The Long Road Through Pines

Day three. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but I was already on the road. My name is Maggie, and I work the night shift at the all-night diner in Millbrook. My commute is an hour of winding asphalt that cuts through the heart of the Pines, a stretch of forest so thick the sky disappears. I’ve driven it for four years, every shift, every weather, so I know every curve, every pothole, every deer path. But tonight, I’m not driving. My car died at the end of my shift, and the only ride home was my old bicycle, the one I keep in the diner’s back room for emergencies.

It was past midnight when I set off, the moon hidden behind a curtain of clouds. The road was a black ribbon, the pines a wall of dark. My headlamp cast a weak cone of light, just enough to see the white line. I pedaled fast, the cool air biting my cheeks. I was about halfway through the Pines when the first thing happened. A hand pressed against my back, just below my shoulder blades. The touch was firm, unyielding, exactly as if someone was holding me still. My heart lurched. I glanced back, but the darkness was absolute. I knew no one could have caught me; I was cycling at full speed on a road I knew had no one for miles. The pressure stayed for a moment, then vanished. I nearly swerved into the ditch.

I stopped, my breath ragged, and listened. Nothing. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. I told myself it was a low-hanging branch, a trick of the wind. But I hopped off the bike and walked it to the other side of the road, my eyes scanning the treeline. I got back on and pedaled, faster this time, the urge to be home overwhelming.

Ten minutes later, disaster struck. I don’t remember the exact moment it happened. One second I was cruising, the next the bike’s front wheel twisted sharply. The handlebars wrenched from my grip, and I felt myself flying. I hit the pavement hard, the bike crashing on top of me, pinning me to the asphalt. Pain shot through my leg. I tried to move, but the bike was heavy, and I was dazed. That’s when I heard it: the roar of an engine, tires screeching, and headlights glaring, coming straight at me. I saw the grille of a pickup truck inches away, time slowing to a crawl. I shoved the bike off with a burst of strength, rolled to the side, and the truck swerved, scraping the guardrail, then disappearing into the night, its driver never even slowing.

I lay there, shaking, the taste of blood in my mouth. My leg was bruised, but nothing broken. My bike was mangled, the front wheel bent like a paper clip. I couldn’t ride it. I was still miles from home, in the pitch black, with something that had touched me. I had no choice but to walk. I picked up my damaged bike, dragging it alongside me, the metallic screech of the wheel against the asphalt echoing through the trees.

I walked for what felt like an hour, the adrenaline wearing off, replaced by a deep, creeping dread. Every step, I felt like I was being watched. The trees seemed to lean closer, their branches like grasping fingers. I tried to call my husband, but my phone was dead. I passed the old water tower, its rusted legs looming, and that’s when I saw it: a figure standing at the edge of the road, just beyond the pool of my dying headlamp. A tall, thin shape, utterly still, facing me. My blood ran cold. I stopped, my breath catching. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a stump, a trick of the light. But I knew what I saw.

I hurried on, my pace quickening. The road began to feel longer than it ever had. The familiar landmarks seemed alien. The bend I knew like the back of my hand now seemed to stretch, the distance between towns feeling impossible. I passed the old mailbox that had ‘Barrett’ painted on it, but the paint was fresh, the name unfamiliar. I passed a fence that I was sure hadn’t been there before, its posts new and sharp. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

Then, I heard it: The sound of a bicycle bell, a small, tinkling ring, coming from behind me. I spun around, but there was nothing. Just the empty road, the moon breaking through the clouds for a second. I walked faster, my heart pounding. The bell rang again, closer this time. I broke into a run, dragging the bike, my legs burning. The bell kept ringing, a playful, innocent chime that was more terrifying than any shriek. I rounded a corner and saw a light ahead: the neon sign of the all-night gas station that marked the edge of town. I’ve never been so relieved to see a fluorescent glow.

But as I approached, I realized something was wrong. The gas station was closed, the lights off, but the sign was flickering. And there was a car parked at the pump, its engine running, but no one inside. I slowed, my instincts screaming. I edged closer, the only sound the soft hum of the engine and the buzz of the dying sign. I peered through the window of the station. Inside, I saw a figure sitting at the counter, slumped over, as if asleep. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open, the bell above the door jingling. The figure didn’t move. I stepped closer, and my blood turned to ice. It was a mannequin, the kind you’d see in a department store, but its face was contorted in a silent scream, and it was wearing my jacket.

I stumbled backward, knocking over a rack of snacks. The mannequin’s head slowly turned to face me, its eyes, empty sockets, seemed to bore into my soul. A voice, barely a whisper, came from its lips: ‘You’re finally here.’ I turned and ran, abandoning my bike, sprinting down the road. The streetlights were out, but I could see the outline of my house at the end of the street. I ran through the front door, slamming it shut, locking it, and collapsing against it, gasping. My husband was in the living room, watching TV. He looked up, startled. ‘Maggie? What’s wrong?’ I tried to speak, but no words came out. I looked at the clock on the wall: it was 12:01 AM. But my shift ended at midnight, and I had been driving for over an hour. I looked at my watch, which I had reset that morning. It said 12:02 AM. But the clock on the wall, the one that’s always been five minutes fast, said 11:55 PM.

I checked my phone, which miraculously had a signal now. The date on the screen read November 6, 2015. But I knew very well that today was November 7. I had spent three days in a loop, reliving the same night. My husband asked me again, ‘Maggie, what happened?’ I looked out the window, and I could see it, just at the edge of the forest, a pale figure standing, watching. It raised a hand and waved, a slow, deliberate gesture, as if to say, ‘See you tomorrow.’ I knew then what I had to do. I grabbed a flashlight, a shovel, and I went out to the backyard. I started digging at the base of the old oak, the one with the twisted trunk. I didn’t know why, but I felt compelled. My husband called after me, but I ignored him.

I dug for hours, my hands blistered, until the shovel hit something solid. I uncovered a small metal box, rusted and old. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a photograph: a picture of a young girl, smiling, and on the back, in faded ink, a date: November 7, 1905. And a name: Margaret. I stared at it, my mind reeling. A cold wind blew, and I heard the bicycle bell again, right behind me. I turned, and there was nothing. But the photograph in my hand began to change. The girl’s smile twisted into a grin, her eyes turned black, and the date started bleeding, the ink running down the paper like tears.

I dropped it, and the box snapped shut. I looked up at the house, and every window was dark. My husband was gone. I walked back inside, and the clock on the wall now read 12:00. I knew I had to go back to the diner. I found my bike, miraculously repaired, leaning against the wall where I left it. I got on, and I rode. I rode through the Pines, the darkness swallowing me, but this time I wasn’t afraid. I knew the road, every curve, every pothole. I saw the figure again, standing at the edge, but this time I didn’t slow down. I passed it, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, but I kept going.

I reached the diner, but it was transformed. The neon sign now read ‘Margaret’s’ and the windows were glowing with a warm, inviting light. Inside, I saw the girl from the photograph, sitting at a table, waving at me. I walked in, the bell above the door jingling a familiar tune. She smiled, and pointed at the menu. It was a single page, with only one item: ‘A Smile.’ I sat down, and she placed a cup of coffee in front of me. I took a sip, and it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. She said, ‘You finally made it. You’re mine now.’ And I looked around, and the diner was filled with people, all wearing my face, all smiling at me. I looked at my hands, and they were turning to porcelain.

Day three. I am the waitress at the diner now. I serve the coffee. And every night, at the stroke of midnight, I hear the bell, and I see a riderless bicycle pass by the window, and I hope, one day, someone will come to take my place. But for now, I’m the one who smiles, and I’m the one who waits, and the road through the pines is long, and it has no end.