In Celebration of Halloween, A little ghost story for you…The Lady in White Meets her Match

Every night it’s the same tired routine along the treacherous stretch of highway. If I walk that strip at midnight one more time, I think I’m going to kill myself. But that’s the problem. I’m already dead.

            My name was Helen Worth. I died in a car accident along Route 17 in Tuxedo, New York on June 1977, the eve of my high school prom. I’m buried in Heavenly Rest, a small cemetery located a few miles off the highway. Since then, it’s been the same tedious routine every single bid night. I rise from my grave, walked the roadway, and wait for some living full to drive by and pick me up.

            Nothings changed not even my clothes. I wear the same long white cotton dress with a fitted waste and a lace up peasant blouse front. I carry my grandmother’s Whiting and Davis purse in my right hand, while my left hand still carries the single red rose Dad gave me the night I left my house. I will never forget that evening. I was so excited!

            It was a magical night. I didn’t have a date, but my girlfriend’s brother had a best friend who offered to take me to my prom. He told Lori’s brother that he always thought that I was cute, but never had the nerve to ask me out. I wasn’t really quite sure who it was. But I decided to take a chance and hope that my mystery date wasn’t a troll who expected a long French kiss at the end of the night. Blech!

            That evening the limousine was supposed to pick me, Lori, Mistry date, and Lori’s brother up at Lori’s house. From there we would make our debut at Wakely high school auditorium at 8:00 p.m. by the end of the night, I would have my arms wrapped around my day to the tune of Abba’s “Dancing Queen.” It was kind of a corny song, but probably less provocative than Foreigner’ s “Feels Like the First Time.” I mean after all, it was the 1970s. This was my night and it was going to be great, great party.

            My fate changed when a single car on a two lane stretch of Route 17 struck mine head-on, killing me instantly. I never made it to Lori’s house, let alone my prom, and while I was buried in a completely different dress I wound up eternally stuck in my prom down. The last thing I remember from the living world were headlights, screaming my head off, and watching my friends crying in my wake as I hovered in a distant corner of the viewing room of Mortelamour’s funeral parlor. But what bothered me the most is that I never got to the prom, my prom. So now it’s 2019 and  for forty-two years, I’ve been walking alone on this road, not doing much of anything except getting into cars driven by the living. Each time I do it it’s the same routine.

            A car pulls alongside the road. I drift over, stick my head in the window of the driver and ask for a ride. Ironically, if the driver were to look at me from behind, he would see that I am elevated several inches off the ground. But leaning in the car window, I look pretty human—for the moment. I throw my person flower on the back seat and hop in. The conversation is always dull and usually goes like this:

            “Hi there! Where are you going?”

            “Just down the road.” I whisper softly.

            “Too late for a pretty girl like you to be out and about on a lonely highway.”

            Yeah full, I’ve only been a corpse for 40 plus years. I think to myself even though I’m very polite.

            “It’s okay. I love the night air.”

            “Got a name?”

            “Helen. Can you take me to 69 Franklin Street in Tuxedo?”

            “You mean past  Heavenly  Rest cemetery?”

            I smile. “Yes, that’s exactly the place.”

            The non—dead driver, usually a guy in his 20s, chatters away about what’s happening in his life. That’s how I keep up with what the living are up to, since we don’t exactly have newspapers or the Internet here in the dead zone. I’ve written and a brand-new Nissan, a couple of Honda Accords, Mercedes-Benz, and a vintage 1975 El Dorado. My least favorite car was a mini because it gave me that coffin claustrophobia I don’t really like. I’ve learned all about movies made in 1984 like “Ghostbusters,” and the 2006 remake of “The Omen.” I’ve also heard that I am now an urban legend, and that there are several of us ‘Ladies in White’ spotted across the country. I’ve driven with drunken drivers, and experience not recommended for the living unless you want to end up like me, and perverts who tried to grab me way above the ankle. The joke was on them. They only wound up with a handful of air. Either way, I get them to pull alongside the road in front of heavenly rest. I turned to them and smile and watch the looks of terror on their faces as I rise up through the car and do a swan dive right into my grave before their eyes with a banshee like Howell. I make sure to leave my rose and purse on the seed, which usually vanished during the twilight hours.

            Tonight will be the same damn thing. Like some tired, played out rock band, for me it’s just another night on the road. I look in the distance, and I see another victim.

            As I stroll along the shoulder a car pulls up. Interesting. It’s a 69 Buick LeSabre, so I figured that it’s just some antique car hound. I walk over to the window and I hear the Buicks windows straining as he rolls it down. I looked in the car at the driver. Here we go again.

            “You look exhausted pretty lady.”

            “What?”

            “I said that you look exhausted. And it’s winter time. Aren’t you a little bit cold in that pretty dress?”

            I couldn’t help but notice that for a living guy, he was different than the men I was used to. He kind of reminded me of a young Jackson Brown with his hairstyle and smile, a truly handsome living man. Now this was really going to create my nightly haunting routine. I had been attracted to a living man in decades, and for some reason I felt as though I didn’t want to terrorize this one.

