Journey
By Richard Alonzo
Copyright © 2017 Richard Alonzo
All Rights Reserved
Copyright Notice
This story has been placed on my blog for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be copied, reproduced in whole or in part or used for any other purpose without the express permission of the author. You are of course welcome to share the link to this story with others. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
Copyright Notice
This story has been placed on my blog for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be copied, reproduced in whole or in part or used for any other purpose without the express permission of the author. You are of course welcome to share the link to this story with others. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
He cursed under his breath as he drove through the thickening mist, fumbling for his fog-lights as he bowled carelessly along the deserted country lane. Why did the Sat-Nav offer the option to avoid motorways and tolls, only to lead you up remote lanes little better than cart tracks to allegedly save a couple minutes? And where the hell had this road come from? He’d done this journey countless times and never recalled it looking like this before. Perhaps it was the mist disorientating him. “Everything always looks different in the mist.” he thought.
Then the Radio died the station he’d been listening to fading out to the dead hiss of static. He fumbled with the controls as he rounded a blind bend. REM burst into life over the airwaves proclaiming the end of the world as we know it. He looked up to catch a black figure, an old woman carrying a milk churn on her back in the blaze of his lights. She looked up with a blank uncomprehending gaze as he hit the brakes, but it was too late.
The car juddered as the ASB kicked in. The bumper crumpled as she slid beneath the car, the churn spinning out of her hands, spraying milk over the car, bouncing off the bonnet and rolling over the roof, milk washing over the windscreen, blinding him, but he didn’t need to see to feel the bump of the wheels running over her body before skidding to a halt with only REM for company. He killed the radio and tuned off the ignition, trembling as he stepped out the car for fear of what he might find.
He shuddered as the cold mist wrapped itself around him, drawing the heat from his body. He could just about make out the stainless steel churn spinning slowly on the tarmac, milk dripping like blood from its battered lip, but no body. Cautiously he moved round the front of his car. There was a dent streaked with blood where the bumper had hit her, milk flecked with blood puddled in the dent the churn had left in the bonnet. He knelt down and peered under the car, dreading what he might find. Apart from a couple of blood stained tatters of black fabric he could see nothing. Perplexed he stood up and called out.
“Hello, hello, I didn’t see you in the mist, where are you? Are you hurt?”
Suddenly the churn stopped spinning, grating to a halt on the road. He thought he heard a groan. He pulled out his mobile and flipped on the torch app, edging his way towards the back of the car. The churn rolled off the tarmac, over the verge and into a deep ditch, as if someone had kicked it away. His breathing was rapid, the air heavy and tense as he searched for whoever or whatever had pushed the churn away, but apart from a couple of marks that could have been blood there was nothing.
He punched 999 and held the phone to his ear, it wasn’t his responsibility, it was her fault for stepping out in front him, let the emergency services deal with it. What the hell had she been doing out in the middle of nowhere anyway.
“Which emergency service do you require?” the female voice at the end of the phone was calm, commanding, unemotional.
“Police and ambulance, someone just stepped out in front of my car.” he by contrast couldn’t suppress the slight quiver in his voice.
“Can you see the causality sir, can you describe their injuries, are they still breathing?” her tone never wavered.
“No, no, it’s very misty, she appeared out of nowhere, I felt the impact, but I can’t find her, please send help.”
“Very well sir stay calm, give me your location and I’ll send help.”
“I’m not sure, I’m not familiar with this road can’t you just use my phone signal to locate me?”
“I’m sorry sir, but I need you to give me your location.”
At that moment the mist lifted momentarily to reveal an old milestone. “There’s and old mile marker on the verge, three miles to Willoughby, if that helps?”
“The three mile marker stone on the old Willoughby road sir?”
“Yes, maybe, I’m not sure, is that enough to go on? Can you send help now?”
“I’m putting you though to the local police station, in Willoughby sir.”
“But what about the ambulance, the paramedics?”
Nothing, but burring and clicking, like an ancient pre-digital exchange dialling a long forgotten number, greeted him. Then, after what seemed like an interminable wait, the phone rang twice before a deep male voice answered.
“Willoughby police station, how may I be of service?”
“Thank god,” he gasped, “I need help, there’s been accident, I called 999 and they put me through to you, I think she might be dead, but I can’t find the body. I need an ambulance.”
