I always look forward to the drive home because of the solitude. It’s so early in the morning, there are no cars; there’s no reason for anyone to walk down that old country road, especially in the dark.
So, when I saw the figure stumbling by the roadside, I knew something was wrong.
There’s no service out there, or I would’ve called in a tip and been on my way. As it was, I slowed, and as I drew closer, I realized it was an old woman. No jacket, her arms clutched around her middle to keep warm. No shoes.
I wouldn’t have stopped for anyone else. But an old woman, alone and in trouble? I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d driven off.
She looked surprised when I rolled down the window and invited her in. She climbed into the passenger’s seat slowly, as if her joints ached. I glanced at her feet, then away. They were filthy and bloody, her toes blue.
“You okay?” I asked. She didn’t reply, staring forward like a sleepwalker. “Where are you headed?”
No answer.
I wondered if she had dementia. Maybe wandered away from a farmhouse somewhere. I tried to study her surreptitiously. She did look familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her.
“My house is still a ways away,” I said. “I’ll call someone once we get there, okay?”
She may have nodded—or perhaps she was just drifting off.
We drove in silence. I kept glancing at her, trying not to be too obvious. Why did she look so familiar? The longer the question dragged, the more anxious I felt. Maybe picking her up was a mistake. After all, I’d have to call someone, and I wasn’t keen on having authorities sniffing around my place. I could drop her off somewhere, but what if someone else found her? She wasn’t responsive now, but what if she told someone about me? It wasn’t worth the risk. I should’ve never picked her up. What had compelled me to do such a stupid thing?
Cursing myself, I forced a smile.
“I have to make a stop real quick,” I said. “I’ll just be a minute.”
She said nothing as the car slowed, even though we were stopping in the middle of nowhere. I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the door, the cabin light flickering on. As I put one foot out, she spoke.
“Do you know the fate of sinners?” she asked. I stared, mouth agape. In the light, she looked so familiar—the straight lines of her eyebrows, the downturn of her mouth. She reminded me of my grandmother—and yet not. But I knew her.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“After they die, they walk the earth,” she said, as though she hadn’t heard me. “Walk the earth for all eternity.”
“Tell me who you are!”
The old woman turned slowly. Wrinkles blossomed from the corners of her sad eyes, her skin sagging like dripping wax. “You already know, Mara,” she said.
I did. And it terrified me.
I slammed the car door and stalked to the trunk, wrenching it open with more force than necessary. Muttering to myself, I grabbed the tire iron, ignoring the sticky residue coating the metal. The black garbage bags sat undisturbed, though I could smell their contents, like a thousand copper pennies. I’d have to deep clean the trunk after I dumped them.
Adjusting my grip on the tire iron, I stalked to the passenger’s door and wrenched it open, pulling back my arm for a devastating swing.
There was no one there.
I looked for tracks along the road but found none. After half an hour of stumbling around in the dark, I returned to the car. Let the old woman rot! Tomorrow, I’d wake up to reports a senile old lady died of exposure, and I’d be glad to hear it.
With I sigh, I climbed behind the wheel. Glancing over, I froze, door still ajar. Under the pale yellow cabin light, the floor mat was immaculate. There was no blood from worn, broken feet. No dirt from the miles trod.
No sign, in fact, that anyone had been there at all.