough to hide a house. But I'd never seen fog appear quite that fast. Or move against the wind.

I put the car in drive.

"Three miles," I told myself. "Get through the three miles, find the highway, and never listen to that stupid phone again."

That's when I saw the hitchhiker.

She stood beside a rusted guardrail a little way down the road, one hand raised as if she'd been expecting me. She looked to be somewhere in her twenties, with dark hair tied back and a faded red sweater over a pair of jeans. There was nothing especially frightening about her. Except that she was standing on an abandoned highway, miles from anywhere, with no car in sight.

And she wasn't looking at me.

She was looking behind me.

I slowed but kept the doors locked. Ma had warned me about picking up strangers, too.

The woman approached my window, stopping just beyond the reach of my headlights.

"Don't go any farther," she said.

I lowered the window an inch. "Why?"

"Because they'll come back."

"Who?"

She looked over her shoulder. "The cars."

A cold little knot formed in my stomach. "What cars?"

"You've seen them."

I didn't answer.

She stepped closer. "One of them was blue, wasn't it? The truck?"

I swallowed. "How'd you know?"

"Because it always is."

Somewhere in the distance, an engine roared. The woman flinched.

"We don't have much time."

I glanced at the fog behind me. It had crept closer.

"Listen, lady, I don't know what's going on, but I just want to get off this road."

"So do I."

Something in her voice made me look at her properly. There was a bruise along her cheek. A little blood had dried near her hairline, and the sleeve of her sweater was torn. She looked exhausted.

"Have you been in an accident?"

She gave a small, humorless laugh. "You could say that."

The engine sounded again, louder this time. She pointed toward the trees beyond the guardrail.

"There's an old electrical box down there. You need to turn the switch off."

"What switch?"

"The one I turned on."

I stared at her. "Why don't you turn it off?"

Her eyes dropped to her hands. "Because I can't anymore."

I was beginning to wish I'd stayed in traffic.

The woman looked toward the bend in the road.

"Please. Just listen. Years ago, before they closed this highway, there was a wreck here. Two cars. Head-on."

The distant engine climbed into a high, desperate whine.

"I was walking home. It was Halloween, and the warning lights by the road kept flashing. One of the wires was sparking. I thought I could shut the power off before somebody got hurt."

She rubbed her hands together.

"The box was open. There was a switch marked OFF, so I flipped it."

"What happened?"

Her expression changed. "I found out too late."

Headlights appeared around the bend ahead of us. Two pairs. One belonged to the old sedan. The other to the blue pickup. They were coming toward each other, each occupying the same narrow stretch of road.

The woman grabbed my window frame.

"Watch."

The vehicles accelerated. I heard the engines roaring, louder and louder, until the sound filled the trees.

Then they collided.

I screamed.

Metal crumpled. Glass burst outward. For an instant the whole road flashed white, and I could see the two drivers inside their vehicles, faces twisted in terror.

Then everything went silent.

The road was empty. Not a piece of broken glass. Not a scrap of twisted metal. Nothing.

I looked at the woman. She nodded slowly.

"That's what they do."

My mouth had gone dry. "Every night?"

"Not every night."

She glanced toward the darkening sky.

"Halloween."

I thought about the twins. Their birthday cake. The little pumpkin costumes my sister had bought them. All the perfectly ordinary things waiting for me at the end of a perfectly ordinary evening.

"What does the switch have to do with any of this?"

"I don't know what it's connected to. Never did. But when I flipped it, the road changed. Those cars started coming. And nobody who came down here could leave."

I looked toward the fog. "Nobody?"

She didn't answer.

"Then how am I supposed to get out?"

"Turn it off."

"You said you already tried."

"I did."

She gave me a miserable little smile.

"Some fool installed the plate upside down."

I stared at her. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

The wind moved through the trees, scattering dead leaves across the road. The woman stepped away from my window.

"Please. I can't do it myself."

"Why not?"

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she held out her hand and pressed it against the guardrail. Her fingers passed straight through the metal.

I didn't scream that time. I think I'd run out of screams.

"You're dead."

She nodded. "Have been for a long time."

I looked toward the electrical box, then toward the fog behind me.

"Why are you still here?"

"Somebody has to warn the others."

The answer was so matter-of-fact that it frightened me more than anything else she'd said.

Another pair of headlights appeared in the distance. The woman turned.

"They're starting again. Go."

I sat there another second, trying to convince myself I was dreaming. Then I opened the door.

The air smelled of damp leaves and cold earth. Somewhere beyond the trees, something metallic rattled in the wind. The woman led me down a narrow path beside the guardrail.

