The Ashen Road

Mom came up with the idea for the Shortcut.

“It’ll save us nearly an hour,” she said, eyes darting between the folded paper map on her lap and the phone that refused to load directions. The blue GPS line had frozen ten miles back, abandoning them like the last sign of civilization. Now the phone was just a blank screen with the mocking words *no service*. She tapped it against her palm as though she could beat a signal back into existence.

Dad leaned his elbow on the open window, his arm already tanned from hours in the sun, his voice carrying that familiar edge of disbelief.

“Should save us an hour,” he rolled his eyes. ”Marianne, this road looks like it hasn’t been used since the nineties. We’d have been fine if we’d just stayed on the highway.”

“Fine?” Mom shot back. “Fine would’ve meant sitting in gridlock traffic until midnight. Fine would’ve been Lily falling asleep in the backseat and waking up cranky. This road cuts through that traffic. Trust me.”

Dad gave a short, humorless laugh. “That’s the problem. Trust me. I’ve trusted you when we got lost in the Blue Ridge Parkway, remember? Or when you swore the beach cottage had plumbing.”

“Please,” Daniel said quietly, his hands tightening on the wheel.

He didn’t look at either of them, just focused on the narrow stretch of cracked tar unraveling ahead. The tension between his parents was as old as he was. It filled the car like humidity, sticky and stifling, impossible to escape. Sometimes it simmered for weeks without boiling over. Other times, like tonight, it sparked with every word.

Daniel had long ago learned not to take sides between them. He wasn’t twelve anymore, stuck in the middle seat, wishing he could vanish. He was twenty-six now, driving the car, pretending he could control more than just the steering wheel.

The forest pressed in close on either side of the road.

These weren’t the kind of trees he was used to; at home, the trees grew in neat rows, as they were planted, trimmed, and spaced, with the leaves pruned back each spring. Out here, deep in the West Virginia stretches of the Appalachian Mountains, the woods seemed ancient, creepy, and alive, with pines, oaks, and maples twisted together in tangled masses, their bark split and bone-pale in places.

Branches arched across the road like gnarled hands, knitting into a canopy that strangled the sky. Even though the dashboard clock said it was only five thirty, it already felt like dusk. A low mist hugged the forest floor, curling around roots and rocks, swallowing anything it touched.

A soft voice floated from the back seat. “Danny.”

He checked the rearview mirror. Lily sat cross-legged with her stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin, the same way she had since she was a toddler. At seven, she was still so small, all narrow shoulders and restless hands. Her dark hair had come loose from its braid, falling in tangles across her cheeks.

“What’s up, little bug?” he asked. Her lips brushed the glass of the window, leaving a faint smudge as her breath fogged it. “They’re following us.”

Daniel frowned. “Who’s following us?”

She lifted one finger and pointed out the window. Not at a car, nor at the road, but in the spaces between the trees.

He squinted his eyes but saw only the undergrowth and shadows shifting with the sway of the branches. “That’s just how it looks when the sun’s low. The trees cast long shadows. There is nothing there, Lily.”

Lily didn’t argue, didn’t laugh. She just pressed her rabbit tighter to her chest and whispered, “But they walk like us, Danny."

Something cold brushed against the back of Daniel’s neck. He wanted to tell her to stop, wanted to laugh it off, but her voice was calm and certain.

“She’s tired,” Mom said, turning in her seat to offer Lily a smile. “Long day, sweetheart, why don’t you lie down and close your eyes for a bit?”

“I’m not tired.” Her tone was so flat, so adult-like.

The car lurched as it struck a pothole. Dad cursed, one hand braced against the back seat behind Mom. “Frakken, Danny, pay attention. These tires won’t take more of this road.”

Daniel’s grip on the wheel tightened. The pothole had been impossible to miss. He bit back the words burning on his tongue. Arguing never helped.

Headlights carved a narrow path through the gloom, their glow stretching pale across the asphalt. For a moment, they flickered, dimmed to a weak pulse of yellow, before sputtering back to life.

“Great,” Dad muttered. “Old car, bad road. Wonderful combination we have here.”

Daniel didn’t answer. He was staring into the rearview mirror.

For the briefest heartbeat, he saw it: a figure standing at the edge of the Appalachian woods. It looks like a person, but not an animal; it’s just a shape darker than the night itself, stretched tall and thin, faceless.

And then it was gone.

His chest tightened. It is just your eyes tricking you, he told himself. Just the lights bouncing off the trees. But when he looked at Lily, her gaze hadn't moved. She was still staring into the woods, rabbit crushed against her chest, her lips moving silently.

"What are you saying?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his in the mirror. "I don't think they like the lights of the car."

A chill crawled across his arms.

The forest thickened as the car climbed higher into the mountains. Branches arched overhead until they knitted into something like ribs, a cage of wood and shadows. The mist swirled around the undergrowth, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The air inside the car grew cooler, heavier with the forest’s ancient, secret weight.

Mom’s voice rose, bright and brittle with strain. “We’re almost there. The cabin’s not far now. Just a little bit further, and we can unpack and eat. Everyone will feel better after.”

No one answered.

Because outside, in the places where the trees should have been still, the shadows moved. Not with the rhythm of their branches in the wind. Not with the fading light. They moved like they were alive.

And in the mirror, Daniel saw them again, stretching across the road, keeping pace with the car, waiting.

He gripped the wheel tighter, his heart was pounding out of his chest, and he drove faster.