The Last Song on the Mix

In the crisp autumn of 2019, I packed my old station wagon with my twelve-year-old son, Eli, and our overstuffed duffel bags. We were driving from the foggy streets of Portland, Maine, to the coastal town of Harpswell for his regional junior swim meet. Eli had been training all season, and his excitement was contagious as we cruised along Route 1, the windows down, the smell of salt and pine filling the air. Our favorite playlist blared, and we sang along at the top of our lungs, Eli pointing his phone at me, filming our little road trip for his social media. We were oblivious to the dark history of that stretch of road, known locally as ‘The Widow’s Way’ for the countless accidents that had claimed lives over the decades.

As we rounded a sharp curve, the traffic ahead came to a jarring halt. My heart lurched. In the distance, I could see the crumpled remains of two vehicles, their metal twisted like discarded toys. Smoke curled into the grey sky, and the sound of sirens was still faint. I told Eli to stay in the car, to keep the doors locked, while I went to see if anyone needed help. He nodded, his eyes wide, and I stepped out, the cool wind biting at my cheeks.

As I approached the wreckage, I noticed something odd. The cars were old, from the 1970s, and the people involved were not moving. A middle-aged woman with blood on her forehead was slumped over the steering wheel, and a man in the other car was slumped against his airbag. But what struck me most was the silence. No moans, no screams—just the hiss of a leaking radiator and the distant wail of approaching sirens. I reached for the woman’s door, but as my hand touched the handle, I heard a faint melody. It was a song from my own youth, ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ playing from a cracked iPhone on the dashboard. The screen flickered, showing a video of a girl in a swimsuit, laughing. I blinked, and in that split second, the woman’s head snapped up, her eyes milky white, and she whispered, ‘You’re next.’

I stumbled back, my heart pounding. I turned to run back to the car, but the wreckage seemed to shift, and suddenly I was no longer on the road. I was in a hospital corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing, and the smell of antiseptic overwhelming. I saw Eli lying on a gurney, his leg at a wrong angle, his face pale. He was mouthing something, but I couldn’t hear him. Then the scene shattered like glass, and I was back on the road, the sirens now loud, paramedics rushing past me. I turned to find Eli, but he wasn’t in the car. The car was empty, the front door open, and the phone on the seat was playing the same song, over and over, with a timestamp from the future: 3:00 PM, the exact time of the accident.

I ran around the car, shouting his name, but the world had gone wrong. The sky was turning a sickly orange, and the trees seemed to lean in, their branches like grasping fingers. I saw Eli at the edge of the woods, waving at me, but when I got closer, it wasn’t Eli—it was a shadow of him, a hollow silhouette that whispered, ‘You left me.’ I screamed, and then I woke up in a hospital bed, IVs in my arms, my leg in traction. A doctor told me I had been in a severe accident, that I had been unconscious for two days. He said my son hadn’t made it. I wept, but then I noticed the phone on the bedside table—it was Eli’s, and the video he had taken of me driving was playing. In the video, I could see myself singing, and just before the crash, I could see the other driver, the same woman with the milky eyes, staring at me through the windshield. Her lips moved, and I could lip-read the words: ‘You’re next.’

At the funeral, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. In the back of the church, I saw a figure that resembled my son, but older, gaunt, dressed in black. He caught my eye and slowly shook his head, then vanished. I never told anyone. Now, it’s years later, and I still can’t listen to ‘Stairway to Heaven’ without seeing that wreck. And sometimes, when I drive past that curve, I see the ghost of that old car, and the woman with the milky eyes is always there, pointing at me, and in the back seat, a dark shape that used to be my son, mouthing, ‘You left me.’ I know that one day, the song will play again, and I’ll be the one in the wreck, waiting for the next soul to come along.