There, half-hidden beneath a tangle of vines, stood a rusted metal cabinet mounted on a concrete post. Its door hung open. Inside was a single heavy switch.

Above it, painted in faded red letters, was the word OFF.

Below it was ON.

The lever pointed upward. Toward OFF.

"That looks right," I said.

"It isn't."

I leaned closer. The metal plate carrying the labels was fastened with four screws. Three were old and rusted. The fourth looked different, as if somebody had replaced it years later.

Then I noticed something. The lettering on a little manufacturer's stamp near the bottom of the plate was upside down.

"Well, I'll be damned."

The woman gave a faint smile. "That's what I said."

The engines started again. Closer now.

I reached for the switch. It wouldn't move.

I tried harder. Nothing.

"Come on."

I braced one foot against the concrete post and pulled with both hands. The lever shifted slightly.

From the road came the sharp blast of a horn.

The woman turned pale.

"Hurry."

I pulled again. The lever moved another inch. The engines were approaching the bend. I could hear tires squealing now, although I hadn't heard that sound from either vehicle before.

The switch fought me.

I leaned my whole weight against it.

"Come ON, you miserable piece of junk!"

With a sharp metallic crack, the lever slammed downward.

Toward ON.

The world went white.

For a heartbeat, I heard every sound at once. Engines, horns, breaking glass, somebody screaming, and beneath it all the distant sound of children laughing.

Then silence.

I stumbled backward.

The trees stood motionless. The fog was gone. And somewhere through the branches I could see the lights of the main highway.

Real lights. Traffic moving steadily in both directions.

I looked at the electrical box. The switch was still down. The woman stood beside it, staring at the road.

"Did it work?" I asked.

She nodded. "I think so."

"Then let's get out of here."

She didn't move.

I understood before she said anything.

"You can't."

She shook her head. "Not yet."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Her eyes drifted toward the empty road.

"Maybe because I'm the one who opened it."

I looked at the switch.

"Well, we closed it. That ought to count for something."

She laughed softly. It was the first genuinely happy sound I'd heard her make.

"Maybe it will."

I wanted to say something else, something comforting, but what do you say to someone who's been dead longer than you've been alive?

Instead, I asked her name.

"Annie," she said.

"Well, Annie, I hope you get home."

She smiled. "So do I."

I walked back to my car.

When I looked behind me, she was gone.

---

I reached my sister's house six minutes after six.

The yard was full of plastic pumpkins, fake cobwebs, and children dressed in costumes. My brother-in-law stood on the porch holding a bowl of candy, looking like he'd already accepted that the evening was going to be a disaster.

My sister met me at the door.

"You're late."

"I know."

"Where have you been?"

"Shortcut."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me. GPS."

"Yep."

"Well, get in here. We're doing the cake."

I followed her into the kitchen. The twins sat in their high chairs wearing matching pumpkin outfits. One had icing smeared across her cheek already. The other was attempting to eat the paper wrapper from a cupcake.

Normal. Beautifully, wonderfully normal.

I hugged them both.

My sister eyed me.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

I considered telling her. Instead, I reached for a cupcake.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

She snorted. "Knowing you? Probably not."

---

The next morning, I decided to look up the old road.

I figured there had to be something about the wreck, maybe an old newspaper article or a mention in the county records. I found plenty of accidents on the highway over the years, but nothing about two cars colliding on Halloween.

Nothing about a girl named Annie.

What I did find was an old county map. The road was there, a narrow line cutting through the hills where the newer highway now ran.

But the map was dated forty-three years earlier.

And beside the old road, printed in small letters, were three words.

Permanently closed to traffic.

I stared at the screen. Then I found a photograph.

It showed a road crew standing beside a newly installed barricade. Behind them was the entrance to the old highway, weeds already pushing through cracks in the pavement.

The caption said the county had closed the road because maintaining it had become too expensive. There was no mention of an accident. No mention of anything strange.

But off to one side of the photograph stood a young woman.

Dark hair tied back. Faded red sweater.

She was leaning against the guardrail, watching the crew work.

I enlarged the picture.

Annie.

The photograph had been taken forty-three years ago.

And she looked exactly as she had the night before.

I sat there for a long time. Finally, I closed the browser.

I haven't been down that road since. I don't intend to.

But every Halloween, when the traffic starts piling up and my GPS cheerfully offers to save me a few minutes, I remember Annie standing beside that guardrail. I remember the cars. And I remember what Ma always said about abandoned roads.

Because sometimes there's a reason nobody uses them anymore.

And sometimes, if you're lucky, somebody's still there to warn you.