The Long Ride Home

The car wizzes to a stop alongside the road right next to an old building that looks like a railroad station. There is no railroad track in sight, though. The woods stand full-chested and thick against the building’s rear, and the road dips down into a woody hollow and then up again over the crest of the hill. The night is a charcoal sketch crowned by a gray sky; the only relief is a yellow pole light beside the faux railroad station.

“This might be a long ride home,” Clay says, clicking open the driver’s door.

The ladder strapped to the roof of the car sits cock-eyed, drunkenly hanging off toward the right side of the car’s nose.

Clay stands in the open door and loosens the straps holding the front of the ladder onto the roof rack. He yanks the ladder back to the center.

Casey glances at her phone. A little “X” blinks at her from the top corner of her screen. She looks back out the windshield. The car’s lights cut a narrow swath along the edge of the road; weeds dance in the wind, casting shadows against each other, while tree limbs tangle a black frame around the scene. The weeds and underbrush flash multicolored in the wavering shadows– white, orange, burnt-brown, and mustard. A rainy musk blows through the open door as Clay steps down and walks toward the trunk.

A truck whistles past, taillights angry-red as they wink into darkness over the top of the hill.

Clay returns with another strap, its tail flapping against the side of the car. Casey watches him through the sunroof, and his face is stern against the gray sky.

“The highway won’t be fun,” Casey says.

It’s hard to tell if Clay’s frown deepens. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He ratchets the strap, and the ladder yanks unevenly back and over-corrects to the left.

Not for the first time, Casey wishes they hadn’t come to the middle of nowhere to buy this ladder.

“Do you want me to pull in the other direction as you tighten it?” Casey calls through the sunroof.

Clays frown flexes. “It won’t help.”

Casey taps her phone against her lap and looks back through the windshield. Something catches at the edge of her vision, and she turns. A shadow flashes at the corner of a shed that sits near the edge of the jaundiced pool of light coming from the pole.

The breath catches in Casey’s throat, and she feels her palms go clammy with fright.

Just then a raccoon scurries from the dark beyond the shed, sits for a moment to scratch its face, and then scampers on into the trees.

Casey lets out her breath.

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” Casey says.

“It’s fine,” Clay grunts, working at the ratchet again, and again, the ladder inches toward the left.

Casey sighs and taps her knee up and down. Something about this weird rail-less railroad station unnerves her. It feels dead and half-decayed in the parchment-paper light. And the way the hills cut them off from view on either side gives Casey a claustrophobic vibe.

Raindrops splash against the windshield, and Casey focuses on them for a moment– the half smiley face they form. In the distance behind them, something steps into the road, just at the edge of the headlights cut. A black leg and shoulder flash out of the trees and then duck back into the shadows. Casey’s focus narrows on the spot and her free hand curls around her door handle.

The end of the strap thunks against the sunroof as Clay continues to struggle. Casey jumps and glances up at him.

“Clay,” she whispers, but doubt blossoms through her like a mushroom cloud, stripping her nerves of all solidity.

Casey searches the treeline on the opposite side of the road. Halfway up the opposing incline, a dark figure walks on the very edge of the light. His clothes seem to suck up all the light, as if he’s just a black void devouring the precious rays as he approaches.

Just then, headlights from a passing car unzip the tip of the hill and pass down into the dip like a searchlight roving. The lights hit the walking figure but don’t seem to illuminate him. His shadow leaps long against the hill and then the car slushes by with a hiss of tires in the rain.

The dark seems complete as the car disappears.  For a moment, Casey loses sight of the figure. Her eyes panic, racing over the road. He’s gone.

“Clay.”

“I’m almost done,” Clay says, annoyed.

Casey continues scanning the road. Just as Clay steps off the frame of the door, the figure steps out of the woods directly in front of their car.

“Clay!” Casey squeals.

Clay looks at the figure–for a moment, he stands suspended, motionless, bewildered.

“Get in the car!”

But Clay continues to gape.

The figure appears to be nothing but shadow, even in the full glare of the headlights.

“Clay! Get in the car.”

But the figure walks toward them, and Clay remains mesmerized.

Casey scrambles to get her knee over the stick shift, but her long leg gets jammed beside the steering wheel. 

The figure crosses over toward the driver’s side.

“Get in the car, Clay! Get in the car!”

But it’s already too late.

© 2021 Katie Baker


Prose Lovers! Like a lot of my writing lately, this story was inspired by events that happened with my boyfriend. Sometimes the situations he gets me into make perfect story fodder. Do any of you Prose Writers and Lovers out there find yourself in the middle of moments where you think: this would make a perfect short story?! Add a little of this, a dash of that– like coming up with a new recipe to enhance the moment. I would love to hear some of your inspirations. Drop a comment. And thank you for liking my posts! 💕- K.

4 thoughts on “The Long Ride Home

  1. It happens all the time. I’ve been jotting down events that have transpired and patches of dialogue (both involving me and overheard) on napkins, receipts, coasters and just about anything that ink would stick to before I got a smartphone. And if it couldn’t be turned into a story straight away, then it got chucked into a folder for use in some project or other at a later date.

    Like

    1. I love that!! I wish I did it more often. I’ve been trying to get better with using my smartphone notes lately. I’ve always been a notebook snob 😅 But i’ve determined the actual writing is what matters the most. Not the way my handwriting looks on a page. I take you as inspiration!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I actually wrote a post about it a while back because that folder became a box filled with things I have no recollection writing (which was the purpose of jotting it down in the first place because I knew I’d forget).

        The main reason I started a blog was to commit as much of that content to stories so that I wasn’t left with a box full of regret when my card was finally punched.

        My style is nowhere near perfected yet, but it gets a story told and that’s just fine by me.

        A nickel’s worth of free advice: write whichever way feels most comfortable to you. Don’t let technology get in the way of your process. In the end, the only person you need to satisfy is yourself.

        Pardon the mini lecture. I’m officially stepping off my soapbox now.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. I enjoyed your mini lecture. I’m glad your making sure you have a folio of stories told rather than a box full of regrets. In a way, that’s a similar reason why I’ve committed to my blog. I love writing, telling stories, musing out loud with a pen.

        Thank you for the free advice, too! It’s good stuff.

        Liked by 1 person

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