            “Okay. I could use a ride.” I stated. I open the car door and through the Rosen purse on the back seat. We drove with either of us speaking a word at first. This was unusual. I couldn’t take it any longer, so I broke the silence.

            “So, what’s your name?”

             “Andrew. But my friends used to call me Andy. So where to?”

            “just up the road to 69 Franklin St. It’s where I used to live.”

            “Used to live? If you don’t live there anymore, why do you want to go back there? Why should I go to that address?”

            Suddenly I felt really nervous. I wanted to get out of the car. “Well actually, you can drop me off slightly before Franklin Street.”

            “I’m happy to drop you off but I have to make a little detour first.”

            I know that my heart had dried up in my chest decades ago, but I felt the space where my heart was racing. “Sure whatever.” I smell, really smell, the scent of his leather jacket and I feel almost aroused by it.

is feeling that I had as a young girl. I think it was physical attraction, which makes no sense since I don’t own a physical body anymore. I don’t have a pulse. I don’t have a heart that can race. But sitting next to this man I was overcome with all the physical attributes of a living person. I try to make small talk with him.

            “Uh, so what do you do for a living Andy?”

            “Living? Do you mean like work?”

            “Well, what did you think I meant?”

            “Living,” he said smiling “I guess that’s one way of putting it. I’m a driver. I drive for a living. Think of me as an Uber.”

            I had to think for a minute. I remember that an Uber driver had picked me up once before. Apparently people rent their cars for a fee I guess this is what Andy did. We made some more small talk. Andy pulled the Buick up alongside of Hillside Cemetery, a non-secretarial burial place. He turns the engine off. I laughed to myself because if he thinks he’s going to get any action, I can just vanish into thin air. But strangely part of me really wanted to stay in the car with him. Part of me wanted him to touch me.

            “Why we stopping in front of Hillside Cemetery. I mean this is a graveyard.”

            He laughed. “Yes, guess it is.” At this point, the doors on the Buick locked by themselves.

            That’s funny. I think to myself. I don’t remember this model of Buick having power locks. This is flipping me out. Time to do my vanishing act.

            Too nervous to look at Mr. Leather Jacket, I close my eyes and try my vanishing routine only to find out I’m not going anywhere. I open my eyes and I’m still stuck inside the Buick. I reach for the door handle. It doesn’t budge. Then I do what any stupid living 17-year-old girl does. I start pounding on the windows with my hands and screaming.

            “Help me! Somebody help me!” I make a fist and try to punch out the window. Nothing happens then I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.

            “Helen, I think we should talk.”

            “You act as though you know me. How is that?”

            “I do know you though we’ve never actually met. My name is Andrew Woods. I was Lori’s brother’s best friend. I was supposed to take you to the prom, but then you were in an accident. You remember anything about that?”

            I’m dead. The worst thing a ghost can do is remember its earthly life, which is exactly what ties me to this miserable highway. “All I remember is that some jerk hit me head-on in the next scene you know is that I’m laying pine box and walking this highway every night for the past 40 years.”

            “Helen, I’m the jerk that killed you.”

            My immediate response? I reached across the car seat and slapped him across the face. I feel heat, the roughness of a man’s after five shadow, and over 40 years of anger. “You creep! You ruined my life and now you’re even ruining my death. Go away!” I feel hot tears running down my face my usually pristine prom hairstyle collapses. My mascara ran in a word, I was a ghostly ghastly mess.

            Andy brushed the hair off my face. “Helen please don’t cry. What if I’d done maybe I should’ve left you alone.” He took a deep breath. “Helen, do you remember anything else about that night?”

            “No, I don’t,” I said sobbing. Looking in my purse, I find a nice moldy forty-year-old handkerchief. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

            “Helen there is something I need to tell you. That night I died, too.”

            “Really?”

            “That’s right Helen I’m dead.” He took my face in his strong hands, placed his lips over mine and gave me a deep hard kiss. I tried to pull away at first, but then I realized I really enjoyed his touch way too much. “Look, I’ve been searching up and down this highway, giving rights to living women trying to find out if anyone knew anything about you. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was for hurting you. I never meant anyone any harm. I was just a reckless kid in 1977.”

            “it’s okay.” I felt almost alive again. But this wasn’t possible, I was dead “you know, Andy if we were living, I think would be closing in on our late 50s.”

            “Wait, I can do that.” Suddenly Andy morphed into this really stunning looking older man we can be 17 or 58. What do you want to do?”

            I looked at Hillside Cemetery and the thought of my own burial place Heavenly Rest. “Well my graveyard or yours?”

            “Heavenly rest has a better view of the sunrise.” Before Andy cranked up the engine, he shoved an eight trak into his tape player, and   Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way” by Aerosmith  blasted out of the speakers as he hit the gas pedal. His tires burned rubber as we vanished into the night air. It was early and we ghosts had a lot to do before catching a glimpse of sunrise.

[Drawing by Vikki Chu}

Happy Hallowen…Stay wicked, Anna