Backwater

Trying to find the right word to describe the feeling he had when driving down these dark lonely roads at night, Greg had settled on ‘unsettled’. He wasn’t happy with it. The word didn’t seem to convey the sheer complexity of emotional hues he experienced. There was a touch of dread, a shade of defiance, a hint of anticipation mixed in along with several others; a sense of the uncanny; a suggestion of being overwhelmed by the enormity of those hidden plains and invisible hills out beyond the windscreen, in the dark. These roads were not only eerie, but dangerous. Narrow, with sharp slopes looming over them and steep ones falling away into blackness below. Weaving through this treacherous hillside led to single lane road which cut through the forest. The headlight beams scraped the ancient, dry brick walls.

Tinagulen Pass, a little scar, a convenient shortcut. While definitely short, it was also a risky proposition. Though the road itself was a straight mile through the woods, it acted as a crossroads, between the ghost stories of urban legend and the more morbid and grim reality of fatal road traffic accidents. There’d been four that year already. More were likely since winter had once again turned up on cue, the moment the clocks were turned back. Greg never liked taking the pass but it was either that or a 35 minute trip which lead through Wraithlin and he was in no hurry to travel through that dump again. Every time he had he ended up in a state of depression for a few hours. Wraithlin’s squalour made it look like a shanty town in a failed state during some kind of civil war.

The streets were filled with empty store fronts, boarded up windows covered in graffiti scrawl. Great piles of rubbish accumulated outside those abandoned shops. Some of the trash had avalanched onto the uneven paving, strewn across the streets between a few burned out and rusting cars. Wraithlin was the sort of place where fat women in leopard-print and cartoonish make-up rapidly smoked cigarettes while eating fish suppers outside the one remaining chip shop, next to the one remaining pub, where their drinks were waiting. A town where scrawny, dangerous looking young men paraded about looking for people to stab. They all wore striped track-suit bottoms. Most of them also wore matching stripes across their cheeks, battle scars. Wraithlin was the type of town where one could see a semi-dressed infant, sitting in a gutter playing with the collected silt of garbage blocking a drain.

A couple of minutes driving though a creepy forest wasn’t great but it was better than the alternative and, more importantly, it got Greg home quicker. Nonetheless, every time he drove through those claustrophobic trees, he expected to see some car, either on the side of the road, or speeding towards him with no mercy. This was unlikely, it was very late, not long from the slow turn into morning. Even the suicidal racer-boys were likely to be in bed.

Chris, his workmate was one such fool. He used to brag about fast late-night drives through the country, got excited by them. Greg wasn’t that bold, to him the whole thing was a chore.

He came out through Tinagulen pass. The forest vanishing behind left him elated which was always the favourite part of the night. Turning north on the western slope of the hills was his second. The road looked down and across a black expanse filled with twinkling lights of distant towns and beyond that only the horizon and the twinkling lights of distant star-systems. Civilisation, the mere sight of it, was comforting. It also signified that the worst was over. There was one more steep decent, then on to the A109 and soon after, home. The hills took a steep curve east and then the road began to descend, sharply, to ground level. It was a two-lane stretch, tight, but not much of a concern, not normally. Greg took the turn and went over the final hump and began the descent, his foot resting gently on the brake pedal.

He could see the long slope in front of him, plummeting into the distance, the lane lines two large stripes getting closer to each other the further they got away. He was keeping his wits about him. It was only half a mile but it was still risky. There was no-one in view, which made him feel confident until he looked in his rear-view mirror.

All heat seemed to shudder out of his body through the nape of the neck when he saw her in the back-seat. Those eyes. She was dust grey, almost the colour of a statue, but with no gleam of polished stone. The ghastly vision’s skull was almost apparent beneath her mummified skin making her teeth sneer beneath the remnants of her rotting, withered lips. Every part of her was the dull colourless grey except her eyes, disturbingly wide. She glared at him with white orbs that almost glowed, her pupils all black, reflected the light like mirrors.

Upon witnessing her, she screamed as she flooded towards him, not from the back seat, but out through the rear-view mirror. She tore through the intervening space until it seemed like her dark gaping howl might swallow him. He felt her rippling through him, like barbed wire made of burning ice, and she was gone. Greg was dumbfounded, terrified and panting. He could hardly hear it because his heart was thumping in his ears, drowning everything out. He panicked, wasn’t he driving? He was still gripping the wheel, which was good. He remembered he was now hurtling down a hill.

