The Cinder Path

The rain had stopped by late afternoon, but the air in Redwood Hollow still clung to the skin like a wet wool blanket. My cousin Mira and I had been cooped up in my grandmother’s old house for three days, listening to the drip of the gutters and the creak of the floorboards above our heads. When my father finally said we could go for a walk, we practically leapt at the chance. He suggested the old rail trail that wound through the state forest—a place locals avoided after dusk, but we were bold and bored.

Mira and I took the north fork, while my father and my cousin Lena took the south, agreeing to meet at the gravel lot where we’d parked. The trees were heavy with water, and every step sent a shower of droplets down our necks. The trail was muddy, our shoes squelching, but the air smelled of wet ferns and something else—something faintly metallic, like old coins. Mira, who loved a good campfire story, started telling me about the Cinder Path.

According to her, back in the 1920s, a woman named Elara had been the wife of a railroad man who worked the line that used to run through these woods. One night, when her husband was late, she walked the tracks in her white wedding dress, lantern in hand. A storm hit, the trestle gave way, and she fell into the gulch below. They found her body days later, but her spirit never left. People said she still walked the path, looking for her husband, and if you saw her, you had to run—because she would follow you home.

Mira finished the story just as we reached a sharp bend in the trail. She stopped so suddenly that I nearly walked into her back. Ahead, under the overhang of a massive oak, stood a woman in a long white dress. She was tall, with dark hair that seemed to dry despite the humidity, and her face was pale, almost luminous. She stood perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her, and her eyes—black as pitch—fixed on us with an unnerving calm. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. I thought it might be a hiker in costume, a prank, but Mira’s face had gone ashen.

Then Mira grabbed my arm and hauled me sideways into the underbrush. ‘Don’t look back,’ she hissed, and we ran. We stumbled over roots, through stickers, our breath ragged, branches whipping our faces. The woods around us seemed to darken, the trees leaning in as if to block our escape. We burst out onto the main road, gasping, and I finally dared to glance behind us. The trail was empty, but the air felt wrong, heavy with a silence that wasn’t natural.

We reached the car just as my father and Lena emerged from the other fork. My father’s face was pale, and Lena was shaking. They hadn’t seen a woman in white, but they’d heard something—a woman’s voice whispering from the trees, calling out names. ‘It sounded like it was right behind us,’ Lena said, her voice trembling. My father didn’t say much, just told us to get in the car.

As we drove away, I looked back at the forest. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of white between the trees, but it was gone. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the house made me jump. And when I finally drifted off, I dreamed of a path paved with cinders, leading to a house that wasn’t mine. At the end of the path, the woman stood on the porch, and she was smiling. She had her hand on the doorknob, and she was turning it. I woke up screaming, and for a heartbeat, I swore I saw a shadow slip past my bedroom window.

We left Redwood Hollow the next morning, but the fear didn’t leave us. A week later, my father found a smudge of ash on the kitchen floor, in the shape of a footprint. It was too small for any of us. And in the garden, the flowers my grandmother had planted in a circle had all died, leaving a ring of blackened stems. I haven’t told my family, but I know the truth: the woman follows the ones who look. And I looked back.