I haven’t been on Sparrow Hill since the night I died there. I used to drive it all the time, but that was decades ago, and even ghosts can forget the little things, like how sharp the first curve is, or how fast the trees block out all the light. Even during the middle of the day, it’s always dark on certain parts of the road, and this is a long way from the middle of the day.
The little things only distract me for a few seconds. A few seconds is all that it takes for Bobby to snare the lead, his taillights burning bloody through the darkness. I swear and slam my foot down on the gas, sending Gary leaping forward. The gap between us is still narrow, and we haven’t lost this yet.
Bobby’s car has a better engine, but my car has a better soul, and that can count for a lot once you’re on the ghostroads. Gary and I slide through the gap between Bobby and the side of the hill, tires chewing dirt for a few seconds before we’re back on solid pavement and blasting our way through the night. Now it’s Bobby’s turn to come racing up behind me. I hit the gas a little harder, hauling on the steering wheel, not allowing him to pass. Everything depends on this. I can’t lose.
We’re the first ones over the hill, the first ones to hit the marker that says it’s time to turn around again. Gary takes the turn smoothly, and we pass Bobby as we drive back into the shadows of the hill.
The pass is easy. That should bother me, but I’m too focused on the road ahead, too focused on winning—for Emma’s sake, for Gary’s sake, for the sake of my own soul. I don’t realize just how wrong it was for Bobby to let me pass him like that until his car comes blazing out of the darkness behind us like some dark avenging angel, and his bumper slams into mine.
The impact is hard enough to send me rocking forward into the steering wheel, Gary going briefly out of my control. He wobbles on the road, and I swear, scrambling to get us back on track. Bobby slams into us again and again, making it impossible for me to do anything but hang on. I’ve been here before. Terror is racing through my veins like a drug, because I have been here before, and I didn’t survive it last time, either.
He hits us one more time, and this time, I can’t keep control of the wheel, and Gary’s tires can’t keep their contact with the road, and we go tumbling down, down, down into the dark, falling into the endless shadows on the side of Sparrow Hill.
The first time I took this fall, I was alive, and the trauma of it knocked me out. This time, I’m dead, and so is my car. That makes a bit of a difference. So does the fact that this is the Sparrow Hill of the past—the one where my first car has already gone over the edge. I grab the wheel, shouting, “Trust me!” and steer us through the wreckage created by my crash. It’s hard. The ground is broken and filled with dangers, and my teeth rattle with every impact. Gary’s bearing the worst of it, and he doesn’t complain, although his radio flickers wildly, a dozen songs in a second, none lasting more than a single note.
There, up ahead of us: there’s the light of the road, dim by any other measure, but a beacon when viewed from the absolute darkness of the trees. We burst through the last barrier, and we’re out, tires screeching as we skid to a stop just past the finish line. Panting, I slump back in my seat. “You okay, honey?”
Gary’s radio spins; “Back in Black” blasts briefly through the cabin.
“Oh, good.” I sigh deeply, unfastening my belt. “I’ll be back. I hope.”
Gary doesn’t have an answer for that. The radio clicks off just before I shut the door.
Bobby Cross is pulling up as I walk back over to Bethany. His car has barely stopped before he’s out, striding toward us, grinning to beat the band. “Hand over that pink slip, honey-girl, and then we’ll see about what you can do for me to get it back,” he says.
“No,” says Bethany.
“No?” echoes Bobby, disbelieving. I share his sentiment, but don’t say anything; I just turn to her, and stare.
“No, she won’t be giving you her pink slip, but you’ll be giving her your hostage.” This time, Bethany’s smile is cold and cruel. “You lose.”
“Now, hold on one damn moment, missy,” he snaps. “She didn’t finish the race.”
“Yes, she did. Distance was never stated. Only cross the hill and back again. She finished the race. She just took an alternate route to the finish line.” Bethany points to the shattered underbrush marking the scene of my first crash. “Rose Marshall is today’s victor. Return the beán sidhe, and go.”
“You little—”
“I speak for the crossroads, Bobby,” says Bethany. Her voice is soft, and louder than thunder, all at the same time. “Do you truly wish to argue with us? We did not forbid you to drive her off the road, but neither did we forbid her to survive being driven. If you break this bargain with us, you break them all. Are you willing to live with the consequences of that choice?”
A look of utter terror flashes over Bobby’s face. He’s been in the dark for a long time, and all to stay young and beautiful forever. “No,” he says, hurriedly.
“Then return the beán sidhe, and do not test our patience in this way again. You can still claim the girl, if you can catch her fairly. You will not take her tonight.”
Still ashen, Bobby pulls Emma from his car and drops her to the pavement. He doesn’t look back as he climbs into the driver’s seat and blasts away, leaving the four of us alone.
Make that the three of us. When I turn to thank Bethany, she’s gone. I look at the place where she’d been for a moment. Then I nod, and make my way to Emma.
She’s still gagged, her hands tied behind her back, but her eyes are open, and focus on me as I kneel to pull the gag away. She coughs, weakly. “You didn’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“Hush,” I reply, and start working on the rope that binds her wrists. “You’re my friend. Besides, I couldn’t let you die before you got the chance to see my boyfriend again.”
