David Wisehart - Blood Alley

“There’s an accident up ahead,” she said.

Trevor replied, “I don’t see it.”

“You will.”

Paper money swirled above the road.

The bank truck. She’d read about a bank truck accident.

A hundred dollar bill flew into the windshield.

And through it.

It fluttered a moment between Trevor and Claire, then sailed out the back as Trevor drove slowly ahead. More money followed. A flock of currency floated through the Hummer. Claire reached out to grab one of the hundred dollar bills, but her hand passed right through it.

Trevor laughed. “If I were a ghost, I’d be rich.”

Claire saw a vehicle in the road. “Trevor!”

It was the bank truck, laying upside down across the highway. Trevor hit the brakes. The Hummer skidded. He regained control and steered slowly around the truck.

Beyond the bank truck lay a smoldering school bus, torn in two.

And corpses.

Too many corpses.

They were teenagers, girls wearing softball uniforms or cheerleading uniforms, though some of clothes had burned beyond recognition. Some were still burning. Most of the young victims lay silent in the road. A few crawled, bleeding, crying.

Trevor’s eyes were anguished.

Claire put a hand on his knee to comfort him. “They’re not real, Trevor.”

“They were.”

Cool air breezed in through the sunroof. Despite the horrific scene, the air did not smell of burning flesh or gasoline, but of mesquite and creosote, the natural smells of the desert.

“It happened years ago,” Claire reminded him. “We can’t help them now. We can only help Ethan.”

Trevor nodded, and eased the car forward through the carnage. The Hummer weaved in and out of twisted metal, broken bus seats, and mangle corpses.

Claire studied the victims as they passed. “Nineteen people died.”

Dakota said, “Claire, what’s happening?”

“We’re seeing the old accidents on Blood Alley.”

“Why?”

“He wants us to see this. He wants us to know. Maybe because—”

“No, I mean, if they all died…why are we still alive?”

Because of me.

The thought came suddenly, but she knew it was true. She felt it. There was some connection between herself and the Highwayman. He could have killed them already. But he was leading them on. Towards something. Towards—

The farmhouse.

A bleeding cheerleader stepped out of the darkness and onto the road. Her clothes were torn, her face gashed and dripping blood. A shard of window glass protruded from her forehead. Below the cut, a fold of skin drooped and covered one eye.

Trevor slammed the brakes. Too late. The Hummer plowed straight into her.

And passed right through.

When the Hummer came to a stop, the wounded girl stood where the car was. Her legs were hidden beneath the floor, but her torso appeared between the seats.

Horrified, Dakota raised a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

The dead girl turned to face Claire.

Can she see me?

The fold of skin on the cheerleader’s forehead began to peel off. She touched her head. Felt the loose skin. Curious, the girl pulled on the skin to see what it was.

Her entire face peeled off, exposing muscle, bone, blood—

Trevor hit the accelerator. Tires burned rubber as the Hummer picked up speed, leaving the cheerleader behind. He drove over the corpses in the road, but the tires never felt them.

The burning school bus lay directly ahead, blocking the road.

“Stop! Trevor!” Dakota yelled. “Oh my God!”

Trevor drove into the burning school bus.

And through it.

As Claire passed through the flames, she felt no heat. A dying woman knelt on the floor of the bus. Her chest was torn open. Her intestines had spilled into her lap, but her exposed heart was still beating. The woman stared at Claire. Claire screamed. The woman screamed. Claire’s head passed through the woman’s head as their screams became one.

The Hummer cleared the wreckage, and raced into the darkness.

Trevor laughed and eased up on the gas.

“Are you insane?” Dakota asked. “You could have killed us!”

“Relax,” said Trevor. “They’re just ghosts. They can’t hurt us.”

Claire said, “You don’t know that.”

When they reached the desolate farmhouse, Trevor pulled over to the shoulder and idled the car. The farm stood fifty yards from the highway. There was an old gray barn out back. There was no driveway, no access road. Just a short stretch of desert leading to the porch.

The porch light was turned on.

“No lights inside,” Dakota said.

Claire held up the news clipping, comparing the farmhouse to the one in the photo. “It’s the Fowler’s house.”

“I don’t think anyone lives there,” Trevor said. “The place is falling apart.”

He was right. The original color had peeled from the wood, and there were holes in the wall large enough to stick a hand through. A screen door hung loose from a single hinge, and creaked softly in the wind.

Claire said, “If the light works, the phone might work.”

“No telephone poles,” Trevor pointed out.

No electrical lines either, Claire noted.

Dakota asked, “Who would want to farm in a desert?”

They were at the edge of the foothills. Claire saw trees in the mountains. In a rainy year, the farm might have been viable.

Not this year.

The Fowlers hadn’t lived an easy life.

“We’re not going in there.” Trevor shifted into gear and rolled forward.

Claire pulled up on the handbrake. “I am.”

She opened her door.

Trevor grabbed her arm. “Claire, don’t—”

She wrenched her arm free. “This could be the answer.”

“This place has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me.”

Claire stepped outside.

“It’s just some rotting old building,” Trevor said.

I have to know who I am.

She walked to the house and heard the Hummer following her, rattling behind over rocks and sagebrush.

When she reached the front porch, Claire hesitated. The steps were rotted wood. One of the boards had busted through.

The Hummer parked behind her. Its headlights threw Claire’s shadow across the porch.

She caught movement in the corner of her eye, and glanced up at the window. A dark figure passed through the reddish moonlight.

Someone’s home.

Claire listened for sounds coming from inside the house, but heard no footsteps.

Dakota’s voice, muffled by the window: “This place gives me the creeps.”

The car horn sounded, and Trevor called out, “Hello!”

No answer.

“I’m going in,” Claire said.

She took the stairs carefully, testing each step before applying her full weight. The boards creaked under her. Trevor followed Claire up to the porch. Dakota got out of the Hummer, but held back to put on her sweater. It was chilly out. Claire considered going back to put on another layer, but—

No excuses!

Claire moved aside the broken screen and knocked on the front door.

Paint flaked off.

She looked up at the porch light. It was on, but the bulb was broken.

Trevor saw it, too. “That light,” he said. “That’s not natural.”

Claire peered in through the window. Moonlight stabbed the darkness inside. All she could see was a wooden floor.

“Looks empty,” she said.

She rapped lightly on the glass. “Hello?”

“Let’s go,” Dakota said, her voice high and tense. “There’s nothing here.”

Trevor jiggled the door knob. “Locked.”

Claire tried it for herself, and the handle turned free. The door opened a crack.