The Meringue and the Van

In the autumn of 1993, I was living in a rented cottage on the outskirts of a sleepy market town in the English Midlands. My friend, Rachel, worked with me at a grand but neglected manor house that had been converted into offices. We were the last to leave most nights, and this one was no different.

At 11pm, we locked up and started walking the mile back to my place. Rachel had snagged a slice of lemon meringue pie from the breakroom fridge, holding it on a chipped plate. I was pushing my rusty bicycle, its chain occasionally clicking. The road was a long, unlit stretch of tarmac, bordered on one side by a thick hedge and on the other by a dark field. About halfway, there was a layby, half-hidden by a cluster of overgrown hawthorn trees.

As we approached, we heard the low rumble of an engine. A white van pulled into the layby, its headlights briefly sweeping across us before cutting out. We didn’t think much of it—just a driver taking a break. But then, behind us, came a strange sound: a sharp, unnatural crack, like a twig snapping, followed by footsteps. We turned to see a man emerging from the bushes near the layby, adjusting his trousers as if he had just relieved himself. He was lanky, with a pale face and a cap pulled low, and he was staring right at us.

My heart lurched. He took a step forward, then another, then broke into a sprint. ‘Run!’ I shouted, dropping my bike and grabbing Rachel’s arm. We dashed down the middle of the road, my empty bag flapping against my side. Rachel’s pie flew off the plate, leaving a lemon smear on the asphalt. The road was empty, a ribbon of grey under the dull moon. We veered toward the opposite side, hoping to flag down a car, but the few that passed swerved around us, their horns blaring.

He was gaining. I could hear his heavy breath, the slap of his shoes. My lungs burned. Rachel was faster, pulling ahead, but I stumbled on a loose stone. My bag caught on my bike’s handlebar as I tried to ditch it, and I had to stop to free it. The man was nearly on me. I yanked the bag free and hurled it at his face, but he ducked. I saw his eyes then—dark, empty, fixed on me.

‘Leave us alone!’ Rachel screamed from ahead. The man halted, as if startled by the sound. He tilted his head, then looked at the ground. Something there caught his attention: the slice of lemon meringue pie, sitting upside down on the tarmac, its yellow custard glistening. He crouched, picked it up with two fingers, and stared at it with a look of profound confusion, like a child seeing a strange insect. Then, without a word, he turned and walked back toward the van.

We didn’t wait to see what happened next. We sprinted the remaining half-mile to my cottage, slammed the door behind us, and bolted every lock. We didn’t sleep that night, listening for the sound of an engine, but the road remained silent.

In the morning, we reported the incident to the local police. They found tire tracks in the layby, but no fingerprints, no evidence. The van was never traced. A week later, a letter arrived at my cottage, postmarked from the town, addressed to ‘The Pie Lady.’ Inside was a single, neatly drawn picture of a lemon meringue pie, with a smiley face in the middle. I shuddered and burned it.

We never walked that road again. Rachel moved to the other side of town, and I took to driving to work, even for the short distance. But sometimes, late at night, I still think about that man—his silent appraisal of the pie, the way he seemed more interested in that dessert than in us. And I wonder: what could drive a man to chase two strangers, only to be stopped by a slice of lemon meringue? I don’t know, and I’m terrified I’ll never find out.