Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan(4)

"Road stories always are." He clears his throat. "Uh, the story goes that she was a cheerleader."

That's a variation I haven't heard before. "A cheerleader?"

"Yeah. Went to some middle-of-nowhere school and wanted to get to Hollywood. So she and her boyfriend saved their pennies, and they hit the road. Only his car rolled less than three hours out of town, and he was killed. She managed to pull herself out of the wreck, and went staggering off, looking for help. She found a truck stop. The truckers, they said they'd help her, put her in the diner with a cup of coffee while they went down the road to find her boyfriend. See if maybe she was wrong, and he was still breathing."

"He wasn't, was he." He never is. In the versions where I have a boyfriend in the car, he's always dead on impact. Guess it would screw up the story if their little wandering lady wasn't doing her wandering alone.

"No. So they covered his face, said they were sorry, and one of them stayed to wait for the police while the others went back to the diner. But by the time they got there, the girl was already dead. Her throat had been slit, and the cook was gone. Left a note saying their meals were all free, and thanking them for the tip."

I shudder.

Larry doesn't see, or maybe Larry just thinks it's that delicious fear that comes with a good ghost story, but either way, he keeps going. "The one trucker they'd left back on the road, see, he doesn't know she's dead. So when she comes walking down the road a few minutes after the police take her boy away, he just thinks she got tired of waiting. Tells her that her boyfriend's dead, and she cries so hard. Cries like her heart's been broken. The trucker, he's a good guy, and he asks if there's anything he can do."

"So she asks him to take her home," I say, in a whisper.

"Yeah." Larry nods. "She's cold, so he gives her his coat, and he drives her all the way back to where she started from. Lets her off in front of her very own house. It's not until the next day he realizes that he left his coat, and so next time he's driving that route, he stops by. Figures he'll see how she's been doing. Only the police are waiting. The police have been waiting ever since her body was found, tucked into her own bed, with her throat cut ear to ear, wearing a stranger's coat."

"God." The ways the story twists and changes never fail to surprise me. People are nothing if not inventive in their lies.

"He tried to say he was innocent, but nobody believed him. He was executed, and when they buried him, this pretty little girl came up to wife right next to the grave, and said she was sorry; said she didn't mean for that to happen. She just wanted to go home. Then she walked away. The wife realized who she was, and ran after, but she was already gone, like she'd never been there...except for the coat. The trucker's coat, hanging on a tombstone."

"That's a new version," I say, if only to break the silence that the story leaves behind. "I haven't heard that one before."

"Really? There are others?"

"Hundreds." The weariness in voice could be used to veil every star on the ghostside. The smell of lilies is strong now. Not much longer.

"I guess that little ghost-girl gets around."

"You have no idea."

***

The road signs flicker and blur in the dark outside the cab, headlights cutting a bright road through the night. Larry chatters about inconsequential things, all of them mingling and blurring like the signs, until they're nothing but the final solo in the symphony of a man's life. Would it have gone differently if I weren't here distracting him? I don't think so. He's tired--it comes off him in waves, under the lilies and the ashes and the growing scent of empty rooms--and without me to talk to, he would just have dozed at the wheel. I don't condemn them. I don't save them, either. All I do is get them home.

The other truck looms out of the darkness like a dragon, whipping around a blind curve at the sort of speed that's never safe, not even when the sun is up. Larry swears and grabs the wheel, hauls it hard to the side, fights to dodge and then fights even harder to keep control of his truck. There's a crash from behind us, the sound of metal tearing into metal, and all the stars go out overhead.

Larry doesn't notice. Larry is too busy clinging white-knuckled to the steering wheel, eyes wide and terrified, breath coming in panting hitches. "That was...oh, Jesus. Rose, are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, Larry. I'm not hurt." Truth. I'm not the one he should be asking.

"That was--that was way too close. We have to go back. Did you hear that crash? He may have tipped. We have to go back."

I lean over, put a hand on his arm. The ghostroad is smoother than the real one, the street signs crisper, brands against the starless night. "We have to keep going," I say. "We have to get you home."