The Red Road
He took a photo of the church on the hillside. Then he deleted it.
New Year's Eve, and the Dalton brothers were bored. No poker game at the community center this year—the projector had broken and nobody felt like fixing it. Their parents had gone to visit neighbors, leaving the two of them with nothing to do but sit around and watch the clock tick toward midnight.
Then Caleb got the text. His girlfriend needed a ride home. Her family lived up in the hills, forty minutes from the nearest town, and she'd missed the last bus. Could Marcus come along? Caleb asked. It was a long drive through backroads, and he didn't want to make it alone.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He grabbed his jacket and met his brother at the car.
The drive up into the mountains was exactly as boring as he'd expected. Narrow roads, thick forest on both sides, no streetlights for miles. Just darkness pressing against the windows and the occasional passing truck to break the monotony. They dropped off the girlfriend at a small farmhouse at the end of a dirt track, exchanged pleasantries with her parents, and started the drive back.
That was when Marcus saw the church.
On the other side of the ravine, lit up like a postcard, an old stone church glowed against the hillside. Stained glass windows blazing with light. A steeple reaching into the dark sky. It looked like something from another century, ancient and serene and completely out of place in the wilderness.
Marcus took a photo. Just for his own memory. Then they drove on.
The figure appeared a mile later. A woman in a red coat, walking alone on the side of the road. No flashlight. No reflectors. Just walking in the dark like it was the most natural thing in the world. Caleb slowed down as they passed, but the woman didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge the headlights. Just kept walking, one foot after the other, disappearing into the darkness behind them.
"Who walks on this road at one in the morning?" Caleb muttered.
Marcus didn't answer. He was looking at his phone, waiting for the time to pass.
Three minutes later, Caleb slammed the brakes.
Something red was in the middle of the road. Dark and wet and unmistakable. A stain, spread across the asphalt like paint, roughly the size and shape of a human body. They sat there, headlights illuminating it, not moving.
"It's paint," Marcus said. His voice was hollow. "It's just paint. Drive."
Caleb drove. They didn't talk for the rest of the way home.
Marcus slept badly that night. He dreamed of hands reaching for him from underneath his bed, fingers closing around his wrist and pulling. He woke up in the dark, gasping, and found his left hand clawing at his right forearm. His arms were locked together. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except lie there in the dark and feel the phantom grip around his wrist.
He didn't sleep again until dawn.
The next morning, Marcus deleted the photo of the church. He'd looked at it on his phone before deleting it, and something about the image had seemed wrong. The building was there, just as he'd seen it, lit up on the hillside.
But there was no road leading to it.
No path. No entrance. No sign that anyone had ever visited that place at all.
He didn't tell his brother. He didn't tell anyone. But sometimes, late at night, he still wonders what would have happened if he'd stopped the car. If he'd walked down the hillside to see that church up close.
Some roads, he thinks, are better left unfollowed.
Some destinations don't want visitors.
Then Caleb got the text. His girlfriend needed a ride home. Her family lived up in the hills, forty minutes from the nearest town, and she'd missed the last bus. Could Marcus come along? Caleb asked. It was a long drive through backroads, and he didn't want to make it alone.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He grabbed his jacket and met his brother at the car.
The drive up into the mountains was exactly as boring as he'd expected. Narrow roads, thick forest on both sides, no streetlights for miles. Just darkness pressing against the windows and the occasional passing truck to break the monotony. They dropped off the girlfriend at a small farmhouse at the end of a dirt track, exchanged pleasantries with her parents, and started the drive back.
That was when Marcus saw the church.
On the other side of the ravine, lit up like a postcard, an old stone church glowed against the hillside. Stained glass windows blazing with light. A steeple reaching into the dark sky. It looked like something from another century, ancient and serene and completely out of place in the wilderness.
Marcus took a photo. Just for his own memory. Then they drove on.
The figure appeared a mile later. A woman in a red coat, walking alone on the side of the road. No flashlight. No reflectors. Just walking in the dark like it was the most natural thing in the world. Caleb slowed down as they passed, but the woman didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge the headlights. Just kept walking, one foot after the other, disappearing into the darkness behind them.
"Who walks on this road at one in the morning?" Caleb muttered.
Marcus didn't answer. He was looking at his phone, waiting for the time to pass.
Three minutes later, Caleb slammed the brakes.
Something red was in the middle of the road. Dark and wet and unmistakable. A stain, spread across the asphalt like paint, roughly the size and shape of a human body. They sat there, headlights illuminating it, not moving.
"It's paint," Marcus said. His voice was hollow. "It's just paint. Drive."
Caleb drove. They didn't talk for the rest of the way home.
Marcus slept badly that night. He dreamed of hands reaching for him from underneath his bed, fingers closing around his wrist and pulling. He woke up in the dark, gasping, and found his left hand clawing at his right forearm. His arms were locked together. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except lie there in the dark and feel the phantom grip around his wrist.
He didn't sleep again until dawn.
The next morning, Marcus deleted the photo of the church. He'd looked at it on his phone before deleting it, and something about the image had seemed wrong. The building was there, just as he'd seen it, lit up on the hillside.
But there was no road leading to it.
No path. No entrance. No sign that anyone had ever visited that place at all.
He didn't tell his brother. He didn't tell anyone. But sometimes, late at night, he still wonders what would have happened if he'd stopped the car. If he'd walked down the hillside to see that church up close.
Some roads, he thinks, are better left unfollowed.
Some destinations don't want visitors.