In preparation for publishing this series, I am starting a blog in which I plan to publish various short stories that I have written and will be writing for competitions, publications and just for fun. I will be posting a new story or sample every week and would love to receive any feedback, suggestions, or constructive criticism that may be offered.
I look forward to getting to know everyone and learning from the advice and suggestions I receive.
In honor of Halloween, my first story will be a ghost story I wrote a few years ago. I hope everyone enjoys it!
-James Meadows
The Wreck
by James Meadows
I pulled my
car into the small rocky alcove in front of the old historical marker. Glancing
behind for any approaching vehicles, I turned my car around and headed back the
direction I came. The gravel parking area, often occupied by police seeking
victims for speeding tickets, provided ample room for me to complete my
u-turn.
I was glad
no policemen were parked along the road tonight. If so, I would likely be
pulled over for suspicious behavior. This was, after all, my twenty-third time
to turn around at this particular stretch. But I could not help myself. I was a
man on a mission.
Straightening
my car, I began my twenty-fourth circuit down the lonely stretch of dense woods
and rotting fence posts. The lack of any artificial lighting on the old country
road and the poor visibility around the numerous bends always produced an eerie
feel when driving the route at night. Though the full moon was glowing bright
in the night sky, its feeble rays were insufficient to dispel the feeling that
something strange or unexpected would leap out at any moment. Truth be told,
that was exactly what I was waiting for.
With my
high beams on, my eyes peered anxiously along the side of the road. My nerves
were on edge and I slammed my brakes at even the slightest sign of movement. A
sheet of paper drifting across the street, a deer darting into the trees, or
even a bush blowing in the wind was sufficient to drive my agitated mind into a
state of frenzied excitement. I often found myself yanking the car to the curb
and leaping out, staring frantically in all directions before recognizing the
false alarm created by my overactive imagination.
Some people
might claim I was insane. Perhaps I was insane. After ten years, though, I had
to know the truth. I had to see for myself. For almost a decade, I had resisted
the temptation. Ten times I had endured the torment. Tonight, crazy or not, I
would get my answer.
My eyes
narrowed as I passed the site of the wreck. Everything was dark. The place was
empty. Even the crosses had long since succumbed to the elements leaving only
bare grass where my son had perished. I cursed angrily and drove onward. I
would continue for another mile and then loop around again.
My son’s
death was my fault. We got into a fight the previous night. Afterward I refused
to take him to the high school football game. Intent on going anyway, he snuck
out of his window, caught a ride with some friends, and ended up being stranded
at the game by those same friends. When he called, asking me to pick him up, I
was furious. I told him he got himself out there; he could find a way to could
get himself back. In the end, he hitched a ride with some neighbor’s kids but never
came home. A drunk driver made sure of that.
The idea of
a child dying after a spat with their parent seemed cliché. I would have found
the idea ridiculously over used and mundane if I were reading it in a story.
But this was no story. This was my reality; a dark truth that haunted me every
single night, especially tonight. If I had driven him home, I told myself, he
would still be alive.
As if my
torment were not enough, an even greater curse started the year after his
death. On the anniversary of the accident, a man pulled into our driveway. He
claimed he had met a boy, matching the description of my son, on the street
asking for a ride home. The boy gave him our address but disappeared as soon as
the man pulled into the driveway. I was not amused by the story.
As my wife
wept, I chased the man off believing him to be some sort of prankster or
charlatan. Yet the same thing happened the next year as a woman pulled into our
driveway with the same story. The tale repeated itself the next year and then
the next. Every year, our son appeared to someone. Every year, the horror of
his death was born anew, aggravating the wound, never allowing us to fully
heal.
Not tonight. My wife begged me not to go. She told me to just let things be. I
could not. I had to come out tonight. I had to see the truth for myself. I had
to find my son.
I pulled into
the driveway of some distant farmhouse and put my car in reverse. Backing into
the street, I prepared to continue my vigil. I was not sure what I hoped to
achieve. Part of me wished my son would appear, asking for a ride. Truth be
told, though, I was not sure what I would say or do if this occurred.
Another
part of me hoped nothing would happen. Perhaps my presence would stop the
apparition from appearing, thereby breaking the strange cycle. Ultimately, I suppose
all I wanted was closure; some way to move on with my life, if such a thing was
truly possible.
A car came
around a bend behind me. I slowed down and pulled to the side of the road to
let them pass. I wasn’t going particularly fast so I didn’t want them stuck
behind me. I coasted along the meridian and waited for their vehicle to
overtake my own.
They were
almost passed me when a thought occurred to me. While I didn’t want this
vehicle behind me, I really didn’t want them ahead of me either. This was not a
heavily traveled road, especially at this hour. For my son’s apparition to
appear before a motorist every year, it had to be opportunistic, manifesting to
whatever vehicle was available at the right time. If it missed one vehicle,
another might not appear. If I let this car get too far in front of me, they
might pick my son up before I could get there.
Realizing
the car could mean the failure of my entire plan, I increased my speed to keep
a carefully measured distance in the rear. When the car came to a halt as a
stop sign, however, I realized the occupants were unlikely to be picking up any
hitch hikers.