About fifty yards closing rapidly was, by the side of the road, a broken down car and a bearded man waving. On a normal evening Greg would not have stopped but he was so shaken that he needed to speak to someone, anyone. He pulled down the window as he stopped by the man.

“Life saver!” He heard the man say cheerily as he did.

Greg opened the window. “What’s the problem?”

The man smiled. “This piece of shit broke down about an hour ago, and wouldn’t you fucking know it, you can’t get a signal out here,” he said waving his phone around in his hand. “Any chance you can give me a lift?”

“Absolutely.” Greg said. “Hop in.”

He popped the doors and the man thanked him before climbing into the front passenger seat. “Name’s Matt, by the way, Matt Gow. Thanks for this.”

“No problem Matt. Greg Smith. Where am I taking you?”

“Hopefully, Livingston.” Matt said, pulling off his hood and woolly hat, revealing erratic curls of dirty blond hair.

“You’re in luck.” Greg replied, his heartbeat was slowing, he felt calmer.

“Anywhere near Elimont Drive?”

“I can drop you off there, sure.”

“Brilliant, thanks man.” Matt said, and they were off, leaving the heap of dead car by the side of the road. Greg didn’t care, he was still freaked out and was glad to have Matt in the car with him.

“No problem. So what do you do that had you out at this time of night?” Greg asked.

“Ah, well, this is going to sound real stupid, but well I’m a researcher for a TV show,” Matt confessed. Greg noticed he was quite young, perhaps still in his early twenties. “And I was, uh, out doing some research.”

“That doesn’t sound stupid.” Greg answered.

“Yeah, well I haven’t told you which show. I work for…” Matt paused, to deliberately sigh, “Ghost Night.”

“Oh,” Greg answered, his disappointment saturating the sound. “Well, I suppose we all have to start somewhere.”

“I know, it’s shit, but yeah, we all got to start somewhere.” Matt laughed.

They reached the bottom of the slope and a long row of street-lights and the luxury of an empty four lane road which headed eastwards, where town lay, waiting for them. Greg already felt better. Having Matt in the car had helped his sense of reality return and he was already dismissing what had happened earlier as an attack of his over-active imagination. “So, you ever seen a ghost?” Greg asked.

Matt shook his head, “nope, not a one. Faked a few though.”

Greg laughed lightly. “Really?”

Matt nodded “Yeah, it’s all bollocks. Half of what we claim, we make up. One of the best ones we did, was in a place down south, some abbey, or cathedral, we’d done a few back to back so I can’t recall which one. The crew managed to work a way to open and close one of the old windows by remote control. So the place was freezing. Then we got this large sheet shaped like a man, right, so we soak it, stick it in the microwave until it’s scalding hot, then we get a coat-hanger and leave it in the room until the cameras come in when it shows up on infra red, just as we yank it out through the open window.”

“Heh, tricks of the trade.” Greg answered, now feeling a bit less uncertain that he’d imagined the woman, conjured up those horrifying eyes.

“I’d always wanted to do this area, there are so many good ghost stories from around the hills here, you ever heard of Wraithlin’s phantom cyclist?”

“No, I’m not from around here originally.” Greg answered.

“Ah. Well apparently for the last half a century or so, the folks of Wraithlin believe the streets of the entire town are haunted by the spirit of wee Stewart McClintoch. A kid that got hit by a bus years ago. The legend goes that late at night people will hear the ringing of his cycle’s bell and turn to see him charge towards them before disappearing.”

“Not familiar with it, but as I said I’m not from around here.” Greg replied. He was beginning to feel... unsettled.

“Then of course, there’s the Grey Witch.” Matt said, in a much more sombre tone. That’s a weird one.”

“Is it?” Greg said, he wanted to change the subject, Matt’s words were causing him to experience the sensation of spider-like fingers slowly creeping up his back.

“Yeah. See there’s apparently a ghost of a grey witch that haunts the exit of Tinagulen Pass, but this one has a curse associated with it.” Matt said.

Was that familiar? Had Greg not heard something about a witch’s curse? “Yeah?”

“Yep. As I say this is where it gets strange, because the curse is that those who witness her, end up killing people.”

He had heard that, it was in a court-case. Some gangster had murdered a rival drug dealer, said he had no idea who the other man was and that’s he’d been forced to by a grey ghost. It was a preposterous attempt at an insanity plea, no doubt. Yet Greg did doubt. “That rings a bell,” he answered. “A recent trial.”

