Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan(50)

When he opened them again, Rose was gone...and when he got home, the police were there, waiting to tell him what had happened.

Waiting to tell him what happened on Sparrow Hill Road.

***

"Wait--I know this one," says one of the cheerleaders, breaking the trance I was close to falling into. "Doesn't he go back to her house to be all, dude, what the hell, and then there's his coat, folded on her pillow?"

"I thought it was on her tombstone," says another cheerleader.

"She doesn't have a tombstone, dummy, she, like, just died the night before. So it has to be on her bed." The cheerleaders look to me, waiting for me to answer them, to choose a winner in this strange little contest.

Most of me is still on a hot summer night in Michigan, Gary's arms around me and the truth of my own death still something I can deny. "I don't know," I say, simply. "That isn't part of the story. Rose walked back up the pathway wearing his coat, and somewhere between the car and the door, she was just...gone. She was gone for a long time after that. But eventually, people started seeing her again. Standing on Sparrow Hill Road. Looking for a ride home." It took me years to learn that I didn't have to make that loop over and over again, that I could go elsewhere if I wanted to. Hitchers are only bound by geography when they want to be. And all I ever wanted was to get out of Buckley.

"That's not much of a story," says a cheerleader, dubiously.

"It's the only one I have."

"It would be better if, like, the man who ran Rose off the road sold his soul at the crossroads so he could live forever," says yet another cheerleader. The others murmur agreement. "Only he didn't catch her ghost before she woke up and caught a ride, because he was still pretty new at the harvesting business, and she got lucky. If her boyfriend hadn't been there, and she hadn't been so in love with him that she manifested, that driver would have had her."

I feel myself go cold. Not the crushing chill of the ghostroads, but the simple, freezing cold of terror. "That...might be a good story," I force myself to say.

"Yeah, only because he didn't get her, she's stuck," says the first cheerleader, jubilantly. "'Cause she can't make herself move on while that guy's still out there, killing people and feeding them into his car."

"She's still out there. Hitching around the country, looking for a way to stop him."

"Maybe she's finally found it. But she's not sure yet. She's still scared."

"Poor little ghost."

"Doomed to walk the Earth as a restless shade, hunting for Bobby Cross."

All the cheerleaders are looking at me now, gazes calm and interested, like I'm a cat toy--the best one they've had in a long time. The lightning flashes outside, and for a moment, the shadows they throw against the walls have winged helmets instead of artfully-tousled hair, hold spears instead of ice cream spoons. The shadows fade, and they're cheerleaders again, just looking at me, waiting.





"But Gary--poor Gary--he has to be pretty old now, doesn't he?" asks a cheerleader. "Maybe that's her out, if she wants it. When her true love dies, she won't have anything else to tie her to this world. She can take him to the last exit, and go through by his side. It would be so romantic, don't you think? If she waited?"

I stand abruptly. "I'm sorry, Emma. I'm going to go."

Her eyes flash cat-green in the dark, and she says, "No, you're not." There's no command in her words, only fact, calm and simple as anything. She raises her hand, snaps her fingers, and the lights come back on.

The cheerleaders's uniforms have changed again, going from Buckley Buccaneer black and yellow to silver and red, with "Valhalla Valkyries" written across their sweatshirts and blazoned on their gym bags. They smile at my expression, starting to gather their things, starting to get ready to go.

"It was nice to finally meet you, Rose," says one of the cheerleaders. When she smiles, I can see a thousand years of warfare in her eyes. "It's always nice to meet someone who knows that you can't win if you let yourself stop fighting. You have our blessing, for what it's worth. Bobby Cross has denied us our duty too many times." If her smile was terrifying, her frown is a thousand times worse. How can he cross these girls? They look like they could pick their teeth with souls.

But they also look sweet and soft and sugar-candy careless. That's the face they wear as they hug Emma, offer their farewells, and head out the diner door. The rain stops as soon as the first one steps outside. No surprise there. If the stories are right, they have the storms on their side.

"Thanks for stopping by," says Emma, escorting the last of them out the door. Then she turns, and smiles at me. "How are you feeling?"