Midnight Call

I swear, I was just trying to prove a point. All my friends at Greenwood College kept going on about Crooked Lane, the local creepy legend. So, one misty Friday night, fueled by too much pizza and energy drinks, I heard myself say, "I'll do it. It's probably just an old wives’ tale anyway." Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to scare Brave or humor Trisha, but there I was, driving down Old Town Road, heading towards the infamous strip of trees that nobody sane dared visit after dusk. Everyone had their theories about Crooked Lane. Some said it was haunted by a farmer searching for his lost daughter, who, as rumor had it, wandered aimlessly in the dark one too many nights. Others posted video clips of strange orbs and shadows that moved against the moonlit fog like something out of a bad horror flick. I wasn’t a believer—until that night. The tires of my dad's old Corolla crunched as I turned onto the dirt path. Right away, everything felt colder, like the chill had seeped through my jacket, straight to the marrow. I hit the brakes, heart thumping like I was a hero in some corny adventure movie. I took a deep breath, rolled down the window, and called out, "I ain't scared of you!" There was an echo, a low rustling like wind playing tricks among the trees, but nothing more. Smirking, I grabbed my phone to record evidence. The others would never believe me without it. I turned on the flashlight and switched the camera to video mode, aiming it haphazardly. At first, nothing—just murky darkness and fog swirling like a bad CGI effect. But then, as I squinted into the shadowy landscape, I saw her. She wasn't like any ghost I'd imagined. She looked sad. Tangled hair and tattered dress; her eyes caught the light for a brief moment before she turned away. My stomach plunged, a sense of inevitable dread swirling viciously. "Uh, excuse me?" I stammered, taking a hesitant step forward. Her phantom footsteps didn't echo. "He's still waiting," she whispered. "He’ll always be waiting." Who would 'he' be? I hardly knew why I asked. Something inside me just felt it was the right thing to do, maybe a mix of pity and unease twisting in a knot. The branches seemed to close in, the fog thickening like milk on a winter’s morning. As her words clung to the air, my body leaned towards the car, ready to bolt, but her form had begun to fade, unraveling like smoke. What followed was a wild drive back to town. Heart pounding in my ears, I skidded back into the student lot and sat there panting, mind whirring drunk on adrenaline and fear. Back in the comforts of campus, I told my friends the tale. They scoffed, content to ease their guilt by dismissing my encounter, poking holes in my story like it was one of their cheap horror fixes. But I could see the doubt in their eyes when they thought I wasn’t looking. Later that night, mind stubbornly awake, I found myself online, sifting through local archives. I learned about Isabelle, the farmer’s daughter, once lost in those same eerie woods. I understood then, those old tales upturned aren’t just myths; they're fragments of reality reshuffled. Her father had never left the lane, waiting for his girl who never came home. The following week, I found myself marching toward a campus historian who nodded knowingly as I rambled. He offered words like 'closure' and 'resolve'. It seemed silly, but the idea clawed at me—facing the past before it catches up, an unsettling philosophy for some, like a gift wrapped in dry fear for others. His stories, brought to life, filled the gaps, unwrapping an age-old tragedy entwined tightly with my own evening encounter. As I closed the dusty tome, I felt lighter, touched not by darkness, but a history unveiled—not evil spirals or myth dusted bones. Just closure, salty tears of stories sung, woven into something whole. Later, I drove back up that ghost-laden path, not with terror-inflamed adrenaline, but a quiet intent rooted deep in understanding. As I stood there, a tranquil peace settled around Crooked Lane, the phantoms murmuring gently, as if lifting a silent thanks where restlessness had once been.