In his heart, Wyatt understood the lines were there for public safety. In fact, both sets of lines were accompanied by rumble strip grooves cut in the highway beneath them so if a driver started to doze at the wheel and his car began to cross the lines he would be awakened by the sound and feel of his tires on the grooves and it might prevent him from hurting himself or others. Like the lines themselves, the rumble strips were there to protect motorists and to help enforce traffic control regulations.
“Control,” Wyatt thought suddenly. Yes, wasn’t that their real purpose? Wasn’t that the true reason for the lines? To control the flow of traffic? To control the actions of the motorists? Or perhaps their purpose was much more sinister than that.
He began to question if just maybe the double yellow lines were just one more method the government might be using to manipulate him and his fellow motorists; to force them to adhere to yet another ridiculous bureaucratic regulation. Control simply for the sake of control.
“What if there were no lines?” he thought to himself. Then he wondered if he suddenly found himself on a blank roadway with no lines in sight, would he stupidly veer over into the opposite lane, into the path of oncoming traffic and be involved in a collision? Or would he go off the roadway to the right and smash into a tree or maybe drive over an embankment? He was quite certain he would not. The very thought was ridiculous. But then again, if it were really dark, foggy, raining, or snowing heavily, without the benefit of the brightly painted lines he might inadvertently do just that.
So he reluctantly accepted that the true purpose for the lines was nothing sinister, but that they were simply there for his own welfare. In fact, he was beginning to question the rationale of his own earlier thoughts and was wondering why he was becoming so foolishly fixated on something as mundane and trivial as double yellow highway lines in the first place. The lines kept him driving safely on his side of the road the oncoming traffic on their side. But then Wyatt began to wonder if the lines really did do their required job of keeping people on their respective sides of the roadway after all.
Now Wyatt’s heart seemed to skip a beat when he realized the naivety of his last series of thoughts. The lines were just that; simply painted markings. They had no mystic or magical powers. In fact, they were not a real barrier in any true sense of the word. Even with the warning rumble strips cut into the road beneath the lines, they could do nothing to prevent someone from crossing over and slamming headlong into his car. Wyatt had read countless newspaper stories of drivers who had either passed out or had heart attacks while driving, then crossed the double yellow lines, crashing into the oncoming vehicles.
And how many accounts had he read of drunk drivers doing the same thing? Wyatt realized as if for the first time, the lines did absolutely nothing to protect him from the potential madness of the drivers in the oncoming lane. He was starting to realize what a game of Russian roulette it was to simply drive down the highway on a daily basis. Any driver he might encounter at any moment could be the bullet; the one destined to cross the lines, crash into him and take him out.
Then as if horribly on cue, a set of overly bright headlights appeared in the distance coming toward Wyatt in the opposite lane. At least he hoped the lights were still in the opposite lane. From his distance he couldn’t tell for certain. The lights could just as easily have been in his own lane, heading straight for him. This could be it, he thought; the one potential fatality fate had chosen to attach his name to. Wyatt broke out in a cold sweat, thinking about how the only thing standing between him, the oncoming car, and imminent death was a double yellow line painted on the road surface. His hands began to tremble as the headlights got closer.
He imagined a deadly scenario in which the driver of the oncoming car might have been depressed over some personal tragedy; perhaps an unfaithful wife or girlfriend or perhaps the upsetting death of a loved one. If the driver were despondent enough, he might very easily decide to drive insanely into Wyatt’s car in a sudden suicidal impulse. If that were to happen there would be no way Wyatt could get out of the vehicle’s path in time.
As the car got closer Wyatt saw it was still on its proper side of the road, but he didn’t feel in any way assured it would stay there. When the car got even closer Wyatt’s hands became wet with sweat and he could feel rivulets of perspiration trickling down the center of his back. Then a moment later it was over. The car had passed by and its taillights were a mere shrinking memory in his rearview mirror.
Wyatt began to wonder what he would have done if the person in the other car actually had come over into his lane. He looked over to the right of the roadway and saw about a two feet wide shoulder, which dropped off into a deep culvert for water drainage. A few feet beyond that was a row of telephone poles. There was absolutely nowhere for him to safely go in that direction.
Then he looked to his left, thinking that if a car came most of the way over into his lane he might be able to squeeze through on that side, but he saw another short shoulder and an even steeper drop off, behind which was a slight embankment thick with trees. Perhaps if he made it to the culvert on that side his car might be totaled, but at least he had a chance of surviving. Then the strange stream of thoughts once again raced through his mind; he truly was trapped between the lines on the highway like a prisoner with no means of escape.
“What in the hell is wrong with me?” Wyatt asked aloud, suddenly realizing the potential problems that would be brought on by implications the unfortunate series of emotions he had just experienced. “Wyatt, you idiot. You have got to get a grip.”
He had no idea what was going on with his head or why the weird luminescent double-yellow lines had brought on such feelings of discomfort, if not almost crippling terror. But whatever it might have been he had to make it stop and quickly. Wyatt still had to drive an hour to work each way every day and unless he could find some method to suppress the horrified emotional state he suddenly found himself in, he would not be able to return to his job. And Wyatt knew that no job meant no money.