“Boyfriend?” asks Emma, blinking.
“He’s the hot guy behind me. The one with the smokin’ wheels.”
Emma’s eyes flick past me, and widen as she sees Gary—the only possible “hot guy with smokin’ wheels” on the road. Then she starts to laugh, punctuating her amusement with more coughs. “You have to be kidding me.”
“Nope. I am working hard to redefine weird.” I straighten, helping her to her feet. “I’m getting a malted for this, right?”
“You’re getting all the malteds you can drink, forever,” she says, fiercely, and pulls me into a hug. “Thank you.”
“What are friends for?” I pat her back with one hand and turn to smile at Gary. He flashes his headlights at me. My smile widens. “Let’s go home.”
Last Dance Diner, says the neon sign, glowing through the darkness like a lighthouse guiding us safely into port. The lights are on, and there are people inside, being waited on by Emma’s staff. After the midnight, this level of the twilight seems almost bright enough to be the day.
We slide into the parking lot, and Emma pats Gary’s dashboard, saying, “I’ll send Dinah out with some fresh oil. Thanks again. For everything.”
His radio spins, and the Beatles tell her that they get by with a little help from their friends.
“Don’t we all?” Emma turns her smile toward me, only the weariness at the corner of her mouth betraying what she’s been through tonight. “You coming?”
“Yeah,” I say, and kiss Gary’s steering wheel before sliding out of my seat. He closes the door behind me, and my feet crunch in the gravel as I follow Emma toward the warm and welcoming light of home.
I won’t tell you this is how it ends. I won’t tell you this is where it ended. Those things would be lies. But I’ll tell you this: the road is as long as you want it to be, and every accident can be a blessing, if you’re willing to look past the bad parts and find the good ones, like the friends who wait for you on the other side. I won’t tell you this is my whole story, but it’s as much as I’m going to share right now.
If you ever need me, I’ll be there to get you
home. And in all the Americas, from midnight to noon and in-between, the truckers roll out, and the diners stand like cathedrals of the road, and the beat . . . the beat goes on.
The Price Family Field Guide to the Twilight of North America Ghostroad Edition
THE LIVING
Ambulomancers. Characterized by their extreme reluctance to trust themselves to any form of vehicular transit, these born wanderers are eternally on the move, gathering strength and power from the distance they have traveled. A novice ambulomancer will be able to control the road in small ways, finding food, shelter, and protection even within the harshest environments. An advanced ambulomancer will actually be able to interpret the language of the road itself, using this information to predict the future and manipulate coming events. Ambulomancers can be of any species, human or nonhuman, although humans and canines are the most common.
Routewitches. These children of the moving road gather strength from travel, much as the ambulomancers do, but the resemblance stops there. Rather than controlling the road, routewitches choose to work with it, borrowing its strength and using it to make bargains with entities both living and dead. The routewitches of North America are currently based out of the old Ocean Highway, which “died” in 1926, and are organized by their Queen, Apple, a young woman of Japanese-American descent who matches the description of a teenage girl who mysteriously disappeared from Manzanar during World War II. The exact capabilities of the routewitches remain unclear, although they seem to have a close relationship with the crossroads.
Trainspotters. Very little is known. They have been called “the routewitches of the rails,” but no direct information has yet been collected.
Umbramancers. These fortune-tellers and soothsayers are loosely tied to the twilight, but the magic they practice is more general than the road-magic of the routewitches and the ambulomancers. It’s unclear exactly what relationship the umbramancers have to the twilight. They have been seen visiting the crossroads; there are no known bargains involving an umbramancer.
THE DEAD
Beán sidhe. The beán sidhe are alive and dead at the same time, which makes them difficult to classify, but as they prefer the company of the dead, we are listing them here. These Irish spirits are associated with a single family until that family dies out, and will watch their charges from a distance, mourning them when they die. They regard this as a valuable service. We are not certain why.
Bela da meia-noite. The bela da meia-noite, or “midnight beauty,” is an exclusively female type of ghost, capable of appearing only between sunset and midnight. They enjoy trendy clubs and one-night stands. They’re generally harmless, and some have proven very helpful in exorcising hostile spirits, since they’d prefer that no one get hurt.
Crossroads ghosts. Marked by their eyes, which all sightings have described as “containing miles,” these ghosts speak for the crossroads, a metaphysical construct where those who are connected to the afterlife in some way are able to go and make bargains, the nature of which we still do not fully understand. The best known crossroads ghost is Mary Dunlavy, who tends to answer questions with “I’ll tell you when you’re dead.”
Crossroads guardians. The flipside of the crossroads ghost is the crossroads guardian, a being which was never alive in the traditional sense, but which now represents the interests of the crossroads in all things. When asked about crossroads guardians, Mary Dunlavy’s response consisted of a single word: “Run.”
Deogen. Also known as “the Eyes,” the deogen are noncorporeal, foglike, and often hostile. They will lead travelers astray if given the chance, and have been known to form alliances with other unfriendly spirits. A deogen/homecomer team-up is to be feared.
