The Hollow Crossing

It was a late October evening, and the air had that sharp, metallic bite that precedes the first hard frost. My stepsister, Clara, and I were driving home from a midweek prayer meeting at the small chapel on the outskirts of Millbrook. We usually took the main highway, but a detour due to roadwork forced us onto the old county road, a winding strip of asphalt that locals avoided after dark. The stories about this road were many—lost travelers who never returned, a phantom hitchhiker, and the ever-present feeling of being watched from the dense woods that lined the route.

We rode in silence, the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of leaves the only sounds. The road was poorly lit, with only a few flickering streetlamps that cast weak pools of light. I was lost in thought, contemplating the sermon about the valley of the shadow of death, when I noticed a pair of headlights approaching from the opposite direction. Clara, ever cautious, dimmed her high beams as the car drew closer. We continued, waiting for the other vehicle to pass, but it never did. After a long minute, Clara asked, ‘Do you see that car coming toward us?’ I squinted into the darkness ahead. The lights were there, but they seemed to hover, unmoving, as if the car was stopped in the middle of the road.

We slowed to a crawl, expecting to find a stalled vehicle or a driver in distress. But as we drew nearer, the outline of the car became clearer, and my blood ran cold. It was an old station wagon, rusted and covered in moss, with no visible driver. The headlights were not from the car itself but from two lanterns placed on the hood, their flames flickering as if in a wind, yet the night was still. Clara brought our car to a halt about thirty feet away. ‘What is that?’ she whispered. I shook my head, unable to speak. The station wagon looked like it had been abandoned for decades, its tires flat, and yet the lanterns burned brightly, casting eerie shadows that danced across the road.

Then I noticed something else—a figure standing beside the car, barely visible in the gloom. It was a woman, or what appeared to be a woman, tall and gaunt, with long, straggly hair that hung over her face. She wore a tattered white dress that seemed to float around her, and she was holding a small wooden sign that read ‘JUNCTION’ in faded letters. Clara gasped, and I felt a primal fear grip me. ‘We need to turn around,’ I said, my voice trembling. Clara tried to reverse, but the engine sputtered and died. The lights on our car flickered and went out, plunging us into darkness except for the lantern glow ahead.

The woman began to walk toward us, her steps making no sound on the gravel. Clara frantically tried to restart the engine, but it wouldn’t turn over. I fumbled for my phone, but the screen was dead, as if the battery had been drained. The woman stopped at the front of our car, and I could see her face now—it was a mask of despair, with hollow eyes that seemed to look through us. She raised the sign, pointing it at us, and said in a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, ‘The junction is closed. You must turn back.’ But there was no junction here; just a straight road through the woods.

Suddenly, the lanterns on the station wagon extinguished, and the woman vanished. We sat in the darkness, hearts pounding, until the moon broke through the clouds, revealing the road ahead. The station wagon was gone, as if it had never been there. Clara managed to start the car again, and we sped away, not stopping until we reached home. We never spoke of that night again, but I often think about what that sign meant. Perhaps the road was a threshold, and we were never meant to cross it that night. Or perhaps the woman was a guardian, warning us of something worse ahead. Years later, I learned that a bus had crashed at that exact spot, killing all aboard, and that one of the victims was a woman who was never identified. Sometimes, when I drive past that road, I see the faint glow of lanterns in the distance, and I know that the hollow crossing is still waiting, and it will not always let travelers pass by.