For a moment he seriously considered turning around and heading home, realizing perhaps he was not as well as he originally assumed. “Maybe if I stay home for another day or two things will work themselves out and then I’ll be back to normal.” He had only traveled about ten of his fifty minute commute so he still had the majority of his trip ahead of him. But he knew the idea of turning around was impractical. What would he say to his wife? The terror he felt deep in the pit of his stomach was irrational, he was certain. He knew he felt fine physically, but it was his brain that for some reason seemed to be giving him all the trouble; that and those strange glowing double yellow lines.
As he cleared the top of a hill Wyatt could see the interstate out in the distance, not more than three or four miles away. He realized if he could make it to that major four-lane roadway with its guardrails and large grass-planted median strips separating the oncoming lanes he would be fine.
It can’t be more than five minutes away. Wyatt thought. If I can just avoid other cars for the next few miles, I will be home safe. That was when he saw a new set of headlights in the distance coming toward him.
“Oh my God, no!” Wyatt said. “Not another one.” Once again he immediately broke out in an icy sweat. First his upper lip and forehead began to lightly bead with moisture. The other car was getting closer now, its headlights growing in size. Wyatt was certain that the car was slightly veering over toward his side of the road.
The beads of sweat had now formed rivulets running down his face as well as the center of his back. Wyatt could feel his heart start to beat faster in his chest. He involuntarily gripped the steering wheel tighter although his palms were so wet he could barely maintain his hold.
Then he saw the car was definitely crossing over into his lane; Wyatt was certain of it. He could hear the steady thumping in his brain as his blood pulsed rapidly though his body. It grew louder by the second, sounding like the foot pedal of a heavy-metal drummer, hig
h on some illegal substance, manically slamming against a bass drum.
Wyatt felt a sudden pressure in the middle of his chest as if someone twice his size had just sat on top of him, trying to crush the very life out of him. He felt a sharp pain coursing down his left arm. The world around him started to fade and grow darker. He could scarcely hear the thudding of the rumble strips over the pounding of his heart. The last thing Wyatt saw were the headlights of the suicidal maniac’s oncoming car heading straight for him.
***
“Damn shame,” the township patrolman said to the state trooper in frustration.
“What do you suppose happened?” The trooper inquired.
The patrolman explained, pointing to the woman standing outside of a minivan, which was halfway off the opposite side of the highway and wedged down in the culvert.
“That woman over there said she was on her way to town to get a coffee before taking her two kids to daycare. The two kids are OK as well, thanks to their car seats.
Anyway, she said she was driving along when suddenly that car crossed the double yellow lines into her lane, heading right for her. Luckily, at the last minute she managed to turn sharply to her left and just miss getting hit. The driver of that sedan went off the road, down into the culvert, rolled over once, and slammed into a tree. It appears the driver was killed instantly.”
The trooper asked, “So what are you thinking? Heart attack?”
“Most likely,” the patrolman replied. “He is the right age, overweight, and his skin appears to be dusky in color, likely from lack of oxygen.”
“Well,” the trooper replied. “I suppose that lady and her two kids are lucky she was able to get out of the way at the last minute. Otherwise we would have a real mess to clean up. This is bad enough.”
The patrolman said, “Yeah. Every time something like this happens I realize just how vulnerable we are, when the only thing separating us from disaster is a painted double-yellow line.”
“I agree.” The trooper replied. “Kind of makes you not want leave home in the morning.”
Twick Oa Tweet
Conscience is no more than the dead speaking to us.
—Jim Carroll
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.
—Jim Morrison
Not a single one of the residents of the quiet upscale subdivision of Wellington Estates understood why it was that their reclusive neighbor, William Elverson, divorced, age forty-eight, hated Halloween with such a passion. And because of Elverson’s less than outgoing demeanor no one ever managed to feel close enough to the man to ask him why that might be. Or perhaps they simply didn’t care enough to try to discover the answer. But it was nonetheless obvious to everyone in the neighborhood that Elverson detested the holiday.
Every year, the entire subdivision went all out to make the holiday a festive event with elaborate house decorations including lights, props, and even a few animatronic displays. Some lawns were adorned with large cheerful-looking inflatable cartoon-like decorations. Others took a more sinister approach having chosen to transform their frontage into frightening graveyard scenes. Ghosts, ghouls, and goblins abounded, as did various incarnations of vampires, werewolves, zombies, famous Hollywood slashers and every monster imaginable.
A few of the residents even went to the next level of Halloween enthusiasm and converted their large two and three-car garages into makeshift haunted houses, complete with billowing gray fog and movie quality scenery with frighteningly realistic makeup and stereo sound effects. As a result on Halloween night literally hundreds of revelers walked through the development with their children, turning the entire neighborhood into one big Halloween party. As the word spread, families from other neighborhoods made the pilgrimage to see what new ideas the folks managed to come up with.
