16:13 Oct 24 2008
Times Read: 621
This is a story I wrote when I was 13 years old. I didn't know it when I wrote it, but it is based on an American folk legend that is at least a couple centuries old. As time passes, the mode of transportation changes. Some people, and I am one of them, just know this legend in one of its forms without having ever heard it. Before I was able to put it into words, I carried it within me for years. I present to you, The Hitchhiker as I originally wrote it when I was 13. Please enjoy.
The Hitchhiker
A Short Story by James Mayfield
How old am I? Not nearly as old as I look. It’s been that way ever since that night when my hair turned white.
That night? Well, I was driving home from a dance up near Ridgewater on this little narrow road. It was curving for at least half an hour. Suddenly, there’s somebody in the road right in front of the car! I jammed on the breaks and stopped, just in time.
There was this shivering young woman. She had jumped into the middle of the road as if she could stop as car just by holding up her hand.
She asked me if I’d drive her home. She looked so cold and miserable, I let her in. I even threw my white jacket around her because all she was wearing was thin silk dress without even a sweater.
We drove for a very long time. Finally, we came to a house that had all of its lights turned on like a Christmas tree. She turned and looked at me.
“Please ring the bell and see if my mother’s home,” she said, “the bell is on the left near the brass knob.”
I rang the bell and the lady who answered looked like an older version of my hitchhiker. Before I had a chance to speak, she said, “Please, don’t say a word. Just come this way.”
It all seemed very strange but, I followed her anyway. Up the stairs, down a hall and into a very pretty room. A girl’s room I could tell. And on the dresser, there was a picture of a young girl. It was my hitchhiker. And all around the picture, there was a black border.
Then we went back downstairs, out the door and past the car. There was nobody in it! We walked into what seemed to be a small private cemetery and stopped. She pointed to a grave that looked newer than the others and said, “My daughter. She was killed in an automobile accident last summer and every night, someone, some stranger, brings her home again.
I was terrified! I turned away and left her there, but not before I noticed something white sticking out from under the gravestone.
It wasn’t until I was in my own house and in my own bedroom that I discovered that my hair was white! Pure White! The same color as my jacket! That’s what was sticking out from under the gravestone! Just like it had been there ever since the grave was first done!
The End
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