The Way Across the Road Read online

The Way Across the Road

  by Aaron Lowry

  Copyright 2013 Aaron Lowry

  -----

  The ghost shimmered faintly in the moonlight, its silver outline melding and blurring with the shadows like oil flowing through water. He stood by the side of the road, blood streaming down his mangled chest, and waited. The road was silent save for the rustling of frozen leaves.

  The Pain loomed on the far side of the road, agony and guilt that washed over him in constant, pounding waves. Something evil lurked there, a malevolent presence that would consume him if only it could break through that tiny shield. But somehow the ghost knew that, for whatever reason, it could not cross the road. He was safe, so long as he stayed exactly where he was.

  The ghost was scared, though his face was locked in an expression of dull surprise. There was no way to escape; whenever he tried to leave this small clearing roaring filled his ears and terrible cold numbed his body. If he pressed on the feeling left his fingers, then his hands, his toes, then his feet. It felt like being unmade, falling apart from the inside out. Eventually he stopped trying and stayed put, locked in a tiny, invisible cage.

  Headlights pierced the gloom, brilliant beams that pushed the darkness back into the nooks and crannies of the forest. The ghost disappeared as the light passed over him, his faint glow subsumed like a candle before the sun. Small snowflakes, all but invisible in the shadow, drifted down from a cloudy sky. Funny, how he hadn’t looked up at the sky before now. The thought had never occurred to him. He reached out to catch a snowflake but it slipped effortlessly through his hand.

  The car pulled off the road, snapping brittle sticks and twigs beneath thick winter tires. Its engine went quiet and the ghost could just barely make out movement inside, the driver leaning into the back seat. The door creaked open and a middle-aged woman stepped out, her slightly portly figure hidden beneath a puffy purple jacket. She shivered and blew on her hands before cramming them deep into her pockets.

  The woman walked into the small clearing, white tennis shoes flashing as she stepped carefully over scattered branches and logs. The ghost did nothing to acknowledge her approach. He understood by now that people could not see him; they did not react to his screams for help and ignored his frantic waving as they drove by. He had been forgotten.

  “This is a very pretty forest,” the woman said, her voice breaking the deathly silence. “As places to die go, you could have done a lot worse. See, there, where the brush is trampled down? That’s a deer trail. They cross the road here a lot. Not to mention all the squirrels and raccoons. Wait until spring and you should have plenty of company.”

  It took the ghost several seconds to understand she was talking to him. “What?” he asked with a voice like screeching tires.

  “The animals, I mean. To keep you company.” She gestured at the trees, the clearing, and the trail. “Most are hibernating now, but give it a few months and this place’ll be teeming with life.”

  “Who are you?” he whispered. The ghost wanted to be happy, to be relieved at speaking to someone after so long, but all he felt was confused and suspicious.

  “Me? Just a passerby, on my way home. You looked like you could use a friend though, so I pulled over to say hi.”

  The ghost looked at his silver, transparent hands questioningly, but nothing had changed. He didn’t know what to say and so remained silent.

  “The better question is,” she continued, “who are you? What are you doing out on this chilly night?”

  “I’m . . .” he began, and choked. He couldn’t remember. He knew he had a name, but it floated away like pollen in the wind. “I’m . . .”

  Sticks on the ground popped noisily, crushed by an invisible force. The wind rose and tore through the clearing, howling between branches and pulling weakened twigs into the air. Across the street the Pain shifted, its attention coming into sharp, predatory focus.

  “That’s fine, that’s fine,” the woman said quickly, glancing around nervously. “Calm down! Tell you what, we’ll call you Brook. That’s the name of the road over there, Stony Brook Road.”

  Memory flashed.

  “Come on-“

  “ . . . short cut, off the-“

  “ . . . way faster to go through Stony Brook than all the way aro-“

  The meadow quieted, the wind calming and the crushing force ebbing away. “Brook,” the ghost gasped, as though tasting the word.

  “Yeah, that’s right, Brook.” The woman flashed a reassuring grin. “Does that work for you?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you know why you’re here Brook?”

  The ghost thought and thought, mulling over the question. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t make sense of it.

  “Brook?” she finally interrupted his brooding.

  He shook his head, sending silver blood spraying into the night. “No,” he answered at last.

  “Have you looked around?” the woman suggested. “Sometimes hints are scattered about, if you know how to look for them.”

  The ghost stared across the street, where the Pain lay waiting. He felt its gaze and froze solid, a stillness only possible for the dead.

  The woman followed his eyes. “Is something over there?” she asked gently, “On the other side of the road?”

  She took a few careful steps forward and he reached out, trying to pull her away from that terrible presence. His hand slipped through her arm and she shuddered.

  “What’s wrong Brook?” the woman asked, rubbing the place where he’d touched her.

  “Don’t go over there,” he groaned like bending metal. “It’s evil.”

  “I don’t see anything too scary,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “Do you?”

  As he looked, really looked, the ghost realized he couldn’t actually make out anything strange on the far side of the street. It dropped off steeply, the edge of the road dipping into thick forest that continued down a massive, sloping hill. He could not see the Pain, but he could feel it as sharply as ever.