But not William; he would never do a single thing to participate in the annual festivities. In fact, most people couldn’t help but notice how every year on the evening of October thirty-first, when every other house in the neighborhood was aglow with Halloween decorations, William’s house was cast into darkness and his car was nowhere to be found. Ironically, in many ways the lack of decoration and the solitary darkness surrounding his home on Halloween night often made it seem more frightening and more sinister than even the most elaborately decorated property.
William’s absence likewise did not go unnoticed by the various kids of the neighborhood, especially those who were of the more malicious ilk. These creatively nefarious juveniles took the letter of the law when it came to “Trick or Treat” and felt that Elverson’s obvious absence and snubbing of their favorite holiday granted them carte blanche to play whatever pranks they could imagine and even commit minor acts of vandalism on the man’s property.
These hoodlums rationalized that if William had chosen not to be home on Halloween night to offer them treats then it was their right and perhaps even their duty to play any tricks on the man they deemed appropriate. As a result, Every November first William awoke to find the trees in his front yard draped with long, flowing streamers of toilet paper. On more than one occasion William had returned to his property Halloween night to find his doorbell had been taped down in the ringing position and the window to his storm door had been coated with soap-streaked vulgarities obviously added by some of the more daring of the neighborhood kids.
And on one unfortunate occasion, the legendary flaming bag of poo had been set afire, fortunately on his concrete walkway so no real damage could be done to his home. That particular incident ended up being more symbolic than effective and in reality was an exercise in futility, since William never was home to rush from the house to stomp out the fire, completing the gag.
If the people of the neighborhood would have taken the time to get to know William better, they might have possibly had a better understanding or at least an appreciation for his avoidance of the holiday. They would also know why he had been avoiding the holiday every year since he was just a child. But then again, William Elverson was not the type of person who cared enough to know or associate with any of his neighbors. He was a quiet, reclusive, and antisocial man who tended to keep to himself. Even the neighbors living right next door to William knew very little about him.
Elverson's lack of congeniality was largely the result of his melancholy disposition. Even before his divorce, he and his wife had been less than sociable, but since the split, he had become more of a loner and a recluse. This made him seem an oddball of the neighborhood.
This aspect of his personality however, had little to do with his displeasure with the Halloween season. That particular dislike was the result of an event that was much more horrifying and completely life changing. William had only been eight years old when an unspeakable tragedy had occurred, altering his personality forever.
William, who was known back then as Billy, and his best friend, Jimmy Jenson, had been trick or treating in their neighborhood on that fateful Halloween night forty years earlier. The two young boys had been friends forever, so it seemed, and every year they anxiously awaited the arrival of Halloween, which had been one of their favorite holidays.
The two boys enjoyed dressing in costumes and pretending to be someone or something they were not, as all kids did. They also loved and anticipated filling their sacks with candy and treats. Although they had participated in the trick or treat ritual for as long as they both could remember, that particular Halloween night was a very special time for both of them.
It was the first year the boys’ parents had consented to allow them to go from house to house unescorted. In the past, one or both of their parents had always gone along with them, waiting by the curb not only to protect them from any of the larger kids who might want to steal their treats but as a warning to the homeowners that they would be checking their boys’ treat bags and the candies before either of them would be allowed to eat any of it. There had been reports in the newspapers over the previous years about treat tampering, as well as urb
an legends of razorblades in apples and laxatives injected into chocolates and other such horrible acts. The presence of the parents was to serve as a deterrent to any such abhorrent behavior.
The lack of parental accompaniment that year was a significant turning point in both of the boys’ young lives as it indicated they were no longer considered little kids but were now big boys; old enough to trick or treat on their own. This was especially important to Jimmy, who had been burdened with a very noticeable speech impediment—what many of the neighborhood children referred to as “baby talk.” He said his Ls and Rs like Ws as in “Maawy had a wittle wamb,” sounding a lot like the cartoon character Elmer Fudd. He had been going to special speech classes at the elementary school to try to break him of the speech defect, but progress was slow going. Billy didn’t mind the way Jimmy talked because Jimmy was his best friend.
On that particular Halloween night, young Billy was dressed in a homemade pirate costume and Jimmy wore cowboy getup, complete with red felt hat and neckerchief. Billy had thought Jimmy’s costume was a bit too young looking for him and did nothing to help him shed the baby image, which haunted him because of his speech. But they were best friends and as far as Billy was concerned, if that was what Jimmy wanted to wear then so be it.
The night had been a very successful one for the both of them as they had been making a good haul and their candy sacks were bulging with treats. Billy was tired and wanted to go home, but Jimmy was excited and wanted to try one more house before calling it a night. He pointed down the street, indicating he had found his final target for the night.
The house that Jimmy had chosen was the last house at the end of a street, which dead-ended at a vacant lot. Beyond the lot lay the edge of a local forest, cast in shadow beyond the glow of the streetlights.
Ghost Shadows Page 4