“Yeah Darren Tillson. He’s not the first, there are six men in Saughton who all claimed they murdered people because of a Grey Ghost.”

“Six?!” Greg exclaimed, that seemed inordinate.

“Yeah, some of them are decades apart. The oldest has been in there since the eighties, but it goes back further.”

Greg didn’t want to know. “So there’s something there maybe?”

Matt smirked. “What do you mean?”

The smirk was off-putting, made Greg slightly defensive. “It’s hardly a coincidence then is it?”

Matt frowned and nodded. “Certainly not, they just all used the story they’d heard in order to try and sustain it. Maybe get a lighter sentence of add a bit of notoriety to their names. You don’t think they actually saw a ghost do you?”

His tone had turned to mockery Greg shrugged it off, the kid was smug, so had he been at that age. “Well that’s the most plausible solution, sure.”

They drove on for a few moments in silence. “Look the story of the Grey Witch goes back a long way,” Matt began, trying to cut the tension. “She was a real person, Nancy Trice her name was. The story went she cursed those who had imprisoned and tortured her and that her evil would live on. Something like that. Now people see her and murder others, it’s pure myth.”

“All I’m saying is perhaps someone did actually see something.” Greg said.

“A retard maybe.” Matt shrugged.

Greg had had enough. He slammed on the brakes. “Get out of my car.” He stated.

Matt looked shocked. “What? Have I done something to offend you?”

“Just, get out of my car.” Greg hissed, annoyed that Matt wasn’t doing as instructed.

“Look, this is silly. If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry, I just don’t think there is such a thing as ghosts.”

“You think I did?” Greg growled.

Matt’s attitude changed. “You’ve seen a ghost?”

“Yes, tonight, that Grey Witch you mentioned. She was in the rear-view mirror. I saw her plain as day.” Greg said, no longer unsure at all.

“Oh shit? Really? Man, you’ve got to give me an interview.” Matt said.

Greg was disgusted. This man didn’t care about what had happened to him, the sheer overwhelming terror he’d felt. No, to him Greg was just another retard who believed in ghosts, an arsehole who he needed to further his career. One who didn’t mind admitting what he did was fakery. For all Greg knew he’d somehow faked the event earlier, just so he could capitalise on it. It was, after all, a bit too much of a coincidence he’d be waiting yards from where Greg had seen it. Far too convenient. “Get out of my fucking car.” Greg insisted.

“Fuck sake. Just take me home eh? I’ll not say another word.” Matt responded, folding his arms, a sign he wasn’t going anywhere.

Greg took the keys out of the ignition. “We’re not going anywhere, get out of my car.”

Matt shook his head and looked at Greg, appalled. “Seriously?”

“I’m not going to tell you again.” Greg stated.

“Fine, thanks for nothing, you fucking dick.” Matt said and climbed out of the car, slamming the door hard as he left.

Greg put the keys back in the ignition and watched as Matt attempted to use his phone. He groaned raised it into the air, to try and get connection. “You’ve left me in the middle of nowhere. Come on man, let me back in.” He whined.

Greg started the car and began to drive away, just in time for Matt to manage to boot the back left door and shout “Fuck you.”

Greg grabbed the gears, stuck it into reverse, hard, and slammed down on the pedal. Matt yelped as he went thump-thump under the vehicle, his phone glittered in an arc as it spun away from him. He screamed for help when Greg drove over him again, but the second time Greg reversed, Matt’s voice was cut out by a crunching popping noise that was accompanied by a drop from the back left tyre. The fourth and fifth time there was little resistance.

Greg got out of the car to look at his handiwork. He’d been properly enraged but now looking at the mess that he’d left under his car he felt sick, bewildered, offended by his own actions. He looked around in a panic, looking for Matt’s phone, he needed to contact the emergency services.

The phone was in her hand, she offered it, all he had to do was walk back and take it from her. She was barely visible against the night, even this close she was just an unsettling grey blur. Only those dreadful bright eyes were vivid, and those were terrifying. He walked over to her, shuddering, in tears and horror and took the phone from her vile spindly fingers. As he did, she gasped a sigh of pleasure that took her with it into the night like a breeze. She was gone.

He dialled 999. “Emergency, which service, fire police or ambulance?” the tired male voice asked. The signal was pristine.