“I see,” the voice paused before continuing, “the old Willoughby road, the three mile marker, unless I’m mistaken.”
“Yes, wait, how did you know?”
“You’re not the first sir and trust me you won’t be the last. I suggest you wait in the car for me, I’ll explain everything when I arrive.”
The line went dead before he could reply. He shuffled back to his car locked himself in and scanned through the radio, but REM had abandoned him to the static once more.
He couldn’t remember now long he’d waited or if he’d fallen asleep, but he jumped with start as the officers knuckles rapped the glass of the car door. He stepped out.
An old fashioned bicycle was propped against the milestone. A middle aged police sergeant stood before him sporting a neatly trimmed grey moustache that looked nearly as dated as his bike. He hadn’t bothered to remove the bicycle clips from his sharply pressed black trousers. He stepped around to the front of the car inspecting and admiring his vehicle.
“A new car sir, not seen one like it before, sports is it?” He asked as he rubbed his hand over the bonnet and knelt down to examine the bumper.
“Mid range, had it about three years, surprised you’ve not seen one before, they’re always in the best seller list.”
“First I’ve seen.” He replied shaking his head. “You reckon she hit the car about here?” he rested his hand on the bumper.
“Yes, head on, there’s dent in the bumper right there...traces of blood...” his voice trailed away the bumper was intact, free of dents and blood stains. “I don’t understand.”
The sergeant smiled. “Don’t worry sir most people don’t at first, now if I remember correctly the churn bounced off the bonnet and left a dent right here full of milk.” He rested his hand on the bonnet.
“Yes , but how did you...” he stopped, the bonnet was also intact, it’s smooth lines unblemished. “But that’s not possible I felt the impact, saw the damage.”
The sergeant smiled and pulled out a torch, clicked it on and wandered round to the back of the car pointing it at the side of the road. “Let’s see if we can find the churn, it usually rolls off into the ditch about here. No nothing in the ditch.” He flicked the torch back to the centre of the road. “And logically the body should be here, but again nothing. Did your radio go dead?”
He shook his head. “Yes, but how did you know, how is all this even possible?”
He put the torch away and gave a heavy sign. “You’re a victim of the phantom sir, thirty years ago on a misty day such as this she was hit by a careless driver, about your age, too busy fiddling with his radio to watch the road, he came round the bend too fast and well you know the rest.”
“Wait you telling me I imagined it.”
“I’d call it a bit more than that sir still you can’t kill a ghost now can you? So I’ll overlook your careless driving this time.”
So that’s it sergeant...I’m sorry I didn’t get your name, just forget it happened?”
“It’s Barrowclough sir, sergeant Barrowclough and yes it probably for the best if you forget.” He added, getting back on the bike and vanishing into the mist, leaving him alone and perplexed.
No sooner had he gone than the shroud of mist began to lift, the radio coming back to life with Dance with Angels. He shuddered, as if someone had just walked over his grave, started the car and soon found himself back on familiar roads.
The following morning he looked at himself in the mirror wondering if it had all been a bad dream, but something still didn’t ring true, it felt like there was something missing, even the house felt strangely empty this morning. He plugged his in headphones and thumbed through his music, but couldn’t settle. In the end he tossed the headphones aside and called the police.
“Can I speak to sergeant Barrowclough, Willoughby police station, he came out to an accident I reported yesterday.”
“One moment sir, I don’t have the number listed, could you hold.”
He gave his consent, noting that Dance with Angels was playing as the hold music. The song faded out and a male voice picked up the call this time.
“I’m sorry sir, there seems to be a mistake, can you confirm who you spoke to, which station they came from and the nature of the ‘accident’?” there was a moments silence as the information was digested, before he got a reply. “Wasting police time is a serious offence sir.”
“I don’t understand?”
“Well allow me to explain. I’m the son of the late Sergeant Barrowclough who manned the old Willoughby village station that closed down twenty years ago and we have no record of an RTA, fatal or otherwise, being reported on that stretch of road yesterday.”
He dropped the phone as everything sank in and memories came flooding back, the pieces suddenly fitting together as ‘It’s the end of the world’ drowned out the voice at the other end of the phone, his world spinning into a vortex of darkness.
