“Amanda”
by
by
Rizzy Rodham
We came over the tracks and there she was: a pile of muddy clothing in the street. I pulled to the shoulder, behind another car. Because I’m trained as a first responder, I went forward, leaving my wife behind, to see if there was any way to help.
A few cars had stopped across from where she lay. The drivers were gathered on the grass, too far off to do any good, hands on their mouths or at their hips. I took a quick overview of the situation. It appeared that the woman, alone on a motorcycle, had attempted to beat an oncoming car by making a quick turn onto this street.
As I circled around her, I felt my stomach drop. It was clear that there was nothing to be done. I’d never seen a human being destroyed like that. I won’t go into detail, except to say that it was the single worst thing I’d ever seen in my life—and I’ve seen quite a lot.
I remember, as I turned to leave, that the flames from her bike cast a shadow alongside her that looked more like a person than she did.
* * *
I tried to put her out of my mind, but it was difficult. The next day, as we were driving back from town, I turned onto that street again. The asphalt was stained where the fire department had washed away the gas, oil and everything else. I slowed on the corner, almost stopping.
My wife jumped up and yelled, looking around her.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She said, “I felt somebody grab me, like this.” She clutched at my forearm, near my wrist, dragging her fingers backwards.
I stepped on the accelerator and didn’t look back.
* * *
Over the following week, my son and daughter both had similar experiences. I took that same corner, driving my daughter home from work one night, when she jumped as my wife had and claimed that someone had touched her back. My son, on a different street altogether, said he felt someone brush his face; and I couldn’t help wondering if the spirit of that poor woman had somehow attached herself to me or my car.
My wife received a phone call from her aunt a couple days later, who read the details of the crash from a newspaper. The woman had been a local resident. Her address wasn't far from us. She'd been on her way home to her husband and four boys. Her name, the aunt said, was Amanda.
I had trouble sleeping all week. At work, someone asked me to describe Amanda’s clothing. Thinking about her, as I’d seen her, made me stammer. I lost track of what I was doing, began to feel sick and had to leave work early.
* * *
The next Saturday, a week after the accident, I went back there to take some pictures. I don’t know why. I just felt a strange connection to this woman. Even the mention of her name now brought tears to my eyes.
I loaded the pictures on our computer. All of them were in a row, without so much as a blemish, save one, which was out of place, as if it had been taken some other time. I looked and, to my horror, saw a wide, white face in the trees, at the exact spot where my wife and daughter had yelled.
I shut down the computer and went to watch TV, trying to take my mind off of her. Moments after I’d sat on the couch and turned the TV on, I felt and heard the brushing of wings against my ear, as if a bird were taking off from my shoulder.
* * *
Monday night, I took my bike to work, thinking it might help me get over her. My shift went without incident. Then, driving home, something happened—the thing that would set us both free.
I left work around 2:30 am. It was foggy and the sky pitch-dark. I was nearing the street where Amanda had died, when my hair stood on end. I felt a sudden weight on my back, a pair of hands slide around my waist, but couldn’t see anything. Twisting hard on the throttle, I tore through the night and, screaming, took Amanda the rest of the way home.
The end.
BIO: When she's not touring as the lead singer of SPLATTERBASKET or running from the police, Juliette "Rizzy" Rodham pens horror stories. Riz is an advocate of Quiet or Suggestive Horror and lists among her favorite authors M.R. James, Shirley Jackson, Robert Aickman and Jodi MacArthur. "Amanda" is based upon a series of poems by her friend Walter Conley, published by Shoots and Vines, Outsider Writers and Full of Crow, with consent acquired through physical intimidation. You can reach her at rizzyrodham@hotmail.com
