The Cattleguard’s Tenant

I live in the outskirts of Dunmore, a small town that clings to the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains like a burr on a hound’s ear. Old Man Harlow’s property, the one with the rusted cattleguard that announces the start of his land, has always made the hairs on my arms stand up. It’s not just the sagging farmhouse, gray as a dead ash, or the barn that leans like a drunkard. It’s the feeling that something is watching you from those black windows, something that knows your name and is just waiting for the right moment to say it. I’ve lived in Dunmore my whole life, nineteen years, and I’ve never once set foot on that land. I’ve just crossed the cattleguard a thousand times, and every time, a chill runs through me like a cold finger down my spine.

It was a little past midnight on a Tuesday, I was driving home from my shift at the 24-hour diner, the last of the coffee grounds still bitter on my tongue. The road was empty, just me and the humming of my truck’s worn-out engine. As I approached the cattleguard, I saw a figure standing at the side of the road, a tall, thin silhouette with a pack at their feet. A hitchhiker? Out here, at this hour, in the middle of nowhere? I slowed, my heart thumping a nervous rhythm. The figure didn’t move, just stood there, a dark shape against the moonlit gravel. I rolled down my window, the cool air rushing in, and the smell of damp earth and something else, something like old pennies and dead leaves, filled my nostrils.

‘You need a ride?’ I called out, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet. The figure turned its head, and I saw the pale oval of a face, but the features were lost in shadow. It nodded slowly, a jerky, birdlike motion, and picked up the pack. It walked to my passenger side, opened the door, and slid in without a word. I caught a whiff of that metallic smell as it settled, and my skin prickled. Up close, I saw it was a woman, maybe in her forties, with dark hair plastered to her scalp and eyes that looked like they hadn’t blinked in a long time. Her clothes were soaked, as if she’d been standing in the rain, but the night was dry.

‘Where you headed?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. She pointed a shaking finger down the road, past the cattleguard, toward the Harlow place. My heart sank. ‘You want me to drop you at the Harlow farm?’ She nodded again, a small smile curving her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. I didn’t want to go near that place, but I couldn’t just leave her on the road. I put the truck in gear and crept forward, the cattleguard rattling under my tires like a set of teeth.

The driveway to the farm was overgrown, weeds scratching the undercarriage of my truck. I saw the house looming ahead, gray and silent, and I wished I’d just kept driving. I stopped at the porch, the headlights illuminating a broken rocking chair and a door that hung ajar. The woman turned to me, and her voice was a dry rasp, like autumn leaves skittering across pavement. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘He’s been waiting for me.’ Then she got out, took her pack from the back, and walked toward the porch without looking back. She stepped through the door, and it swung shut with a slow, heavy groan that echoed in the stillness.

I sat there, my hands gripping the wheel, my heart pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears. I should have driven off, but I was frozen, my eyes fixed on that door. Then, the porch light flickered on, a sickly yellow glow, and I saw a shape behind the window, a tall figure, leaning to one side, as if its neck was broken. It was looking at me. I threw the truck into reverse, the tires spinning in the dirt, and I peeled out of that driveway, not stopping until I was back on the main road, the hills of the Smokies a black wall against the stars.

I never told anyone what I saw that night, not even my friends when they asked why I looked so shaken. I tried to convince myself it was just a prank, a drifter who wanted to spook a kid. But every time I drive past that cattleguard now, I look to the house, and I see the light burning in the upstairs window. And sometimes, I see the silhouette of a tall figure in the window, and I swear it raises a hand, as if waving hello. But it’s the other thing that really chills me to the bone. Sometimes, when I’m driving back late, there’s a man standing at the side of the road, just past the cattleguard, a tall, thin shape with a pack at his feet. And he’s not looking at the road. He’s looking at me, and he’s smiling, and I know that one night, I’ll be the one stopping to give him a ride.