The Floating Janitor of Lone Pine Rest Stop

It was the summer of 1987, and my parents, Rachel and Tom, were driving across the country to visit my grandmother in Arizona. They had just passed through the Mojave Desert and were desperate for a break. The sun was a relentless white disc, baking the asphalt and distorting the air ahead of the car. They pulled into a rest stop called Lone Pine, a desolate oasis of cracked concrete and a single, weary-looking building. The only other vehicle was a rusted pickup truck parked far from the restrooms, its tires flattened and windows dark.

Rachel needed to use the facilities, but the rest area was so deserted that it made her skin crawl. She turned to Tom, who was checking the map under the dashboard light, and said, ‘I don’t want to go in there alone. Come with me?’ Tom sighed, but he understood. They had heard stories about rest stops like this, and the grimy state of the building didn’t help. They got out of their blue station wagon, the heat hitting them like a wall, and walked towards the concrete block that housed the toilets.

The door to the women’s restroom was ajar, and a musty smell wafted out. They entered, their footsteps echoing on the wet floor. The lights flickered, and the tiles were streaked with grime. And then Rachel saw her. An elderly woman in a faded floral dress was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a bucket of murky water. But she was not touching the ground. She was hovering, her knees about an inch above the tile, her movements fluid and unnaturally smooth. She looked up as they entered, her eyes milky white, and her lips parted in a silent smile. Then she dropped her sponge. It landed with a wet slap, and she turned—or rather, she glided—towards the far wall. Rachel and Tom stood frozen, their hands gripping each other, as the woman passed through the concrete like it was smoke. She was gone.

They snapped out of it and bolted, their footsteps loud in the sudden silence. They didn’t look back until they were inside the car, doors locked, engine roaring. Rachel was shaking. ‘If she had come out, then it wasn’t a ghost,’ she whispered, her voice trembling. ‘But she didn’t.’ Tom stared at the building, his face pale. They waited, but the woman never emerged. After what felt like an eternity, they drove away, leaving the rest stop behind.

That night, in a motel room off Route 66, Rachel had a nightmare. She dreamt of the old woman, but she was no longer in the restroom. She was in the motel room, hovering at the foot of the bed, her milky eyes fixed on Rachel. She was pointing at her belly, where Rachel was just starting to show. ‘You carry him,’ the woman said, her voice like the creak of a door. ‘But I was there first.’ Rachel woke with a gasp, but the room was empty, and Tom was still asleep, curled up on his side.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, and they eventually reached Arizona. But Rachel never forgot the image of the woman, and she never felt alone again. When I was born, the doctor noted that I had a strange reaction to the light, as if I was trying to look past it. My parents never told me about the rest stop until I was sixteen, when I started seeing things that others couldn’t. But that’s where it really began.

Years later, I made a point to visit that rest stop. It was closed down, the building half-destroyed, but I felt a pull. I entered the remnants of the women’s restroom, and there she was, still scrubbing the floor, still hovering. She looked up at me, and I felt a cold recognition. She didn’t speak, but I heard her thoughts: ‘You’re here. I’ve been waiting.’ I ran, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that she had planted something in me, something that would manifest when I least expected it. And sometimes, in my dreams, I see her, and she’s not pointing at my mother’s belly anymore. She’s pointing at me, and she’s smiling. And I know that one day, I’ll take over her vigil. Because the rest stop is always in need of a custodian, and I’ve been chosen.