Constable Willoughby bade his farewells and slipped on his cap as the door closed behind him, this was always the hardest part of the job telling someone they had lost a loved one. He gave a slight almost imperceptible shake of the head as he opened the car door and slipped into the waiting police car.
“How did she take it?
“How would you take it, if someone knocked on the door and told you they’d found your husband’s car up-side down in a ditch and he’d broken his neck? “
“What I don’t understand,” said Barrowclough flicking through the accident report, “is where that milk churn in the middle of the road came from.”
# # # #
Then the Radio died the station he’d been listening to fading out to the dead hiss of static. He fumbled with the controls as he rounded a blind bend. REM burst into life over the airwaves proclaiming the end of the world as we know it. He looked up to catch a black figure, an old woman carrying a milk churn on her back in the blaze of his lights. She looked up with a blank uncomprehending gaze as he hit the brakes, but it was too late.
The car juddered as the ASB kicked in. The bumper crumpled as she slid beneath the car, the churn spinning out of her hands, spraying milk over the car, bouncing off the bonnet and rolling over the roof, milk washing over the windscreen, blinding him, but he didn’t need to see to feel the bump of the wheels running over her body before skidding to a halt with only REM for company. He killed the radio and tuned off the ignition, trembling as he stepped out the car for fear of what he might find.
He shuddered as the cold mist wrapped itself around him, drawing the heat from his body. He could just about make out the stainless steel churn spinning slowly on the tarmac, milk dripping like blood from its battered lip, but no body. Cautiously he moved round the front of his car. There was a dent streaked with blood where the bumper had hit her, milk flecked with blood puddled in the dent the churn had left in the bonnet. He knelt down and peered under the car, dreading what he might find. Apart from a couple of blood stained tatters of black fabric he could see nothing. Perplexed he stood up and called out.
“Hello, hello, I didn’t see you in the mist, where are you? Are you hurt?”
Suddenly the churn stopped spinning, grating to a halt on the road. He thought he heard a groan. He pulled out his mobile and flipped on the torch app, edging his way towards the back of the car. The churn rolled off the tarmac, over the verge and into a deep ditch, as if someone had kicked it away. His breathing was rapid, the air heavy and tense as he searched for whoever or whatever had pushed the churn away, but apart from a couple of marks that could have been blood there was nothing.
He punched 999 and held the phone to his ear, it wasn’t his responsibility, it was her fault for stepping out in front him, let the emergency services deal with it. What the hell had she been doing out in the middle of nowhere anyway.
“Which emergency service do you require?” the female voice at the end of the phone was calm, commanding, unemotional.
“Police and ambulance, someone just stepped out in front of my car.” he by contrast couldn’t suppress the slight quiver in his voice.
“Can you see the causality sir, can you describe their injuries, are they still breathing?” her tone never wavered.
“No, no, it’s very misty, she appeared out of nowhere, I felt the impact, but I can’t find her, please send help.”
“Very well sir stay calm, give me your location and I’ll send help.”
“I’m not sure, I’m not familiar with this road can’t you just use my phone signal to locate me?”
“I’m sorry sir, but I need you to give me your location.”
At that moment the mist lifted momentarily to reveal an old milestone. “There’s and old mile marker on the verge, three miles to Willoughby, if that helps?”
“The three mile marker stone on the old Willoughby road sir?”
“Yes, maybe, I’m not sure, is that enough to go on? Can you send help now?”
“I’m putting you though to the local police station, in Willoughby sir.”
“But what about the ambulance, the paramedics?”
Nothing, but burring and clicking, like an ancient pre-digital exchange dialling a long forgotten number, greeted him. Then, after what seemed like an interminable wait, the phone rang twice before a deep male voice answered.
“Willoughby police station, how may I be of service?”
“Thank god,” he gasped, “I need help, there’s been accident, I called 999 and they put me through to you, I think she might be dead, but I can’t find the body. I need an ambulance.”
“I see,” the voice paused before continuing, “the old Willoughby road, the three mile marker, unless I’m mistaken.”
“Yes, wait, how did you know?”
“You’re not the first sir and trust me you won’t be the last. I suggest you wait in the car for me, I’ll explain everything when I arrive.”
The line went dead before he could reply. He shuffled back to his car locked himself in and scanned through the radio, but REM had abandoned him to the static once more.
