The Last Stop on the Orange River Road

The summer of 1947 was a furnace that pressed down on the vast emptiness of the Karoo. My grandfather, Elias, and his friend, Daniël, were driving from the dusty diamond town of Lime Acres to the coastal city of Port Elizabeth, a journey that should have taken them two days along the winding national roads. But the maps were unreliable, and the roads were little more than worn tracks in the scrub. They had planned to stop at a small dorp like Graaff-Reinet or Aberdeen for the night, but as the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows, Elias realized they had not seen a signpost in over an hour.

Daniël, who was navigating, squinted at the crumpled map. ‘I think we should have turned left back at that dead tree,’ he muttered. Elias grunted, gripping the wooden steering wheel of their old Chevrolet. The road they were on had narrowed to a gravel path that wound through low, rocky hills, dotted with strange, twisted aloe plants. The silence was profound, broken only by the crunch of gravel under the tires and the occasional call of a distant bird. Then, without warning, the engine coughed, sputtered, and died. Elias coaxed the accelerator, but the motor was dead. They rolled to a stop near a dry riverbed, the dust settling around them like a shroud.

‘Damn it,’ Elias said, slamming his palm against the dashboard. ‘Out of petrol?’ Daniël asked. Elias shook his head. ‘I filled up this morning. Something else is wrong.’ He got out, lifted the bonnet, and peered at the engine. Daniël joined him, their shadows stretching across the hot metal. They checked the wires, the carburettor, the fuel line, but everything seemed in order. It was as if the car had simply given up. The sun was sinking lower, painting the sky in shades of blood orange and violet. They had no choice but to wait for help, but the road they were on was so obscure that they might wait for days.

As darkness enveloped the land, a chill crept into the air, a stark contrast to the day’s heat. They sat on the running board, sharing a flask of coffee and a few biltong sticks, listening to the unnerving stillness. Then, in the distance, they saw a faint glimmer of light, a small, flickering flame that seemed to dance on the horizon. ‘A farmhouse,’ Daniël said with relief. ‘We’ll walk over and ask to use their phone.’ Elias agreed, and they grabbed their torches and set off across the rocky terrain.

The light seemed closer than it was, and they walked for what felt like an hour, stumbling over stones and thorny bushes. Finally, they came upon a small, decrepit homestead. The roof was half collapsed, the windows were dark, but the light they had seen came from a lantern hanging on the broken porch. The front door was ajar, swaying gently in a breeze that carried the smell of dust and decay. Elias called out, ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ There was no answer. They exchanged uneasy glances, but the thought of spending the night in the open was worse. They pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The interior was sparse, with old furniture covered in sheets, and a thick layer of dust on every surface. It looked abandoned for years. In the centre of the main room stood a large, cast-iron stove, and on it was a kettle that looked warm to the touch. Elias touched the side; it was still hot. ‘Someone was here not long ago,’ he said. Daniël pointed to a door at the back. ‘Maybe they’re in the bedroom.’ They approached it, and Elias slowly pushed it open. The room was empty, but on the bed lay an old photograph in a tarnished frame. It showed a family – a man, a woman, and two children – all with hollow, staring eyes. There was something deeply unsettling about the image, but they could not place it.

Suddenly, they heard a creak behind them. They spun around, but there was nothing. Then, a low, guttural whisper seemed to come from all directions, a voice that was not quite human, speaking in a language they did not understand. The lantern on the porch flickered and went out, plunging the room into darkness. Elias fumbled for his torch, and when he switched it on, the beam revealed that they were no longer alone. Standing in the corner was a tall, gaunt figure, its skin stretched tight over protruding bones, with long, spindly fingers. It had no eyes, only dark, empty sockets that seemed to bore into their souls.

Daniël screamed and backed away, but the figure moved with unnatural speed, closing the distance in an instant. Elias grabbed a heavy iron poker from the stove and swung it, but it passed through the figure as if it were mist. The figure let out a high-pitched wail that seemed to pierce their eardrums, and then it lunged at Daniël. Elias watched in horror as Daniël was enveloped by the darkness, his scream cut short. When the wail subsided, the figure was gone, and Daniël lay crumpled on the floor, his face frozen in an expression of absolute terror. He was dead, his skin cold to the touch.

Elias did not wait. He bolted out of the house, stumbling and running back towards the road, his heart pounding in his chest. He did not stop until he reached the car, where he collapsed against the door, panting. He looked back into the darkness, but there was no sign of the light or the house. It was as if it had vanished from the earth. The car engine turned over with a roar, and Elias drove off, not caring where the road led.

It was dawn before he found a main road and a small garage. The mechanic, an old man with weathered hands and knowing eyes, listened to Elias’s tale without interruption. When Elias finished, the mechanic nodded slowly and said, ‘You found the old van der Merwe place. It’s been abandoned since the family disappeared in the ’30s. Folk say the father went mad and killed them all, then himself. His ghost lingers there, and if you encounter him, he will steal your soul. You are lucky to be alive.’ Elias never spoke of it again, but he never forgot the sight of Daniël’s face, or the way the light had lured them to that cursed place. And whenever he drove past a lonely house at dusk, he would drive faster, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, for fear of seeing that flickering light again.