Below is a short story I wrote during a break from the novel. Obviously, I'm feeling a bit nostalgic about driving through rural Vermont at night. Enjoy!
It was
Christmas season, so Scott Bieber was singing his favorite song, “Grandma Got
Run Over By A Reindeer” with the radio.
Pressing the gas pedal of his black pickup truck, he grinned at the
furious roaring of his engine. Then he
jerked his wheel and left black marks on the road as he turned onto Vermont Route
232, the road that would lead him to his buddy Jay’s house.
Scott, a
thirty-one year old bachelor, ignored the white hats the sky had deposited on
the evergreen trees several hours earlier.
He had two vital missions tonight: to prove to Jay that his truck could
make it over a thicker pile of snow than Jay’s “Deer Killer” truck, and to
out-drink his buddy.
Scott
had a day old beard and a Patriots hat covering his messy brown hair that
curled out from under like lifeless fingers.
On this starless night, it was difficult to tell the wrinkle lines on
Scott’s face from several scars that lined his cheeks. In the past decade, Scott had experienced no
less than fourteen accidents involving power tools, motorized vehicles, and
fire.
Two
minutes up Route 232, Scott spotted a man in a black jacket and red scarf and
face mask waving frantically. Scott
glanced at his truck’s thermometer: it was a skin tingling -23 degrees
outside. Driving past the pedestrian
without slowing, he waved slightly.
“I’ve got places to go, beer to drink!” he sang out.
Route 232
ran parallel to a narrow river that fed into the large Ricker Pond further
up. Accelerating to sixty-five miles per
hour, Scott felt his stomach tilt as the truck shot up a little hill and rose
to two wheels for a second. Shooting
down the hill, he gave a sudden yell.
A young
woman stood directly in the middle of the road, twenty feet ahead!
Scott
turned hard to the left, and seeing no room there, swerved hard to the right,
towards the river. The vehicle began
skidding, and Scott yanked the wheel violently towards the woman. Better to kill a clueless pedestrian than end
up under the dark blue icy river.
The
truck’s tires squealed as it turned a hundred and eighty degrees and finally
stopped. Scott, breathing hard, peered
through the frosty windshield. The woman
had disappeared. She had to be under the
truck.
“No way
am I getting incarcerated for this moron,” Scott muttered. Switching his truck into first gear, he was
beginning to edge down the road when a hand blocked the windshield.
“Whoa!” Scott rolled down his window and blew smoky
breaths into the night. “Did I hit you?”
The
woman smiled, looking completely serene.
“No, don’t worry.”
“Good. Well, I’m on my way somewhere, so I…”
“Can I
get a ride with you down 232? Just a few
miles,” the woman said.
“I
don’t…” Scott studied the woman’s
face. Her heavy clothes could hide
anything. The woman’s heavy eyelids and
dark lashes were inviting. Scott gazed
into her eyes, which were round blue appealing circles. “Okay.
Hop in quick.”
Scott
reached over and unlocked the passenger door.
The woman tried the door. “Do you
mind? My fingers are numb.”
Scott
quickly opened the door, letting the woman take a seat before he closed
it. Then he rolled up his window and
continued, slightly more cautiously, down the road.
“You’re
the second person I’ve seen out on this road tonight,” he said. “It’s usually so empty. Well, earlier in the night. I’ve actually never driven it at this
hour.” He gestured at the clock, which
read 2:22a.m.
The woman
nodded. “Your truck feels lovely. It’s nice and warm in here.”
“You can
take off your hat and jacket, if you want.”
Scott watched carefully as the woman removed her scarf and hat,
revealing a green moose sweater that clung to her chest. Shaking her head, she tossed several tiny
dots of snow all over the front seat.
Her hair was a shadowy black, and her skin was chalky.
“Are you
going home?” Scott asked. He glanced at
the empty road for a moment, and then back at the youthful face of his
passenger.
“Yes.” The woman paused. “I’m so glad you picked me up. I don’t want to be on the road at this hour.”
“It’s so
dark, in the snow, and this freezing temperature. You’re lucky you’re okay. Where’d you come from?” Scott demanded.
“In just
a few minutes, when it’s 2:32, you don’t want to be on this road alone.”
“Sorry?” Scott studied the woman’s smooth cheeks. “What do you mean, you don’t want to be alone?”
