The Gumbo Circuit

The week of the Harvest Moon Festival, I decided to take a detour through the low country of South Carolina, hoping to catch up with some old college buddies in Charleston. We had a riot, as always, but the trip had to end. On the morning of October 23rd, I checked out of the Magnolia Inn before dawn, eager to beat the festival traffic heading into the city. I wanted to get onto the backroads before the highways became a parking lot. I slipped out just in time.

I was groggy but alert, my mind fixed on the long drive ahead. The radio was tuned to a station playing old swamp blues, and the miles of pine forest and kudzu-draped trees rolled by in a hypnotic rhythm. I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings, just the road and the music, when I felt it—a subtle shift in the air, like a change in pressure.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman in the passenger seat. She had short, copper-red hair, and wore a pair of vintage cat-eye sunglasses, the kind my grandmother used to wear. She was dressed in a floral sundress, the fabric faded and patterned with tiny magnolias. I nearly swerved off the road. I blinked, and she was gone. I laughed nervously, blaming the long drive and the sleepless night. But the feeling of being watched never left.

A few miles later, I pulled over at a gas station that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the ’50s. The building’s paint was peeling, and a wooden sign creaked in the breeze, advertising ‘Gator Gumbo’ and ‘Moonshine.’ As I filled the tank, an old man in overalls shuffled out, his eyes milky with cataracts. He studied me, then spat a wad of tobacco into the dirt. ‘You got her shape in your car, boy,’ he said, nodding toward the passenger seat. ‘That’s Marie LeBlanc. She’s been hitched to that seat since ’72, when her fiancé left her at the altar and drove off into the swamp. She didn’t take kindly.’

I laughed, thinking he was playing a joke on a tourist, but his expression was stone-cold serious. He warned me not to stop for anyone on the road, especially a woman in a floral dress. I paid and drove off, but I couldn’t shake the cold unease that had settled in my gut.

As I merged back onto the highway, the music on the radio began to fade, replaced by a low, mournful humming. It sounded like a woman’s voice, threading through the guitar strings. I turned the dial, but every station was the same. My hands grew clammy on the steering wheel. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw her again—this time more solid, her mouth slightly open, as if she was trying to speak.

I pulled over to the shoulder, my heart pounding. I stared at the empty seat, demanding myself to calm down. But as I looked down, I noticed the passenger floor mat was wet, as if someone had stepped in from the rain. The smell of damp earth and old perfume filled the cabin. I didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence was there.

I drove on, my eyes fixed forward, refusing to look to my right. The humming grew louder, and I could hear a faint voice whispering, ‘He left me in the water… you’ll take me to the ceremony.’

Panic seized me. I recalled the old man’s warning—’don’t stop for anyone’—but the voice was inside my car, not beside the road. I looked at the rearview mirror and saw her reflection, her sunglasses now gone, revealing eyes that were white and milky. She was grinning, a wide, fishy smile.

I slammed on the brakes, but the car didn’t slow. The highway had become a flooded causeway, water on both sides, and the road ahead was vanishing into a black, glassy lake. The radio crackled, and a voice I recognized as my own, but not my own, said, ‘You’re on the Gumbo Circuit now, darlin’. Didn’t you know? It’s a one-way drive.’

The car rolled into the water, and I felt it close over the hood. I tried to open the door, but the pressure was too great. The woman pressed her cold hand onto mine, singing softly, ‘Hush, hush, sweet thing. The circuit’s got you now. We’ll never leave.’

I woke up in my car on the side of the road, my hands gripping the wheel. The sun was shining, and the highway was dry. I laughed, a shaky, relieved laugh, and looked over at the passenger seat. The floor mat was clean. But then I saw a damp, wrinkled flower on the dashboard—a single white magnolia. And in the rearview mirror, for just a second, I caught the reflection of a woman in the back seat, her cat-eye sunglasses glinting in the light. When I turned around, the back seat was empty, but the humming started again, low and endless, as I drove on, never quite sure if I had ever left the Gumbo Circuit at all.