Einherjar. These dead heroes are supposed to stay in Valhalla, if it exists, so we don’t know why they sometimes crop up in the living world. They become solid in the presence of alcohol or violence, and they very much enjoy professional wrestling.
Gather-grims. Next to nothing is known about this class of psychopomp; we’re not honestly sure that they exist. We have heard them mentioned by other ghosts, but they are leery to answer questions, and will generally change the subject. Investigate with caution.
Goryo. These powerful ghosts are most often of wealthy backgrounds, and are commonly of Japanese descent. All known goryo were martyred, or believe themselves to have been martyred, leading to their undying rage. They can control the weather, which is exactly the kind of capability that you don’t want in an angry spirit fueled by the desire for vengeance.
Haunts. All haunts lost love at some point during their lives, although it may have been decades before they actually passed away. Their kiss can cure all known ailments. It can also kill. Which it does seems to be fairly arbitrary, and based on how close the person being kissed is to death. As haunts are not terribly bright as a class, they often misjudge their affections. Try not to encourage them.
Hitchhiking ghosts. Often referred to as “hitchers,” these commonly sighted road ghosts are generally the spirits of those who died in particularly isolated automobile accidents. They are capable of taking on flesh for a night by borrowing a coat, sweater, or other piece of outerwear from a living person. Temperament varies from hitcher to hitcher; they cannot be regarded as universally safe.
Homecoming ghosts. Called “homecomers,” these close relatives of the hitchhiking ghosts want one thing only: to go home. They are typically peaceful for the first few years following their deaths, when their homes are still recognizable. The trouble begins once those homes begin to change. Homecomers whose homes are gone will become violent, and in their rage, they have been known to kill the people who offer to drive them home.
Maggy Dhu. Black ghost dogs capable of taking on physical form. They can weigh over two hundred pounds, and their bite is deadly to the living. The Maggy Dhu are somewhat smarter than living canines, but they are still animals, and are often vicious. Interestingly, all types of dog can become Maggy Dhu after death; many are believed to have been Chihuahuas in life. They are believed to harvest souls.
Pelesit. Ghosts bound to living masters through an unknown ritual. They appear normal in the twilight, but have trouble manifesting fully in the living world unless they are at or near the scene of a recent murder.
Reapers. These dark-cloaked ghosts seem to exist only to guide the spirits of the recently deceased onto the next stage of their existence. We don’t know why. They do not speak to the living, and none of us has ever been willing to commit suicide for the sake of an interview.
Strigoi. The strigoi are an interesting case: the dead use the name to refer to a specific type of angry ghost, capable of becoming fully corporeal when it revisits the site of its death. These ghosts have no truly vampiric qualities, and seem to be unrelated to the cryptids of the same name.
Toyol. The toyol are sorcerously bound spirits of infants who died before or shortly after birth. The less said about them, the better.
White ladies. These spirits of abandoned or betrayed women can be of any age, united only by the tragedies that killed them. They are not technically road ghosts, but are often mistaken for hitchers, and have been recorded seeking rides as a cover for their violent revenge. White ladies are extremely dangerous, and should be avoided.
Playlist
“Weep For Us Little Stars” Guggenheim Grotto
“Mercy of the Fallen” Dar Williams
“Lollipop” Ben Kweller
“The Living Dead” Phantom Planet
“Earth Angel” Death Cab for Cutie
“Barton Hollow” The Civil Wars
“Arizona 160” Amy Speace
“El Viento del Diablo” Bruce Holmes
“Dance in the Graveyards” Delta Rae
“Heads Will Roll” Yeah Yeah Yeahs
“By Way of Sorrow” Julie Miller
“Shadows of Evangeline” Tracy Grammer
“Life is a Highway” Tom Cochrane
“Thunder Road” Bruce Springsteen
Acknowledgments
If you’ve made it this far, you’ve been to Buckley Township, and to the Last Dance Diner; you’ve driven the Ocean Lady, and all for the sake of winding up here, on Sparrow Hill Road. Thank you so much. Rose’s story has been a long and winding one, with at least three distinct points of origin. Those of you who know my music may have met her first in the song “Pretty Little Dead Girl,” which is a filthy, filthy lie, and those of you who follow my short fiction may have encountered her on The Edge of Propinquity, where I was a 2010 universe author. Wherever you first met Rose, it’s because of you, and people like you, that my little hitchhiking ghost has managed to travel this far. Words are not enough to express my appreciation.
Thanks to Sheila Gilbert at DAW for taking a chance on my ghost girl, and to Jennifer Brozek at The Edge of Propinquity for saying, “I’d like to know more about Rose.” Thanks to all my original Rosettes, Michelle Dockrey, Amy McNally, Erica Neely, and Meg Heydt, as well as Alisa Garcia, who joined our girl group for the recording of Stars Fall Home. Aly Fell brought Rose to something resembling life with his incredible cover; I am so lucky to have him. As always, thanks to Christopher Mangum and Tara O’Shea for website design and maintenance, to Kate Secor for admin duties, and to Michelle Dockrey for endless editorial.
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