Campfire Ghost Stories
by Jo-Anne Christensen
Stories Told By Firelight
The Hitchhiker
Donald Whaley was in sales-the kind of sales that required driving all over the countryside, from small town to smaller town, putting many miles on his old sedan with its trunk full of samples and order forms. He did most of his business during the day, talking to housewives, senior citizens and others who were at home and available to hear his spiel about miracle cleaning products. He did most of his driving at night, when people were comfortably settled in fromnt of their televisions and not at all interested in how to get stubborn spots out of their carpets and draperies.
Late one particular night, Donald was traveling along a familiar stretch of winding road that led through a thick forest and into a town on his regular route. As he came around on especially sharp curve, he was forced to bring his foot down hard on the brake pedal. Had he not been alert, he would have run down a young girl who was wandering directly down the middle of the road.
She stood out in the gloom as a vision of pale skin and dripping white silk. In the illumination cast by the headlights of Donald's car, he could see plainly that the girl was drenched. The filmy fabric of her dress clung to her in wet patches, and her long hair was matted into sodden ropes. She hugged herself tightly and shivered in the chill evening air.
Donald held no grudge for having nearly been forced off the road, and, in fact, felt quite sorry for the girl, who was clearly in need of some assistance. He stepped out of the car and called out to her.
"Are you going into town? I'd be happy to give you a lift."
The girl turned around then, and Donald's knees weakened. She was lovely-even with mascara streaked in the hollows under her eyes and her wet hair pasted to her cheeks and forehead. She didn't answer directly, but gave a slight nod and walked toward the car.
Donald ran around to the passenger-side door, then reached into the car and pulled something from the back seat.
"It's wool," he said as he gallantly placed his own coat around the girl's slender shoulders. "It'll help keep you warm."
"Thank you," the girl whispered to Donald. It was obvious to him that she needed the garment. Her voice was as thin as the watery moonlight, and her waxen skin had felt as cold as ice.
As Donald drove toward town, he tried unsuccessfully to engage his beautiful passenger in conversation. When he asked her how she had come to be soaked, she merely lowered her head and shivered more intensely within the folds of the warm wool coat. When he aked her where she lived, she lifted a hand so thin and pale it was nearly translucent and waved it weakly in the direction in which they were traveling. Finally, Donald decided that great beauty and the fine art of conversation needn't necessarily be contained within the same package, and he stopped trying to make small talk. The two rode on in silence.
The winding road eventually emerged from the dense, dark woods, and as the car crested a hill, the lights of the small town came into view.
"Now, you'll have to tell me where you want to go," said Donald and, in a manner of speaking, the girl did. With vague gestures, she indicated that he should turn here, or there, until finally they were parked in the long paved drive of a handsome brick home that sat at the farthest point of a dead-end street. The street was poorly lit, but the house was not. Two lanterns blazed brightly by the front door, warm light spilled out of every window, and small bulbs shone along the curved front path, ensuring that no one would stumble over some unseen uneven surface.
"Is this your parents' house?" Donald asked. "It's a great-looking place. A lot of carpets and draperies to clean, though-maybe I should give you my card..."
It was then that Donald glanced to his right and was shocked into forgetting about his business cards and his sample case, and even his stupidly hanging jaw. For he found that he was talking to himself-the beautiful girl was gone.
Donald spun around and searched the back seat. It was empty. Donald was impossibly alone. There had been no sound of the car's passenger door opening and closing, no moment when the girl could have slipped quietly away.
Suddenly, Donald's mind was reeling and his breath felt unfamiliar and heavy in his chest. He loosened his colar with one hand and leaned on the car's worn seat for support.
On that seat, his fingers found an icy wet patch of upholstery. Donald recoiled instantly from the numbing cold. Just as instantly, he knew that the girl truly had been there after all. Somehow, she had snuck out of the car and, he had to assume, ran into the house. Of course, there was only one way to know for sure.
Donald walked up the path to the front door and pushed the button beside the name plate with its scripted gold letters spelling "Landon." The sound of the bell had not even begun to fade away when the heavy mahogany door swung open, and Donald found himself face to face with a somber-looking elderly woman.
"I'm not sure exactly what I want to ask you," Donald began.
"That's alright," the woman said. She nodded knowingly and gestured for Donald to come inside. "I expect you were bringing Susan home."
Donald said that although he hadn't known her name, he had delivered a young lady to the end of the drive, and went on to tell the woman his range story.
"I don't know how she got out of the car," he eventrually concluded, "but she seemed real upset, and I wanted to make sure that she got to the house safely."
The woman shook her head sadly, and Donald noted that she seemed to be aged as much by sadness as by the lines that etched her face.
"No, I'm sorry to say that Susan has never managed to return home, although she tries every year, on this night."