He couldn’t remember now long he’d waited or if he’d fallen asleep, but he jumped with start as the officers knuckles rapped the glass of the car door. He stepped out.
An old fashioned bicycle was propped against the milestone. A middle aged police sergeant stood before him sporting a neatly trimmed grey moustache that looked nearly as dated as his bike. He hadn’t bothered to remove the bicycle clips from his sharply pressed black trousers. He stepped around to the front of the car inspecting and admiring his vehicle.
“A new car sir, not seen one like it before, sports is it?” He asked as he rubbed his hand over the bonnet and knelt down to examine the bumper.
“Mid range, had it about three years, surprised you’ve not seen one before, they’re always in the best seller list.”
“First I’ve seen.” He replied shaking his head. “You reckon she hit the car about here?” he rested his hand on the bumper.
“Yes, head on, there’s dent in the bumper right there...traces of blood...” his voice trailed away the bumper was intact, free of dents and blood stains. “I don’t understand.”
The sergeant smiled. “Don’t worry sir most people don’t at first, now if I remember correctly the churn bounced off the bonnet and left a dent right here full of milk.” He rested his hand on the bonnet.
“Yes , but how did you...” he stopped, the bonnet was also intact, it’s smooth lines unblemished. “But that’s not possible I felt the impact, saw the damage.”
The sergeant smiled and pulled out a torch, clicked it on and wandered round to the back of the car pointing it at the side of the road. “Let’s see if we can find the churn, it usually rolls off into the ditch about here. No nothing in the ditch.” He flicked the torch back to the centre of the road. “And logically the body should be here, but again nothing. Did your radio go dead?”
He shook his head. “Yes, but how did you know, how is all this even possible?”
He put the torch away and gave a heavy sign. “You’re a victim of the phantom sir, thirty years ago on a misty day such as this she was hit by a careless driver, about your age, too busy fiddling with his radio to watch the road, he came round the bend too fast and well you know the rest.”
“Wait you telling me I imagined it.”
“I’d call it a bit more than that sir still you can’t kill a ghost now can you? So I’ll overlook your careless driving this time.”
So that’s it sergeant...I’m sorry I didn’t get your name, just forget it happened?”
“It’s Barrowclough sir, sergeant Barrowclough and yes it probably for the best if you forget.” He added, getting back on the bike and vanishing into the mist, leaving him alone and perplexed.
No sooner had he gone than the shroud of mist began to lift, the radio coming back to life with Dance with Angels. He shuddered, as if someone had just walked over his grave, started the car and soon found himself back on familiar roads.
The following morning he looked at himself in the mirror wondering if it had all been a bad dream, but something still didn’t ring true, it felt like there was something missing, even the house felt strangely empty this morning. He plugged his in headphones and thumbed through his music, but couldn’t settle. In the end he tossed the headphones aside and called the police.
“Can I speak to sergeant Barrowclough, Willoughby police station, he came out to an accident I reported yesterday.”
“One moment sir, I don’t have the number listed, could you hold.”
He gave his consent, noting that Dance with Angels was playing as the hold music. The song faded out and a male voice picked up the call this time.
“I’m sorry sir, there seems to be a mistake, can you confirm who you spoke to, which station they came from and the nature of the ‘accident’?” there was a moments silence as the information was digested, before he got a reply. “Wasting police time is a serious offence sir.”
“I don’t understand?”
“Well allow me to explain. I’m the son of the late Sergeant Barrowclough who manned the old Willoughby village station that closed down twenty years ago and we have no record of an RTA, fatal or otherwise, being reported on that stretch of road yesterday.”
He dropped the phone as everything sank in and memories came flooding back, the pieces suddenly fitting together as ‘It’s the end of the world’ drowned out the voice at the other end of the phone, his world spinning into a vortex of darkness.
Constable Willoughby bade his farewells and slipped on his cap as the door closed behind him, this was always the hardest part of the job telling someone they had lost a loved one. He gave a slight almost imperceptible shake of the head as he opened the car door and slipped into the waiting police car.
“How did she take it?
“How would you take it, if someone knocked on the door and told you they’d found your husband’s car up-side down in a ditch and he’d broken his neck? “
“What I don’t understand,” said Barrowclough flicking through the accident report, “is where that milk churn in the middle of the road came from.”
# # # #