A Dirt Road Ghost Story

         It was just after 6 a.m., and it was pouring down. I was walking along the dirt road home to Calculus, after having spent the night at a friend’s place a few miles outside of town. Since we’d finished a bottle of fifteen-year old Madeira Wood Glen Morangie between us while confabulating in front of the fireplace, and since I always enjoyed walking in the early morning light, I had decided to leave the car and make the few miles by foot. The rain was sobering me up however, and I now wished I had stayed on the sofa, as my host had suggested. A thunderstorm had swept in over the barren autumn landscape, and every now and then a flash of lightning cut through the twilight. It was my soaked state, and an approaching hangover, that made me smile and quicken my steps at the sight of a pale yellow station wagon, stopped by the side of the road. A man had his head under the open hood, and my mood fell somewhat as I understood that he had engine troubles. Well, I thought, if I can help him get the car going, he can hardly deny me a ride home.
         ”Good morning sir!” I hollered as I approached the car from behind. The man looked around the hood toward me. He was about my own age, around fifty, with red thinning hair and wearing a brown tweed suit that was getting darker from the rain by the minute. First I thought I saw disappointment in his face, but a second later he was smiling and raising his hand in a greeting.
         ”Not very I’m afraid,” he replied. ”There seems to be some electrical problem.”
         ”Can I help?” I offered.
         ”Quite possibly,” he said. ”I can’t get power to the starting engine. If you could hold this wire in place here, I will try the ignition.” By now, I was standing beside him, looking down at the cord he was referring to.
         “I’ll try,” I said. He went back into the car while I held the end of the wire against the contact surface he had indicated. There were sparks coming from the wire as he turned the ignition, and by the third attempt, the engine roared to life.
         “Wonderful!” he exclaimed through the car window. “I’m not sure how to thank you.”
         “That’s easy,” I said. “I’m on my way to Calculus. It’s the next town down the road, only a few minutes’ drive from here. Spare me the walk in the rain and I’ll be more than compensated.” The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he beamed at me.
         “Of course! Hop in,” he said.
The inside of the car had an earthy smell, and something more. Burned rubber? As I sat down in the passenger seat, I offered him my hand.”
         “The name’s Gordon. Gordon Caprice,” I said. He shook my hand lightly.
         “Pleased to meet you Mister Caprice,” he replied. He made no attempt at introducing himself. Then I noticed several long scratches on the man’s right wrist, running down toward the hand. They were deep, a light pink, recently made. It looked painful.
         “You probably want to put something on that,” I said. “It could scar.” The man kept looking straight ahead as he accelerated the car down the road.
         “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said.
         “An animal?” I asked.
         “No. A kid. A little beanpicker kid. You know, a border hopper? I caught him messing with my car back in Old Weiss.”
         “Was he trying to steal it?”
         “Oh yes. A few years from now, he’d been stealing cars alright,” he said. “Stealing cars and selling crack.” I looked at him. The vague morning light through the overcast made his face look ashen. Not wanting to dwell on the subject, I asked him where he was headed.
         “Philadelphia,” he replied, still not looking at me. I almost laughed, but the look on his face convinced me that he was serious.
         “Philadelphia? Really?” I said. “Philadelphia in Pennsylvania?”
         “Yes, I’m going to Philly,” he repeated.
         “Well. The closest airport is in Helena, and that’s the other direction. You don’t plan to drive, do you?”
         “I have some very good friends back in Philly. We know each other since school. I could always trust the Lemon brothers. Real stand-up guys.” He shifted up. I looked out of my side window and realized that we were quickly approaching the turning toward Calculus.
         “This is my stop, coming up in a moment,” I said. “You can drop me in the crossing, it’ll only be a minute’s walk home.” The driver remained silent however, and showed no intention of slowing down. I put my hand lightly on his shoulder to get his attention.
         “Mister,” I said. He turned his face toward me.
         “That damned kid! That damned, damned kid!” A lightning bolt illuminated his twisted features, and in the flash I could see that the large stains of rainwater on the front of his suit were in fact dark red. On an impulse, I turned around to look in the back of the station wagon. There, on the floor, was the body of a young boy, lying face down and covered in blood. The car was picking up speed, and I could make out a sharp right turn ahead.
         “Stop the car immediately!” I yelled. “Let me out!” But the man kept his foot on the accelerator, mumbling to himself.
         “The Lemons will know what to do. Real stand-up fellas. Could always trust them.” I realized then that Lowry Creek was just beyond the bend. My deranged host made no attempt to turn but kept going straight ahead. We went over the shallow ditch, the car leaving the ground for a second before crashing back down. Shrubs and bushes ripped and slapped against its underbelly. I made up my mind in an instant, opened the car door and threw myself out. I rolled over and over for what felt like an eternity, but when I could finally lift my head, I still had time to see through the rain how the yellow station wagon went over the edge and down into the creek twenty feet below. I expected to hear the impact against the water, but the sound was drowned out by thunder.
         I stood on weak legs. My shoulder felt dislocated. Calculus was only back over the nearest hill, and I started walking. Absentmindedly, I noticed that the sky was clearing in the west.