The Last Kilometer to the Overpass

I remember the night the engine coughed, a dry hack that made the steering wheel tremble. My name is Liza, and I had just left my sister’s birthday dinner in the town of San Isidro, where the karaoke machines never stop until midnight. The coffee I’d drunk had turned my stomach into a knot, and all I wanted was to reach my apartment near the city line. The route was familiar: a winding provincial road that cut through sugarcane fields, then a short stretch of asphalt that climbed into the hills before dipping under the old overpass. I had driven it a hundred times, but never at 11 PM with a storm grumbling in the distance.

As I passed the last convenience store, its fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped flies, the road narrowed. The streetlights ended abruptly at a rusty sign that said ‘MUNICIPALITY OF SAN ISIDRO’ in peeling letters. Beyond that, the darkness was absolute. My headlights carved a pale tunnel through the night, illuminating the cracked pavement and the occasional tuft of grass that had pushed through. I slowed down, feeling the familiar unease settle in my bones. I had heard stories—local stories about the stretch of road near the old bridge, how sometimes you could hear footsteps on the gravel even when no one was there.

I told myself it was nonsense. I was a practical person. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I had always been sensitive to sounds. Even as a child, I could hear the hum of the electricity in the walls when others couldn’t. My grandmother used to say I had ‘the ears of a fox.’ That night, those ears were working overtime. I had the radio on low, a pop song that I knew by heart, but beneath the melody, I heard something else: a rhythmic tapping, like a stick being dragged along the guardrail. It came from the right side of the road, just out of reach of my headlights. I turned the radio off. The tapping stopped.

I laughed at myself, but it was a nervous laugh. I pressed the accelerator a little harder. The road began to slope downward toward the bridge that spanned a dry riverbed. In the daytime, you could see the rusted remains of an old water wheel beneath it, a remnant from the sugar mill that had closed decades ago. At night, it was just a black maw. As I reached the peak of the bridge, my car’s headlights caught something at the other end—a figure, standing motionless on the shoulder. My heart skipped. It was a woman, wearing a white dress that seemed to glow faintly. But as I got closer, I saw that she was translucent, and her face was a blur, like a photograph left out in the rain.

I blinked, and the figure was gone. I slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a stop in the middle of the bridge. My hands were shaking. I looked in the rearview mirror, but there was nothing. The wind had picked up, and I could hear the creak of the old metal beams. I saw my own face in the mirror, pale and wide-eyed. I knew what I had seen. I had heard stories about the woman in white on this bridge—a girl named Elena who had jumped into the river years ago, her body never found. But I didn’t believe in ghosts.

I forced myself to drive on. The road turned right after the bridge, along a narrow lane that cut through a grove of bamboo. The bamboo stalks clattered together in the wind, making a sound like bones knocking. I turned on the radio again, but this time, the only station I could pick up was a static-filled AM broadcast. The static was rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat. I turned it off. The silence that followed was worse. I could hear my own breathing, but then I heard something else: a soft humming, coming from the backseat.

I froze. The humming was a lullaby, my mother’s lullaby, the one she used to sing to me when I was sick. I dared to glance at the rearview mirror. In the dim glow of the dashboard lights, I saw the outline of a child’s head in the backseat, facing forward. I squeezed the steering wheel until my knuckles whitened. ‘It’s not real,’ I whispered. The humming stopped. Then I heard a small, clear voice say, ‘Are you lost, too?’

I lost control. I swerved, the car veering off the road and into the ditch. The impact shoved me forward, and the seatbelt caught me painfully. My head hit the steering wheel, and for a moment, everything went black. When I came to, the car was silent, the engine dead. My ears were ringing. I looked around. The headlights were still on, illuminating a wall of bamboo. I turned to check the backseat. It was empty. I got out of the car, my legs trembling. The night enveloped me, and I felt a weird calm. I walked to the front of the car to see if there was any damage. The bumper was dented, but the car was still drivable. As I opened the driver’s door to get back in, I heard the humming again, this time from behind me, from the direction of the bridge.

I turned. In the distance, I saw a faint white shape, moving slowly down the road, swaying as if dancing. I knew I should get in the car and drive away, but my feet wouldn’t move. The shape got closer, and I could see it was the woman in white. Her face was still blurred, but I could see she was holding something in her arms—a bundle, like a swaddled infant. She stopped a few meters away, tilting her head as if listening. I saw her mouth move, and the humming started again, but this time I could almost make out words. ‘You didn’t stop for me,’ she sang, her voice like wind through dry leaves. ‘But you will stop for him.’

I screamed. I scrambled into the car, slammed the door, and locked it. The engine refused to start. I tried again, and again, but only a clicking sound came out. The battery was dead. I looked out the windshield. The woman was gone, but in her place, I saw a child standing in the middle of the road, just at the edge of my headlights. He was a little boy, maybe five years old, wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He was holding a small truck, and he was looking directly at me, and he was smiling. I blinked, and he was closer. I blinked again, and he was right at the door, knocking on the glass. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my ears. I started to pray, to my grandmother’s God, to any god. The tapping went on for what felt like an eternity. Then, suddenly, it stopped. I opened my eyes. The headlights flickered, and the car started by itself. The engine purred as if nothing had happened. I didn’t wait. I threw the car into reverse, backed out of the ditch, and sped down the road without looking back. I didn’t stop until I reached the toll gate, where the bright lights and the presence of other cars made me feel human again.

I never told anyone the full story. People would have thought I was crazy. But for weeks after, I couldn’t sleep. I would hear that lullaby in my head, and I would see the boy’s face in my mind. I began to research the history of the bridge and the river. I found an old newspaper article from 1985, about a woman and her son who drowned in the river after their car went off the bridge. The mother’s name was Elena, and the boy’s name was Jun. They said Elena was driving home late at night, just like me. They never found the boy’s body. They only found the mother’s handbag with a photo of the two of them.

Now, when I drive that road at night, I always keep the radio loud, and I never stop, no matter what I see or hear. But the other night, I had to slow down for a stray dog, and I glanced at the bridge in the rearview mirror. I saw two figures standing at the railing, a woman and a boy. The woman was humming, and the boy was waving at me. I drove straight home and threw up. I knew they weren’t there to hurt me. I think they just wanted someone to acknowledge them, to finally stop for them. But I couldn’t. I still can’t. Because if I stop, I’m afraid I’ll never leave.