The Last Overpass

The night air was thick with the smell of rain as Claire drove along the coastal highway, the headlights cutting through the fog that rolled in from the sea. It was a drive she knew by heart, the route from her mother’s house back to her own small apartment, the old lighthouse on the cliff a familiar landmark. But tonight, something felt off. The radio, which usually played static between stations, was silent, and the engine hummed a low, mournful tune.

Claire’s grandmother, Nonna, had passed six months ago, and her grandfather, Nonno, had been gone for seven years. Claire had tried everything to dream of them, to feel their presence once more, but they never came. The only time she’d felt close was the night of Nonna’s funeral, when a strange moth had fluttered against her window, its wings the color of ash.

As she approached the overpass that crossed the marshlands, the one that locals avoided after dark, the fog grew denser. The bridge was old, its iron rails rusted, and the wooden planks clattered under her tires. Claire’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. She saw the figure before she could brake—a tall, gaunt shape standing in the middle of the road, its head bowed. She slammed the brakes, the car skidding to a stop just inches from it.

The figure didn’t move. It wore a long, dark coat, and its face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Claire’s heart pounded as she stared. Then the figure raised a hand, pointing to the passenger seat. A woman sat there, her face ashen, her eyes hollow. Claire screamed, but no sound came out. The woman was Nonna, or what looked like her, except her mouth was sewn shut with black thread, and her fingers were long, spider-like, reaching for Claire’s face.

Claire’s hands flew to the ignition, but the car wouldn’t start. The engine gave a low, guttural growl. The woman in the passenger seat began to hum, a tune Nonna used to sing, but distorted, off-key. The figure outside walked around the car, its steps heavy, and Claire could hear the creak of the bridge as if it were breathing. Then the woman spoke, not with her mouth, but with her eyes—’Come with me, child. We’ve been waiting for you.’

Claire closed her eyes, praying for it to be a dream, but when she opened them, the car was empty. She was alone, the fog clearing, the radio sputtering back to life with a crackle. She drove home, shaking, and that night she had a dream for the first time in months. Nonna was sitting at the end of her bed, but her face was different, younger, unburdened. She leaned in and whispered, ‘You must not go back to the overpass after dark. They use the dead as doors, and you left one open.’

Claire woke in a cold sweat, the smell of salt and rust in her nose. She hasn’t driven that way since, but sometimes, when the fog rolls in, she hears the humming at her window, and the face of the woman in the car mirrors her own.