The Hollow Crossing

It was a scorching July afternoon in 1994 when I stepped out of my flat in the quiet town of Ashford, Kent. I had the day off from the印刷工厂, and the heat was oppressive, so I decided to walk to my mother’s house, a short stroll through the residential streets lined with Victorian terraces. The air was thick and still, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

As I turned onto Elm Grove, I spotted a familiar figure ahead: old Mrs. Hargrave, our neighbour for over twenty years. She was shuffling along the pavement, wearing her usual beige raincoat despite the heat, clutching a worn leather handbag. She lived two doors down from my mother, and we had always been close—she used to bring us seashells from her holidays in Cornwall. I waved enthusiastically, calling out, ‘Hello, Mrs. Hargrave!’ But she didn’t even glance my way. She just kept walking, her eyes fixed straight ahead, as if I were invisible.

We were on the same side of the road, and as we closed the distance, I noticed something odd. The usual hum of traffic on the main road had vanished. The birds that had been chirping moments before fell silent. The only sound was the soft scuff of Mrs. Hargrave’s shoes on the pavement. I waved again, more frantically, but she passed me without a flicker of recognition. The air around her felt cold, a stark contrast to the baking sun, and I caught a whiff of something like damp earth and old mothballs.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, watching her continue towards the corner. She didn’t look left or right as she stepped off the kerb and crossed the road—a road that, I now realised, was completely empty of cars. It was eerily quiet, as if the world had been muted. I felt a chill run down my spine. Something was wrong.

I hurried to my mother’s house, my heart pounding. I burst through the front door, calling out, but the house was still. I found my mother in the kitchen, staring out the window. ‘Mum, something’s wrong with Mrs. Hargrave,’ I said. She turned to me, her face pale. ‘She’s been dead for three years, love.’ I stared at her, my mouth agape. ‘But I just saw her, walking down Elm Grove, wearing that old raincoat.’ My mother shook her head slowly. ‘You couldn’t have. She passed away in the winter of ’91. We went to her funeral.’

I didn’t sleep that night. I kept replaying the image of Mrs. Hargrave, her blank face, the cold air around her. The next morning, I decided to go to her house, which had been sold after her death. A young couple lived there now. They told me they often saw a woman in a beige raincoat standing at their bedroom window late at night, but when they went to look, she was gone. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.

Over the following weeks, I began to notice other anomalies. The street lights flickered at odd hours, and I often heard soft footsteps pacing outside my flat at night, though no one was there. My mother fell ill with a strange, lingering fever, and the doctors couldn’t explain it. I started to research the history of Elm Grove, and I uncovered a dark secret: in 1952, a woman matching Mrs. Hargrave’s description had been found dead at the crossing, a victim of a hit-and-run. But the dates didn’t match—she was alive in 1991. Or so I thought.

One evening, I was in the local library, going through old newspaper archives, when I found a small article: ‘Local Woman Dies in Mysterious Accident’ from 1952. The photo was grainy, but I could make out the face. It was Mrs. Hargrave. The article said she had been struck by a car while crossing Elm Grove, and the driver had fled. The case was never solved. But how could she have been alive in 1991? Unless… the Mrs. Hargrave I knew was not the original.

I rushed to my mother’s bedside. ‘Mum, did you know Mrs. Hargrave before 1952?’ She looked at me with a strange glint in her eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Just tell me,’ I pleaded. She sighed. ‘She moved to this street in 1955. Nobody knew where she came from. She said she was from up north, but she never talked about her past.’ I felt a sudden dread. The woman I saw on the street that day—the woman who had been a neighbour, a friend—was a ghost, but not the kind I had imagined. She was a lingering presence, caught between worlds, forever crossing that road, waiting for something.

That night, I went to the crossing. The moon was full, casting long shadows. I stood where I had seen her, and I waited. After a while, I saw her again, emerging from the darkness, still in her raincoat. This time, she stopped in the middle of the road and turned to face me. Her lips moved, but no sound came. I rushed forward, and as I approached, the world seemed to dissolve around me. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. When I turned back, the street was empty, and I was standing in front of my mother’s house, the lights on, but the house silent.

I never spoke of it again, but every July, on the same day, I see her walking down Elm Grove. I know now that she is not a malevolent spirit, but a lost soul, doomed to repeat her final moments forever. And I wonder if the day will come when I will join her, crossing that road without a sound, in a world that no longer acknowledges my presence.