“That’s
when the Ghost of Ricker Pond roams,” the woman said seriously.
Scott
chuckled. “At this time of night in
rural Vermont, ghost stories have a real good effect. Go on, it’ll keep me alert!”
The
woman stared hard at Scott. “All legends
have a degree of truth to them. Listen
carefully. This will affect you. You have to follow certain steps to protect
yourself against this ghost.”
“And
what are those?” Scott turned off the truck’s
radio.
“The
ghost was a man who was killed in a hit and run accident, twenty-nine years
ago. Before the collision, four vehicles
passed by him without stopping, leaving him disoriented and hypothermic. He died on the black ice in isolation. In retribution, the spirit of the man seeks
out four drivers a year, killing each of them in violent ways that sound like
accidents.”
“That’s
a nice story. Revenge of the ghost,
huh?”
“Revenge
is a great deed. There is no feeling
like a satisfied vengeance,” the woman said coolly.
Scott
laughed. “In that case, I guess I’m in
trouble! I saw a hitchhiker dude a little
while ago. Didn’t pick him up. Too cold to make unexpected stops!”
The
woman nodded. “That was a poor idea.”
“So this
ghost… what does it look like?” Scott asked, snickering. Glancing at the woman, he did a double
take. Her previously flawless facial
skin looked like a strawberry, red with tiny black spots. Her hair, which had looked so smooth and
shiny, looked more like a horse’s mane.
“It
looks like the man who was killed,” the woman said.
“And…
the ghost… what does it do?” Scott asked, hardly listening. Had the woman’s nose protruded in such a
jagged shape before?
“The
ghost does nothing. If you see the
ghost, you die at 2:32,” the woman said, shrugging. Scott glanced at his truck’s clock. It was 2:29.
“Well,
thanks for the warning. Are we coming up
on your house?”
The
woman nodded. “Oh, yes. You can let me off soon. We should be there in about three minutes.”
Scott
tried to watch the road, but he felt an irresistible urge to watch the
woman. All her pure feminine qualities
had melted from her face like hot wax.
He realized, suddenly, that she looked like a man with a five o’ clock
shadow. Her hair, which had been tucked
into her sweater, no longer looked like it could reach her back. It looked short and manly.
“You know
what? Maybe I better let you off. I have to make a call.”
“We’re
really close. Just a couple more turns,”
the woman said, her voice getting huskier.
Scott gripped the steering wheel like a baby grasping a finger. The heat in the truck seemed to be going
cold.
“One
dead person, yes. One for each driver
who didn’t stop,” the woman said without expression.
Scott
turned a slight corner. “You can stop
telling that story, now.”
The
clock read 2:31.
The
woman suddenly jolted in her seat. Scott
turned and watched in horror as she clenched her teeth and hissed loudly. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he yelled.
The
passenger’s back arched violently, and she turned to Scott, a hideous grin on
her face. “The accident happened right
here. At Ricker’s Pond.” She yanked her sweater over her head.
Scott
screamed. The figure sitting beside him
was clearly a man, wearing a black jacket, a face mask, and a red scarf. Blobs of blood dripped from the jacket.
Transfixed
by the horrible sight, Scott fumbled with his seatbelt. “You can let me out now. We’re here!” his bloodied passenger
said. She glared straight into his eyes,
and Scott saw that the azure glint was gone.
They were completely black.
It was 2:32. Desperately grabbing at the doorknob, Scott tried
to open his door. He saw the animal
ahead a split second later.
It looked like a deer on
steroids. Scott pounded the brake with
all his might. It would not
depress. Scott shouted, pounding it
rapidly with his foot. The gigantic
beast stared questioningly at him, its antlers high above the truck.
Scott’s mouth opened wide in a
helpless bellow as the truck rammed the moose at seventy miles per hour,
shattering, bending, and snapping everything.
Twenty minutes later, a vehicle
pulled up. An old man leapt out and
jogged around the crushed truck, searching for survivors. There was one man in the wreckage, clearly
dead, next to the truck’s clock, which blinked 2:32 over and over again.
Shaking his head, the old man
walked back to his car. Sitting in his
passenger seat, staring silently, was a male hitchhiker wearing a black jacket
and a red scarf.