  “What are those, on the road there?” the woman asked, pointing toward a pair of discolorations. “Right on the edge. Maybe they have something to do with why you’re here.”

  She went forward to look more closely, briefly checking for traffic, but the ghost remained firmly rooted in place. With a tiny flashlight from one of her pockets the woman knelt by the marks, running her fingers over the streaks.

  “You should take look at these Brook,” she said quietly. “You’ll want to see.”

  Despite himself the ghost floated forward, hovering on the edge of the street and craning his neck for a look. The woman shined her light across the marks, a pair of long, matte stains. Tire tracks, skids from someone slamming on the breaks.

  They led straight over the ledge.

  The ghost stumbled and fell, an otherworldly scream erupting from his lips.

  . . . . something in the brush shifting slightly . . .

  Leaps out in front!

  DEER! SWERVE!

  . . . weightless . . .

  “Oh god, Ryan!” she yells . . .

  “Brook, are you ok?”

  “Ryan,” the ghost’s voice blared like a horn.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My name. It isn’t Brook. It’s Ryan.”

  “Nice to meet you Ryan,” the woman smiled, a genuine expression of happiness the likes of which he hadn’t seen in . . . weeks, months? “You remember anything else, or just the name?”

  “I,” he choked. “I don’t know. I’m . . .”

  “Hey, don’t stress it. Remembering your name is good, it’s always better to have your own.” The woman stood up and stepped to wher
e the tire tracks disappeared. “Can you come here Ryan? It’s important.”

  The Pain howled, pulling him towards the edge of the tracks and what lay beyond. He fought it as hard as he could, planting his feet on the ground. “No,” he broke into sobs, “I can’t. I can’t go over there, not ever.”

  “It can’t hurt you Ryan,” the woman explained patiently, “Nothing can hurt you, not anymore. What’s over here isn’t even the end, though you can see it from here.”

  More than anything the ghost did not want to go to that side of the road, but he couldn’t bear to disappoint this woman, his only friend in so long.

  Slowly, unsteadily the ghost stood and stumbled forward. Burning pain split his face and chest, the feeling of ribs shattering, lungs bursting and choking; endless, bloody choking. Silver torrents streamed from his body as the ethereal wounds tore open. But the worst pain, the unbearable agony was the heavy guilt that weighted on his spirit. The knowledge that it was all his fault, and he could never make it right.

  He forced himself to keep walking till he stood beside at the edge of the dropoff. The vehicle had carved a shocking path, ripping deep grooves into the dirt before tearing into the forest. It had made it almost twenty feet before encountering a tree it could not plow through, a venerable old oak with deep fractures splitting its trunk from the impact.

  “You see that, Ryan?” the woman murmured, “That’s where you died.”

  “No,” he whispered, understanding. Understanding at last. “That’s where I’m still dying. Where she’s still dying. It never stopped, I can’t make it stop.”

  Hopeless quiet settled.

  “Please,” he cried. “Please. Help.”

  The woman took a phone out of her pocket and checked the time, the bright light casting deep shadows into the void before them. ”She didn’t die, you know,” she told him, placing the phone back into her pocket. “It turns out the guy driving the car was able to swerve at the last minute, taking most of the impact on the driver’s side. She came out of the coma about two hours ago, right at the end of my shift. The recovery is . . . uncertain, but she’s alive.”

  It was like pushing a broken bone back into place, or finally collapsing after running for far too long. The ghost breathed in agonized relief. The Pain was still there, but it was fading and he was floating, almost flying. The world started to become hazy, inconsequential. Something called to him, inviting and distant . . .

  “You’re not here by accident, are you?” the ghost asked.

  The woman chuckled. “Nope, not a bit. I am a friend though, that part wasn’t a fib.”

  “Who are you?” The first time he’d asked the question it had been defensive, accusing. Now words held nothing but gratitude.

  “No one in particular. Just someone who can see the dead, and the things they leave behind. I help out folks like you when I can. Sort of a hobby.”

  “Can you tell her I’m sorry?” his voice was quiet now, far, far way.

  “Of course. Now shoo, kiddo,” she waved him away, but softened the gesture with a wink. “You shouldn’t be here. This world’s problems aren’t for you anymore.”

  “Thank you, thank you so-“

  The road went silent.

  The walk back to her car was frigid and the woman shivered miserably as she trekked across the frozen ground. Tea, she decided. She was going to have a big cup of tea when she finally got back home. Something to shake the chill off her bones.

  “Sorry that took so long, hon,” she said as she got in the car, looking into the back seat. “Were you all right by yourself?”

  “Yeah,” her young son replied, pulling at the seat belt he was still too small to wear comfortably. “Mommy, why did the ghost cross the road?”

  The woman thought for a moment, then chuckled and shook her head. “To get to the Other Side, love, to get to the Other Side.”

  ###

  About the Author

  Aaron Lowry is a Massachusetts native and has lived there all his life save for the few years he enjoyed at the College of Wooster in Ohio. He has been writing short stories since childhood when his parents cleverly linked his allowance to completing writing projects. Since then he has continued to practice and taken on more ambitious projects, and hopes one day to write full-time.

  Check out his website at: https://www.byaaronlowry.com/

  Other Works by Aaron Lowry

  Prisoner 721