When Donald looked confused, the old woman explained: "It's been nearly 20 years, you see. Since the accident. Susuan was at a dance, out at a country hall. On the way home, the car she was in-it left the road and plunged into a lake. Her friends escaped, but Susuan was trapped. Every year since then, on the anniversary of her death, she still tries to come back home."
"And this is the anniversary?" Donald whispered.
The woman nodded.
"So all the lights are on because-you've been expecting her?" he asked.
"In a way," the woman answered mournfully. "I've come to expect someone at the door on this night every year. This year it was you."
She showed Donald out then, past a row of family photographs that hung in the broad entrance hall. It would have been impossible for him to not notice one particular framed poortrait that featured a beautiful young woman in a dress of snowy silk and lace.
Susan's mother, obviously conditioned by years of the same exclamations and questions, answered Donald before he even had a chance to ask.
"Yes," she said, "that was the dress she wore to the dance, on the night that she died."
Donald Whaley was accustomed to lumpy hotel mattresses and usually slept well wherever he lay his body down. That night, however, he could not close his eyes without seeing the girl's pale skin and hollow, frightened eyes, and no matter how tightly he clutched the rough blankets around him, he found himself shivering at the thought of being swallowd by freezing black water.
But by the time the first thin morning light began to show itself in the gap where the hotels room's illfitting curtains should have met, Donald had eased back into comfortable denial.
"It can't be true," he told himself as he showered, shaved and dressed. "It's too farfetched to be true."
But instead of starting his sales route immediately after his customary coffee and eggs, he drove back out to the place where he had first found the girl. He was certain that he would find some clue, some evidence that would calm his mind.
Donald knew the road well and found the hairpin turn easily. Itwas a short distance south of town, by the narrow entrance to the little cemetery.
The cemetery.
It was a fact that had escaped Donald's attention the night before. That was just as well, for it chilled him thoroughly by the light of day.
It's a coincidence, he told himself, a coincidence. Still, he felt drawn into the small burial ground to peruse the grave markers.
The elderly woman had said that her daughter's first name was Susan. The name plate by the doorbell had read Landon. So when Donald found that particular name on the headstone of a well-tended grave, he had to admit that it belonged to his elusive passenger. But even if there had been no name carved there, even if the granite had been smooth, blank and anonymous, he would have known.
For there, draped across the stone, still smelling faintly of lake water, was Donald Whaley's woolen coat.
by Jo-Anne Christensen
Stories Told By Firelight
The Hitchhiker
Donald Whaley was in sales-the kind of sales that required driving all over the countryside, from small town to smaller town, putting many miles on his old sedan with its trunk full of samples and order forms. He did most of his business during the day, talking to housewives, senior citizens and others who were at home and available to hear his spiel about miracle cleaning products. He did most of his driving at night, when people were comfortably settled in fromnt of their televisions and not at all interested in how to get stubborn spots out of their carpets and draperies.
Late one particular night, Donald was traveling along a familiar stretch of winding road that led through a thick forest and into a town on his regular route. As he came around on especially sharp curve, he was forced to bring his foot down hard on the brake pedal. Had he not been alert, he would have run down a young girl who was wandering directly down the middle of the road.
She stood out in the gloom as a vision of pale skin and dripping white silk. In the illumination cast by the headlights of Donald's car, he could see plainly that the girl was drenched. The filmy fabric of her dress clung to her in wet patches, and her long hair was matted into sodden ropes. She hugged herself tightly and shivered in the chill evening air.
Donald held no grudge for having nearly been forced off the road, and, in fact, felt quite sorry for the girl, who was clearly in need of some assistance. He stepped out of the car and called out to her.
"Are you going into town? I'd be happy to give you a lift."
The girl turned around then, and Donald's knees weakened. She was lovely-even with mascara streaked in the hollows under her eyes and her wet hair pasted to her cheeks and forehead. She didn't answer directly, but gave a slight nod and walked toward the car.
Donald ran around to the passenger-side door, then reached into the car and pulled something from the back seat.
"It's wool," he said as he gallantly placed his own coat around the girl's slender shoulders. "It'll help keep you warm."
"Thank you," the girl whispered to Donald. It was obvious to him that she needed the garment. Her voice was as thin as the watery moonlight, and her waxen skin had felt as cold as ice.
As Donald drove toward town, he tried unsuccessfully to engage his beautiful passenger in conversation. When he asked her how she had come to be soaked, she merely lowered her head and shivered more intensely within the folds of the warm wool coat. When he aked her where she lived, she lifted a hand so thin and pale it was nearly translucent and waved it weakly in the direction in which they were traveling. Finally, Donald decided that great beauty and the fine art of conversation needn't necessarily be contained within the same package, and he stopped trying to make small talk. The two rode on in silence.
