long way home.

We all have sleepless nights sometimes. It's nice to remember the days when you could pad down the hall to Mommy's room and wake her up. And then she'd make you some hot chocolate, tuck you into bed, and read you a story.

Well, let's pretend you're having a sleepless night. One of those nights when all the world seems asleep, except you. Let's pretend you've tried everything, and you still can't sleep. So I'm going to tell a story now. It's a scary story--only not really. You may think you've heard it already.

But you probably haven't.

So turn out the lights. Snuggle up in a quilt. Warm your hands on a big mug of hot chocolate. And listen:

You know how it begins...long cold country road in late November. The trees are bare and frosted. The moon's full. An owl's hooting somewhere in the distance and there's a car coming down the road. An old sedan.

There's a guy inside, getting pretty tired because it's 2am. So he turns up the radio as loud as it goes and tries to sing along but his eyes keep drooping.

But then he sees her--long black hair and a pale white gown, barefoot at the side of the road. He blinks, because he can't trust his eyes anymore--is she real? What's she doing out this late? He gets closer and closer and she turns and she's beautiful, utterly exquisite, and she raises a hand to hail him.

So he slows and stops and rolls down the window on the passenger's side.

"Need a ride, miss?"

"Yes. I live far away, though, so you can just take me as far as is convenient."

"That's all right, I'll take you home. It's no trouble."

"Thank you."

And she gets into the backseat and he starts driving, and she speaks only to give him directions.

And it gets later.

And the night gets colder.

And he's driving opposite the direction he needs to go. He's turning down roads he's never seen before, and the forest is thickening around him until he could only see the moon above and the branches clawing at the sky, and the road stretching away. Every mile is a mile farther from the world he knows. Every mile is a mile further into a world bathed in blue-white and scored with shadows.

And that's when he takes a look in the rearview mirror--just out of habit.

And she's not there.

So he turns around, and there she is, smiling gently at him. It must be my imagination, he tells himself. I'm up too late.

And he looks in the mirror again.

She's gone.

He turns around.

She's there.

Smiling.

He's scared now; he's heard the stories, just like you have. The ones about the women that wander lonely country roads just like this one. The ones where they've been dead for twenty years, killed on their prom night...or their marriage night, or...

...or even the ones where they drag unsuspecting travellers to hell with them in their loneliness.

His hands tighten on the wheel. The radio's still blaring, but it's breaking up because they're so far from the station and the static comes in ear-shattering bursts. He's sweating, breathing fast, scared shitless--and he dares to look into the mirror just one more time.

Nothing.

That did it. He SLAMS on the brakes and the car goes into a tailspin, tires screeching, smoke billowing. He hears a scream and can't tell if it's him, or her. The car goes into a ditch and he turns around, half-mad, and he screams, "I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE BUT PLEASE, JUST GET THE HELL OUT--"

--and he breaks off.

Because there was the girl, sitting in the backseat...

Bloodied...

...with her finger up her nose.