The Last Exit at Mile 42

It was a Tuesday in late October when my sister, Mira, drove our old pickup through the heart of the Pine Barrens. She had our golden retriever, Biscuit, in the passenger seat, his head resting on the cracked vinyl. We’d spent the weekend at Aunt Ruthie’s cabin, and now we were heading back to the city. The radio crackled with static; the only station we could get was a talk show about the history of the Jersey Devil. Mira kept the volume low, more for company than entertainment.

The roads were empty, darker than usual, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. She’d been driving for hours, and her eyes were starting to blur. The fuel gauge was hovering near empty, and then she saw a sign: “Mile 42 – Rest Area 500 ft.” It was a familiar spot, a little tourist trap with a diner shaped like a lumberjack, a set of rusted gas pumps, and a small wooden chapel that had been deconsecrated years ago. She pulled in, gravel crunching under the tires. There were no other cars, no lights in the diner windows, but a single fluorescent buzz from the chapel’s porch.

Biscuit had been quiet the whole trip, but now he stirred, lifting his head and letting out a low whine. Mira patted his head. “Easy, boy. Just need to stretch my legs and use the restroom.” She parked, killed the engine, and stepped out. The air was cold and still, carrying a faint smell of pine and something else—like burnt sugar and old rot. She walked toward the restrooms on the far side of the diner, her boots crunching on the gravel. The chapel stood a few feet away, its door slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness inside. She had a sudden urge to peek in, but she told herself she was just tired.

As she reached the restroom door, she heard it—a soft, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat coming from the chapel. She froze. Biscuit started barking from the truck, a frantic, sharp sound that echoed in the empty lot. Mira’s skin prickled, and the hair on her arms stood on end. She turned to see Biscuit pressing his nose against the window, his eyes wild. He let out a howl that was almost human. She ran back to the truck, but as she grabbed the door handle, she saw something in the rearview mirror: a figure standing at the edge of the chapel, tall and thin, its head tilted like it was curious. She couldn’t make out features, just a pale blur. She jumped in, locked the doors, and started the engine, but the truck sputtered, then died.

Panic surged through her. She tried again, the starter grinding, but nothing. The figure began to move, not walking, but shuffling, dragging one foot. Biscuit was in a frenzy now, his growls rising to shrieks. Mira looked at the fuel gauge—it read full, but she knew she’d been on empty. Then she realized: the radio was playing again, but the song was an old hymn she’d heard at Aunt Ruthie’s funeral, “Amazing Grace.” The speaker was crackling, but the voice was different, slow and off-key. The figure grew closer, and she could see it clearly now: a man in a torn black suit, his head tilted so far to one side that it almost rested on his shoulder. His mouth was open, but no sound came out. He raised a hand, and she saw that his fingers were too long, bent at odd angles.

Biscuit broke loose from his harness, launching himself at the window. The glass held, but it cracked. The man stopped, just outside the driver’s window, and leaned in, his face inches from the glass. His eyes were milky white, and his smile was too wide. She heard him whisper, clear as day, even through the glass: “You’re the first one to hear me in a long time.” He reached out, and his fingers left greasy smears on the window. Mira screamed, throwing the keys at the window, but they fell to the floor. In that moment, the truck’s engine roared to life on its own, the headlights blazing. The man recoiled, his smile twisting into a scream. Biscuit quieted, whining. The radio switched to static. And then, silence.

She looked at the chapel, and saw that the door was shut, the porch light flickered out. She stomped on the gas, tires spinning on gravel before catching. The truck shot forward, and she didn’t look back until she was miles away, the rest stop a smear in her rearview. When she finally stopped at a twenty-four-hour diner off the highway, she was shaking so hard she couldn’t hold the cup of coffee. The waitress asked if she was okay, and Mira told her about the figure. The waitress just nodded, saying, “That’s old Mr. Harlow. He used to run the chapel. They say he’s still waiting for his wife to come back. Sometimes, on the anniversary of her death, he shows up to those who stop alone at night.”

Mira looked at her watch. It was October 31st, just past midnight. She hadn’t realized the date. The waitress gave her a long look, and added, “You’d best have a dog that listens. He might’ve saved you, you know.” Mira finished her coffee, paid, and left. She never drove through the Pine Barrens again. But sometimes, when she’s driving late at night, she’ll see a figure on the side of the road, and she’ll think she hears Biscuit growling, even though he’s been dead for years.