Pay the Ferryman

Along a steep hill descending the half-mile from my house to the bus stop where I catch my thirty-five pence ride to work each day, there lies an old unloved church facing a boarded-up fish and chip shop. A little further down from this unlikely pair stands a derelict bus stop, lit by the orange glow of a single street lamp. Some of the older locals tell of an old woman who, having missed her bus by a short margin one cold winter evening, froze to death while waiting for another that did not come. Her body was found beside the bus stop the next day frozen solid but still standing, crouched as if guarding her shopping; the service along that route stopped that day, which is why I now walk the half-mile to the bottom of the hill.

It’s a dark, still winter’s morning as I walk down for my bus. The church clock reads six thirty-five and dawn will not break for another hour. I notice someone waiting by the unused bus stop looking down the hill, head covered. I slow my pace slightly becoming wary. As I approach, the figure seems to hunch up slightly as if reaching into a pocket. I walk past but as I do so, something makes me turn, perhaps in self-preservation; and as I turn towards the figure, so its hooded shape turns towards me. I stop, frozen to the ground, blood pumping furiously through my eardrums, a thousand organs blasting music through my brain: I am looking into a void; the hood has no face; there is nothing. It’s not that shadows are concealing a face, it’s not even that a face is not there; nothing is there: no space; no blackness; just a void. The music in my ears becomes louder, louder and the void becomes deeper. I feel myself being sucked in. And then I awake and realise this is just a dream.

But after breakfast, walking down the hill to work, the ghostlike figure I met in my dream is there standing by the bus stop, waiting. I consider turning back; however, looking more closely, this is just an old woman crouching over her shopping so I continue, my pounding heart starting to settle. And as I pass her I turn as in my dream. This time I do not look to her face, but instead to her feet. She pulls her hand from her pocket, a coin dropping to the floor. I stop to pick it up and as I make to pass it to her, a sudden cold shiver runs through my body; ten thousand sirens scream, and as I feel my skin falling from my bones, I awake.

And now I am walking down the hill and the ghostly woman is standing by the bus stop, as in my dreams: I will not stop; I will pass her by without looking. But as I pass, I hear the clink of a coin on the ground and unable to help myself, I pick it up; aware of the presence behind me, I run down the hill.

I reach the bus stop, looking back and wondering whether it was all a dream; the bus is approaching. I hold out my hand and it pulls over. Walking onto the bus, I pull out some coins from my pocket and notice one seems unusual but familiar. I look up at the bus driver as he turns toward me. His skin is bluish-grey in colour; he has a hooked nose and no eyes: in their place, utter and complete nothingness. I feel I’m being sucked into their darkness, pulled into a place from where I could never return. And I wake up in a cold sweat. This cannot be happening.

So now I am on the bus. I have a strange feeling of déjà vu. I cannot remember walking down to catch my ride or boarding; I must have been in a daydream. As if reacting to some unmentionable memory, I put my hand in my pocket and pull out some change: thirty-five pence exactly, my return bus fare. But had I not just paid for my journey?