The Ash Road Incident

At 11:17 PM, the engine of my old sedan coughed once, then died, and the world went dark except for the dim glow of the dashboard clock. I was on a stretch of county road that locals called the Ash Road, a winding ribbon of gravel that snaked through the dense pine barrens of northern Maine. No cell service, no houses for miles, and the flashlight I always kept in the glovebox was gone—just a dusty imprint in the carpet.

I stepped out, and the silence was a physical weight. The air smelled of damp earth and pine resin, with a faint undertone of something sweet, like rotting fruit. I decided to walk, hoping to find a farmhouse or a main road. After about a hundred yards, I heard footsteps behind me—soft, deliberate, matching my rhythm for a few beats, then stopping when I stopped. I spun around, sweeping the darkness with my bare hands, but nothing was there. The trees stood like silent witnesses, their branches motionless. I called out, ‘Hello?’ The word fell flat, swallowed by the forest. I quickened my pace, and the footsteps returned, closer this time, almost at my shoulder. I broke into a run, and the steps became a patter, then a stampede, then abruptly ceased.

I stumbled, and my hand hit something hard on the gravel: my flashlight. It was warm, as if it had been lying in the sun. I clicked it on, and the beam shot out like a spear, illuminating a lone birch tree ahead. Scrawled across the bark, in what looked like black tar, were the words ‘HEAVEN IS CLOSE.’ The letters were uneven, hastily painted, and the T at the end dripped down like a black tear. My heart slammed against my ribs. I backed away, and the flashlight flickered, the beam dancing over the underbrush. For a split second, I thought I saw a figure—tall, thin, with arms that hung too low—standing beside the tree. But when the light steadied, it was gone.

I woke up slumped over the steering wheel. The engine was running, humming smoothly, and the headlights cast a pool of white on the gravel ahead. My hands were trembling, and my mouth tasted of copper. I glanced at the clock: 2:30 AM. The fuel gauge had not moved, and the dashboard was exactly as I had left it, but the flashlight was back in the glovebox, its batteries drained. I didn’t think—I just threw the car into reverse, spun around, and floored it down the road. The headlights caught the birch tree as I passed, and I saw that the bark was clean, unmarked. I don’t remember the drive home, only the overwhelming urge to be somewhere safe.

Now, days later, I can’t shake the feeling that I brought something back with me. The air in my house feels heavier, and at night, I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps in the hallway, stopping right outside my bedroom door. I find small piles of ash on the floor, and my flashlight—the one I left in the garage—is always lit, its beam pointing at the wall. Last night, I saw writing scratched into the drywall, barely visible, in thin gray lines: ‘IT’S ALREADY HERE.’ I don’t know what happened on the Ash Road, but I know one thing for sure: I never made it home. I’m still out there, walking in the dark, with something following me. And it’s learned to wear my face.