The alarm clock buzzed and Bart Newberry sat up quickly in bed, excited to take on the day. He was going to take pictures and do some research for a story about roadside memorials. It was part of a series he was writing about a particularly deadly stretch of freeway along which three of these makeshift memorials had been erected in recent years. He thought this could be the assignment that finally got him noticed at the Floral City Press.
When he came downstairs, he found that his daughter, Janey, was already off to school, and his wife, Tina had left for work. Bart grabbed a bagel, snagged his notebook and camera and hopped in his car.
His first stop would be the spot where an SUV carrying a family of five had slammed into a bridge abutment after the father fell asleep at the wheel. The father, his wife and their three children had all been killed in the fiery crash almost two years ago.
Bart pulled his car over as far as he could onto the narrow shoulder about fifty yards from the makeshift memorial and got out. Traffic whizzed by as he walked to the memorial, which consisted of an old, battered wreath and some stuffed animals. Once bright and colorful, the blooms in the wreath had long ago died and turned a crumbly brown. Several teddy bears had been tied to the stand that held the wreath. Their fur was matted and faded from exposure to the elements. Bart got out the camera and framed the shot so that the memorial was in the foreground and the deadly abutment was in the background. He clicked off a few shots, checking them in the LCD display on the back of the camera. Satisfied that he had the shot he needed, Bart continued up the shoulder.
The next memorial, about a quarter mile away, marked the spot where a school bus carrying middle school soccer players and their coaches had veered off the freeway onto the soft shoulder, rolled several times and burst into flame a year ago The wreck claimed the lives of 19 children and two adults. Bart photographed the three small wooden crosses that memorialized the victims, each of the dead represented by the outline of a dove burned into the wood. He slung his camera over his shoulder and continued walking.
His last stop was about three quarters of a mile further along, where the freeway curved sharply to the left. It was in this spot two weeks ago that four teenagers who had been drinking died when their car failed to negotiate the turn. This roadside memorial was a combination of crosses and wreaths. Some of the flowers in the wreaths had retained their color and shape, but most had begun to shrivel and die. A few more clicks of his camera and Bart had all the shots he needed for his story.
As he walked back to his car, Bart saw two people standing along the shoulder about halfway between the school bus memorial and the freeway overpass where the family of five had been killed. As he drew closer, Bart could see it was a woman and a child. There was something very familiar about them. He walked faster. Bart felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his skin broke out in goose bumps as he recognized his wife and daughter. They had their arms around each other and they were crying.
“Hey, Tina! Janey!” Bart called out as he ran to them. They didn’t respond.
“What are you guys doing out here?”
Bart reached for his wife and daughter and his arms passed through them. He stumbled and found himself staring down at a freshly planted wooden cross.
“We miss you,” Tina sobbed, pulling Janey close to her.
Etched on the cross was a name: Bartholomew Newberry.
“I love you, daddy,” Janey sniffled.
“If it hadn’t been for that stupid story…” Tina started, and then a fresh round of sobs wracked her body.
Bart looked up, tears in his eyes, and saw that they were no longer alone. They had been joined by a group of children in scorched soccer uniforms, their hair singed, their skin blackened and blistered. Bart realized he could see through the children. Next to them stood four teenagers, clothes torn and bloodied, arms and legs bent at impossible angles. And slumped next to the teens were what might have once been a man and a woman and their three children – now nothing more than lumps of ruptured and broiled flesh barely recognizable as human.
Bart’s wife and daughter turned to leave.
“No!” Bart cried out. He lunged for them, but once again his arms passed through them. He fell to the ground.
“Don’t leave me!”
Bart looked up, and saw that the assembled group of accident victims was parting. They opened up a path between them and held out their arms – or what passed for arms – gesturing for him to join them. Bart scrambled to his feet and ran toward his car. He reached the car and dug in his pocket for the keys. For a panicked moment he thought he had lost them. He found the keys, unlocked the driver’s door and flung it open. He jumped inside and slammed the door shut.
The alarm clock buzzed and Bart Newberry sat up quickly in bed, excited to take on the day. He was going to take pictures and do some research for a story he was writing about roadside memorials.
—
© 2009 Robert C. Eccles
Tags: Robert C. Eccles
June 13th, 2009 at 9:55 am
Great story Bob. Very creepy. Loved the circular ending!
June 18th, 2009 at 12:27 am
Oh no!!!! Poor guy! Somebody make him stay in bed! Great story….
June 18th, 2009 at 9:53 am
Great story, Bob. I’ll never look at those roadside memorials quite the same again!
June 18th, 2009 at 10:50 am
Great voice and flow. Nice circle, too.
–dj
June 18th, 2009 at 5:44 pm
Thanks, everyone - glad you liked it!
June 19th, 2009 at 3:06 pm
Nice shape Bob, a strong theme well executed