The Curve of Clay Lane

I never remembered the incident myself, not until my mother mentioned it at my grandmother’s funeral. We were standing in the front parlor of her house on Clay Lane, a narrow country road that curved sharply just past our front gate. Outside, the summer sun had baked the asphalt to a soft, sticky black, and the smell of tar mixed with the scent of old wood and dust inside. Mother was talking to my uncle about how I used to spend so many weekends there as a child. Then she paused, looked at me, and said, ‘You don’t remember, do you? The thing you told me about.’ I shook my head, and she told me the story.

I was about seven or eight, maybe nine. I used to stay with Grams every other weekend while my parents worked. Her house was a two-story white clapboard with a wraparound porch, set on the inside of that sharp bend in Clay Lane. On the outside of the curve, directly across from her house, lay the entrance to an old dirt track called the Muddy Run, though at that time it was just a weed-choked strip barely wide enough for a car. Beyond that, the land rose into a low ridge thick with pine trees. Houses were sparse there, each half a mile or more apart, and at night there were no streetlights, only the thin beams of headlights cutting through the darkness.

I loved staying there. Grams would make me hot chocolate, and we’d sit on the porch swing, counting fireflies. But that particular spring, something had changed. It started one night when I woke to find a cool patch of air in my room, like an open refrigerator door, even though the window was shut. I thought I saw a dark figure standing in the corner, but when I blinked, it was just the shadow of my coat on a hook. I didn’t tell Grams because I didn’t want to worry her. But the next weekend, the same thing happened, only the figure seemed closer, and I heard a soft whisper that sounded like my own name.

I told my mother about it one Sunday evening when she picked me up. She shrugged it off, saying I was ‘sensitive’ and that old houses had creaks and drafts. I didn’t argue, but I knew the difference between a draft and something breathing on my neck. That summer, I began spending more time outdoors, coming in only when it got dark. But one evening, just as the sun dipped below the ridge, I was playing near the edge of the yard when I saw a man standing at the end of the Muddy Run track. He was tall and thin, wearing a dark overcoat, even though it was warm. He was just standing there, motionless, facing my grandmother’s house. I stared back until Grams called me inside. I didn’t mention it, but I had a feeling he’d be there again.

He was, every evening for the next two weeks. Sometimes he’d stand closer, half-hidden by the pines. I’d watch from my bedroom window, and he’d look up at me, his face a pale blur. I finally told Grams. She told me not to mind the scarecrow, that old Mr. Holloway had put it up to keep the crows off his new seeds, but I knew it wasn’t a scarecrow. A scarecrow doesn’t move.

Then one night, I woke to find the cool patch of air again, but this time it was stronger, and I felt a pressure on my chest, like something was sitting on me. I couldn’t move, and I heard a voice, but it wasn’t my own name. It sounded like a whisper of my grandmother’s name, ‘Eleanor,’ repeated over and over. I managed to turn my head, and I saw an old woman’s face hovering over me, translucent, with dark hollows for eyes. She opened her mouth, and a ringing filled my ears, high and sharp. Then I passed out.

The next morning, Grams found me on the floor, shivering despite the heat. I told her everything. She looked out the window toward the Muddy Run and went pale. She didn’t call the doctor. She called my mother and said I wasn’t staying there anymore. My mother picked me up that afternoon, and I never slept at Grams’ house again. I never asked why, and my mother never explained. It was just a story we told at funerals.

But I remember now. I remember the man on the dirt track, the old woman’s face, and the ringing in my ears. And I remember something else: when I looked out the window that last morning, the man was still there, but he was pointing at me. And then he was gone, and the Muddy Run was just an empty path through the pines. I moved away years ago, but that curve in Clay Lane is still there. And sometimes, when the damp of autumn sets in, I think about that man and wonder if he ever left. I wonder if he’s waiting for another child to notice him, another child who is just sensitive enough to see what’s always been watching from the bend in the road.

Now, years later, I’m back in that county for the funeral. I drove past the old road, and I saw that a house has been built on the ridge where the man used to stand. It looks empty. I parked the car at the end of Muddy Run, just to see the view. The pines have grown, and the track is fully overgrown, but I could still make out a clearing. And as I stood there, I felt that familiar cool prickling on the back of my neck. I turned, and for a split second, I saw him again—tall, thin, wearing the same dark coat. He was closer now, only a few yards away. He lifted one arm and pointed at me, and I heard the ringing again, sharp and definitive. I ran back to the car, and as I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror. He was still there, but now he was walking slowly up the drive of the new house. I don’t think I’ll be coming back to this county again. And I’ve started sleeping with the light on.