The Last Crossing

The winter of ’89 was the coldest I’d ever known, and I was driving home across the salt flats of the Great Salt Lake in Utah. My wife had taken the kids ahead, and I was closing up the cabin in the mountains. It was late March, but a freak snowstorm had rolled in, turning the desert into a white abyss. I figured I’d catch the last ferry across the causeway before they shut it down for the night.

The road was a thin black ribbon cutting through the white, and the wind was howling like a pack of wolves. My headlights barely reached ten feet ahead. I was gripping the wheel, trying to stay calm, when I saw a figure standing by the side of the road. It was a woman, wrapped in a shawl, her face hidden. She was just standing there, not waving, not moving, as if she was waiting for something. I knew better than to stop in this weather, but something about her made me slow down. As I rolled past, she turned her head, and I saw her eyes – they were black, like two holes burned into a sheet.

I slammed the gas, but the car slid on the ice. When I fought for control and looked back, she was gone. My heart was hammering, and I told myself it was just a trick of the light. But the road ahead seemed darker, the wind louder, and the salt flats stretched on forever.

That’s when I saw the ferry dock ahead, a gray silhouette against the storm. I pulled in, but the lot was empty except for a single old truck, covered in frost. The ferry was still there, low in the water, but there was no one around. I honked, and a man emerged from a shack, his face weathered and pale, like he’d been out in the cold for years. ‘You cutting it close,’ he said, his voice barely audible above the wind. ‘Last crossing tonight.’

I thanked him, and he waved me onto the ferry. As I drove, my tires crackled on the icy planks. The man closed the gate behind me, and the ferry began to move, cutting through the black water. The fog was so thick I could see nothing beyond the deck. I stepped out of the car, shivering, and lit a cigarette. The ferryman stood at the wheel, staring ahead. I tried to make conversation, but he just grunted. ‘Storms like this, they bring out the lost ones,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘People who died on these flats. They don’t know they’re dead. They walk the causeway, looking for a way home.’ He turned to me, his eyes glinting in the dim light. ‘You saw a woman back there, didn’t you?’

I froze, nodding.

‘That’s the third time this week. She’s waiting for her husband. He drowned in the lake back in ’59. She still thinks he’s coming back.’

The ferryman laughed, a dry, hollow sound. I didn’t find it funny. I went back to my car and locked the doors. The ferry chugged on, and I watched the black water swirl below. My mind raced with images of the woman’s face, her black eyes. I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.

Then I heard it – a soft tapping on my window. I looked up, and she was there, pressed against the glass, her breath fogging it. I screamed, and she mouthed something, but I couldn’t hear. The ferryman appeared beside her, yelling, ‘Don’t open the window! She’ll drag you in!’

I threw the car into reverse, but the ferry was too small. She started to laugh, a high, keening wail that pierced the glass. The ferryman grabbed her arm, and they struggled. The ferry rocked violently, and I felt the icy water seeping into the car. I fumbled for the door handle, but it was frozen shut.

Just as I thought I’d drown, the ferryman yanked her away, and she vanished into the fog. The ferry settled, and the man came to my window, his face grim. ‘She’s gone. For now. But she’ll find you again if you don’t leave soon.’

We reached the other shore, and I sped off, my tires screaming on the wet asphalt. I drove straight through the night, not daring to stop, but I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. And there, in the distance, I saw a figure standing in the middle of the road, its shawl flapping in the wind. I didn’t slow down. I just kept going, my hands shaking.

When I finally got home, my wife said I looked like I’d seen a ghost. I told her it was just the storm, but I knew the truth. That woman had been real, and she’s probably still out there, waiting on that desolate causeway, waiting for a husband who’ll never come. And part of me knows, one day, she’ll be waiting for me too.