The Woman on the Old Spur Line

I grew up in a town carved out of the cornfields, where the only thing that cut through the flatness was the old railroad. They tore up the tracks when I was a kid and laid down a gravel path, all crushed limestone and packed dirt, stretching twenty-four miles from the edge of town to the river. We called it the Spur Line, because that’s what it used to be, a dead-end branch off the main freight route. They planted wildflowers along the sides, put in wooden benches at every mile marker, but you could still feel the ghost of the rails under your tires. It was a good place to ride, though. I knew every bump, every curve, every shadow that fell across the path at dusk.

One summer when I was eleven, I was out on my bike, the sky a hazy white from the heat, and the gravel crunching like dry cereal under my wheels. I’d been riding for about an hour, maybe more, heading toward the old trestle that crossed the creek. I came around a bend near the mile-five marker, and there she was. A woman sitting on one of the benches, her head hanging down so low I thought she might be asleep or sick. She had her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped in front of her, and her shoulders were shaking just a little, like she was crying. I slowed down before I even knew I was slowing, my feet dragging on the ground. Something felt wrong, like when you step into a room and you know you shouldn’t be there.

She was dressed like she’d stepped out of a time capsule, out of the seventies. Light denim jeans, flared at the bottom, scuffed white at the knees. A navy blue t-shirt with a rainbow stripe on each sleeve. Her hair was cut short, a pixie cut, dark and sleek against her pale forehead. She was tall, or at least she looked tall even sitting down, and thin in a way that made me think she hadn’t eaten in days. The bench she was on was one of the newer ones, the metal kind with the slats that creak when you sit, and it was set back a little from the path under a young oak tree. I remember thinking, ‘Why would anyone be out here alone in this heat?’ and then I thought, ‘Maybe she’s lost her dog.’ But the feeling in my gut said otherwise.

I didn’t stop. I pedaled faster, my legs pumping, and as I passed her, I kept my eyes dead ahead, focused on the white line of the path. I heard her breathing, a wet, ragged sound, like she’d been crying for hours. And I smelled something, something like old cigarettes and damp earth, a smell that didn’t belong in that dry, sunlit air. I didn’t look, no matter how much I wanted to, because I was terrified that if I did, I’d see something that would unmake me. I rode past her and didn’t slow down until I hit the trestle, where the planks rattled and I had to focus to keep my balance. When I finally felt safe enough to stop, I turned around, expecting to see her still there, maybe watching me. But the bench was empty. There was nothing but a wisp of dust hanging in the air, like a heat shimmer, and then it was gone.

I told my mom about it that night, over dinner, and she just smiled and said, ‘Oh, honey, that was probably just someone waiting for a ride. You shouldn’t worry.’ But I saw the way her hand trembled when she picked up her fork. My dad said maybe it was a ghost, and he laughed, but he didn’t laugh long. I couldn’t shake it. I went back to the bench the next day, and the day after that, but there was nothing there. No footprints, no cigarette butts, no sign that anyone had ever been there. The air was clear. The wildflowers were still growing. But I started to ride that part of the trail less and less. I took the long way around, even if it meant riding on the road with the trucks.

Years passed. I grew up, moved away for college, and came back only for holidays. The Spur Line stayed the same, the gravel always raked smooth by the town maintenance crew, the benches painted a fresh green every spring. I’d ride it sometimes when I was home, but I’d always slow down as I got to mile five, and I’d always feel a prickle on the back of my neck. I’d tell myself it was nothing, just a memory, but I know what I saw.

Last summer, I went back for my twentieth high school reunion. They had a picnic at the trailhead, and I walked a little ways down the path with an old friend, catching up. We passed mile one, mile two, and I was so caught up in talking that I didn’t realize how far we’d gone until we rounded the bend near mile five. And there it was, the same bench, under the same oak tree, which had grown older and more gnarled. And on that bench was a woman, in light denim bell-bottoms, a navy blue t-shirt with rainbow sleeves, her head hanging low, her shoulders shaking. My friend kept walking, but I stopped. I couldn’t breathe. The woman lifted her head, slowly, and looked straight at me. Her eyes were the same color as the gravel beneath my feet, a dull gray, and there was something in them that said, ‘I’ve been waiting.’ I didn’t wait to see more. I turned and ran, my friend calling after me, and I didn’t stop until I was back at the car.

I’ve never been back to the Spur Line since. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see her sitting there, and I wonder if she’s still waiting, and if someone else will be brave enough to stop and ask if she’s okay. I hope they’re not. I hope they keep on riding, because some secrets are better left buried under the gravel. I just hope that whoever stops to help her doesn’t become her next memory.