Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan(59)

And she's not worth it.

Bethany screams as I walk out of the parking lot, out of Buckley, down into the twilight, where the ghostroads hold no surprises anymore. Even as the daylight fades around me, taking the smell of ashes and lilies with it, I think that I can still hear Bethany, screaming. I'll be hearing her for a while, I suppose. And I walk on.





Dead Man's Curve

A Sparrow Hill Road story

by

Seanan McGuire

Well, the last thing I remember, Doc, I started to swerve,

And then I saw the Jag sliding into the curve.

I know I'll never forget that horrible sight.

I guess I found out for myself that everyone was right.

You won't come back from dead man's curve

Dead man's curve

Dead man's curve

Dead man's curve...

~"Dead Man's Curve," Jan Berry and Roger Christian.



The preachers that walk and talk and trade their snake oil sermons among the living talk about death like it's some sort of vacation. "Going to your eternal rest," that's a popular one. So's "laying down all worldly cares," or my personal favorite, "at peace in the fields of the Lord." I've seen more than a few fields since I went and joined the legions of the dead. Most of them didn't have any Lord to speak of, and the few that did were dark, twisted places, controlled by ghosts who'd gone mad and decided that they were gods.

If there's some peaceful paradise waiting on the other side of the twilight, no one has ever been able to prove its existence—not in any way that I'm willing to accept, and this is my afterlife, right? I get to make requests every once in a while. I know the daylight exists, and I know the twilight exists, and if there's anything beyond that, I'd like to see a road map and a tourism brochure before I agree to go. The ghostroads aren't Heaven. They aren't Hell, either. They just are, eternal and eternally changing, and I've been here a lot longer than I was ever anywhere else.

The preachers that sell their snake oil to the dead don't preach about paradise. They preach about the sins of the living, and the silence of the grave, and the unfairness of our exile. But they never say what we've been exiled from, and if you're fool enough to ask, you won't be welcome in that church for very long.

Alive or dead, the world turns on faith, and on the idea that someday, somehow, we're going to get the chance to rest. I didn't believe it when I was alive. These days, I'm just happy if I have time to finish a cheeseburger before the shit starts hitting the fan.

***

The air conditioning is turned just a little bit too high, raising goose bumps on the tourists who walk, unprepared, out of the muggy Ohio summer. Most of them turn right around and walk back out again, unwilling to deal with this two-bit diner where the music's too loud and the air's too cold. They won't be missed. The folks who stay seem to know the deal they're getting when they come through the door, because they all bring coats, and they all seat themselves. I fit right in.

This is definitely my kind of place.

Best of all, one of the busboys is a routewitch, probably clearing tables to get his bus fare to the next stop on his private pilgrimage. He pegged me the second I walked through the door. The jacket I'm wearing is his, Varsity prize from some high school I've never heard of, and every time he passes the counter, he slides another plate of fries my way. If I believed in Heaven, I'd be willing to write this dirty little diner down as a suburb.

The sound of the door opening doesn't even get my attention this time. I'm too busy sizing up the waitress on duty, trying to figure out how I can talk her into giving me a milkshake—of her own free will, of course, since it doesn't count otherwise. Someone takes the stool next to me.

"How's the pie?"

It's an innocent question, a way to strike up conversation with a stranger. I've heard it before. I still smile as I turn my head toward the man beside me. "I wouldn't know. I'm just passing through, and I haven't had the pie yet."

That look is enough to let me take his measure—I've got some experience in this situation. Mid-twenties, brown hair, eyes the color of hard-packed median dirt. He's cute enough to know it and be cocky, but not cute enough to be arrogant about it. There's a difference. I like it.

His smile travels half the distance to a smirk as he asks, "Well, then, how would you feel about letting a stranger buy you a piece of pie?"

"Only if he's willing to stop being a stranger." I offer my hand. "Rose."

He takes it, shakes once, and lets go. "Jamie. So you're not from around here?"

"Nope. I just rolled in from Michigan, and I'll be heading out as soon as I find a car that's going my way." This is another familiar script; I could recite it in my sleep. "I'm taking some time to see the country, you know?"