The winding road eventually emerged from the dense, dark woods, and as the car crested a hill, the lights of the small town came into view.
"Now, you'll have to tell me where you want to go," said Donald and, in a manner of speaking, the girl did. With vague gestures, she indicated that he should turn here, or there, until finally they were parked in the long paved drive of a handsome brick home that sat at the farthest point of a dead-end street. The street was poorly lit, but the house was not. Two lanterns blazed brightly by the front door, warm light spilled out of every window, and small bulbs shone along the curved front path, ensuring that no one would stumble over some unseen uneven surface.
"Is this your parents' house?" Donald asked. "It's a great-looking place. A lot of carpets and draperies to clean, though-maybe I should give you my card..."
It was then that Donald glanced to his right and was shocked into forgetting about his business cards and his sample case, and even his stupidly hanging jaw. For he found that he was talking to himself-the beautiful girl was gone.
Donald spun around and searched the back seat. It was empty. Donald was impossibly alone. There had been no sound of the car's passenger door opening and closing, no moment when the girl could have slipped quietly away.
Suddenly, Donald's mind was reeling and his breath felt unfamiliar and heavy in his chest. He loosened his colar with one hand and leaned on the car's worn seat for support.
On that seat, his fingers found an icy wet patch of upholstery. Donald recoiled instantly from the numbing cold. Just as instantly, he knew that the girl truly had been there after all. Somehow, she had snuck out of the car and, he had to assume, ran into the house. Of course, there was only one way to know for sure.
Donald walked up the path to the front door and pushed the button beside the name plate with its scripted gold letters spelling "Landon." The sound of the bell had not even begun to fade away when the heavy mahogany door swung open, and Donald found himself face to face with a somber-looking elderly woman.
"I'm not sure exactly what I want to ask you," Donald began.
"That's alright," the woman said. She nodded knowingly and gestured for Donald to come inside. "I expect you were bringing Susan home."
Donald said that although he hadn't known her name, he had delivered a young lady to the end of the drive, and went on to tell the woman his range story.
"I don't know how she got out of the car," he eventrually concluded, "but she seemed real upset, and I wanted to make sure that she got to the house safely."
The woman shook her head sadly, and Donald noted that she seemed to be aged as much by sadness as by the lines that etched her face.
"No, I'm sorry to say that Susan has never managed to return home, although she tries every year, on this night."
When Donald looked confused, the old woman explained: "It's been nearly 20 years, you see. Since the accident. Susuan was at a dance, out at a country hall. On the way home, the car she was in-it left the road and plunged into a lake. Her friends escaped, but Susuan was trapped. Every year since then, on the anniversary of her death, she still tries to come back home."
"And this is the anniversary?" Donald whispered.
The woman nodded.
"So all the lights are on because-you've been expecting her?" he asked.
"In a way," the woman answered mournfully. "I've come to expect someone at the door on this night every year. This year it was you."
She showed Donald out then, past a row of family photographs that hung in the broad entrance hall. It would have been impossible for him to not notice one particular framed poortrait that featured a beautiful young woman in a dress of snowy silk and lace.
Susan's mother, obviously conditioned by years of the same exclamations and questions, answered Donald before he even had a chance to ask.
"Yes," she said, "that was the dress she wore to the dance, on the night that she died."
Donald Whaley was accustomed to lumpy hotel mattresses and usually slept well wherever he lay his body down. That night, however, he could not close his eyes without seeing the girl's pale skin and hollow, frightened eyes, and no matter how tightly he clutched the rough blankets around him, he found himself shivering at the thought of being swallowd by freezing black water.
But by the time the first thin morning light began to show itself in the gap where the hotels room's illfitting curtains should have met, Donald had eased back into comfortable denial.
"It can't be true," he told himself as he showered, shaved and dressed. "It's too farfetched to be true."
But instead of starting his sales route immediately after his customary coffee and eggs, he drove back out to the place where he had first found the girl. He was certain that he would find some clue, some evidence that would calm his mind.
Donald knew the road well and found the hairpin turn easily. Itwas a short distance south of town, by the narrow entrance to the little cemetery.
The cemetery.
It was a fact that had escaped Donald's attention the night before. That was just as well, for it chilled him thoroughly by the light of day.
It's a coincidence, he told himself, a coincidence. Still, he felt drawn into the small burial ground to peruse the grave markers.
The elderly woman had said that her daughter's first name was Susan. The name plate by the doorbell had read Landon. So when Donald found that particular name on the headstone of a well-tended grave, he had to admit that it belonged to his elusive passenger. But even if there had been no name carved there, even if the granite had been smooth, blank and anonymous, he would have known.
For there, draped across the stone, still smelling faintly of lake water, was Donald Whaley's woolen coat.