The car was
a very old model Dodge Charger. Through the large back window, my headlights
illuminated the heads of five passengers already crammed inside. They couldn’t
fit another person in that car if they wanted. The vehicle’s occupants seemed
fairly preoccupied. As we sat at the stop sign, I could hear them shouting
songs in tune with the radio blaring through their open windows and see them adlibbing
dramatically on the long notes.
When the
drive resumed, I allowed my car to drift back a ways. Despite my dark mood, I
found myself smiling at their antics. They were just a group of teenagers having
some harmless fun.
No longer
worried about them, I turned my attention back to scanning the sides of the
road. I remembered what my son was like at that age. He was a good kid, just
enjoying his youth. Maybe he did not always bring home the best grades, such as
the “D” in chemistry which led to our fateful argument. But, he was never a
trouble-maker.
A lump built
in my throat as I thought about him. We were always close. I was his coach when
he played sports. I was his shoulder when he needed to cry. I was his confidant
when he wanted to share some secret crush or plan some secret surprise. Perhaps
that was why I felt such a sense of betrayal when he snuck out of the house. I
was wrong. I should have gone to pick him up. He was my son, after all. He was
my best friend, my little man, my pride and joy. He was…gone.
Loud screeching
tires and the blast of a horn pulled my attention back to the present. I looked
ahead in time to see a large truck whip around a distant corner and smash full
speed into the small car. Horror gripped my chest as an explosion rent the
night air asunder. Shrieks filled the sky
as the car spun wildly into the ditch colliding with a nearby tree. Then the
shouts fell silent.
I slammed
on my brakes, screeching to a halt a short distance away. Snatching my cell
phone, I leapt from my car dialing 9-1-1 as I ran toward the collision.
Unfortunately, reception was not good in the area. Instead of the friendly
voice offering assistance or the loud buzz of the phone ringing, I heard only
silence as the phone tried unsuccessfully to dial the number.
Movement
inside the nearby truck told me its driver was safe. Yet, my heart was with the
teenagers in car. As I raced to their rescue, I vaguely noticed a strange and
sudden stillness. No bugs chirped in the air and no owls hooted in the trees.
Yet I had no time to ponder or dwell upon the shift in my surroundings. My only
thought was to somehow help the children.
Instinct
told me I was too late but I raced ahead anyway. As long as even the slightest
hope for rescue existed, I would do everything possible to prevent some other
parent’s fate from being the same as my own.
Their
vehicle was devastated. The entire front of the car was smashed in and the
windows were shattered. No movement could be seen. One didn’t need to be a
rocket scientist to guess why.
I reached
the vehicle and tested the handle on the driver’s side door. It was unlocked.
With some effort, I managed to wrench open the twisted metal remnants, put my
head inside and survey the scene.
A moment
later, the stillness of the night was broken by a loud crashing sound as my
phone slipped from my hand, landing on the hard pavement beneath me. There was
no car. There was no truck. There was no accident. I stood alone on an empty
highway, my vehicle sitting opened, abandoned behind me.
My heart
pounded in my chest, the beats growing more painful with each passing moment. I
stared around desperately for the wreckage, for the teenagers, or for something
to tell me what had just happened. There was nothing there. I was by myself,
with only silence and darkness to keep me company.
My hand
trembled as I attempted to pick up my phone, which readily slipped again from
my unsteady grasp. Retrieving the device, I walked back down the road, climbed
into my car and buried my head in my hands. Sitting alone in my vehicle, I took
several deep breathes, trying to pull myself together and decide what to do
next. Despite the goose bumps forming on my arms and the hairs standing on my
neck, I managed to steady myself enough to think clearly. I realized that I should
at least get my car out of the street.
Tapping
into some reserve of inner strength, I rallied every ounce of will power and
lowered my hands. I steadied myself and reached for my keys, which still hung
idly in the ignition. With a twist of my hand, I prepared to start the car. It
was then I realized, my car was not empty.
My breath
caught as I gazed at the apparition sitting in the passenger’s seat beside me.
Gaunt and white, dressed in the same shirt and pants I remembered him wearing
on that fateful night, my son stared at me with hollow eyes.
He was not
transparent. He was not broken or bloody. He was exactly as I remembered him,
although his face was paler than the whitest light of the moonlit sky and his
strange bulbous eyes seemingly devoid of pupils. I gaped at him in stunned
silence and fear, a hundred emotions surging through me, leaving me helpless
and paralyzed.
He sat
perfectly still. His face bore no expression. He just stared at me for what
seemed like one long infinite moment. Then his lips moved and a voice I knew
only too well spoke in a tone of relief and love.
“Thank you,
Dad,” he said, a small smile crossing his lips. “I knew if I waited, you would
come to take me home.”
He was
gone. The car was empty. Outside the vehicle, I heard the sounds return to the
world. Inside the vehicle, I just buried my head and cried.
No cars
stopped at our house the next year or the next. He was gone. And somehow, some
of my pain went with him.
