Dead End

                                                                   Word count: 2743

Dead End

by

 Angela Ewing

I am lost, driving on a long empty road in the Arizona desert in front of a truck that has been behind me for the last 15 miles. His lights are getting closer. Surely he can see me. No, he’s still coming, closer and closer. He’s right behind me now and I speed up, frantic. I speed up again, but he keeps on coming. I feel the impact as he runs into the back of my car. Panic! I wake up in a sweat. Same dream over and over again.

I open my eyes to see the puzzled look on my husband’s face. “You okay? “We’re landing,” he said. “Come on, wake up.”

Our plane finally landed at Newcastle Upon Tyne Airport. I was still groggy from the sleep and the dream as we waited in the customs line. Ten years ago I had planned this same trip for our honeymoon. A romantic vacation at the newly opened Bishopstone Hotel and Spa, Blanchland, Northumberland, but the 911 horrific event in New York took care of that. Most United States planes were cancelled. Ours was.

A few months ago, I made a reservation at the same hotel for our ten year wedding anniversary. I hoped there might be a chance to redeem our marriage. Somewhere away from our usual routine. His work and his attractive secretary. It was obvious I couldn’t please him now. Since my car accident a year ago, I could not face any kind of closeness with him or driving. He was forced to take me everywhere and I knew he resented that. 

He had shown no enthusiasm or excitement about a trip to England. He’d always been the one who decided where and when we went on vacation, but when I had the chance to write an article for one of our California newspapers about Northumberland and the medieval town of Blanchland, I jumped at the chance to get away. I told him I would go alone if he didn’t want to take a chance on somewhere that wasn’t always bathed in sunshine, like the vacations we were used to in Hawaii or Mexico. But he convinced me, perhaps unwillingly, that I could not drive in the USA now, and certainly would not be able to in a strange country on the wrong side of the road.

It was almost six thirty when we stepped out into the dusky September evening. A SmartCar was parked outside the rental office. Paul looked at it and raised his eyebrows. “Is that it? It’s no bigger than our golf cart!” 

I had to agree. The tiny car didn’t look as though it would be suitable for driving on busy main road, but the young man at Avis assured us that lots of cars in England were small. “But this one might be a bit of a squeeze with all your luggage,” he agreed. He gestured to the two very large suitcases and my bulging overnight bag. 

I took Paul’s arm. “I think it will be okay,” I said. “We can fit suitcases in the back. I can hold my bag on my lap.”

“For God’s sake, we need something bigger than that.”

The young man smiled, “I dare say we could fix you up with something to your liking, sir.”

Half an hour later, Paul seemed content with a smart silver Mercedes Benz. I thought that was a bit over the top, but I resisted telling him that, knowing his liking for bigger cars, boats and houses. 

He familiarized himself with the instrument panel, adjusted the seat four times before we set off, and by the time we reached the outskirts of Newcastle, the last remnants of blue sky had disappeared behind a blanket of black cloud. “It sure looks like a storm brewing,” I said anxiously. “I hope we can make it to the hotel before it rains.”

“How far from Newcastle is this luxurious spa you chose?” 

“It’s only about sixty miles…according to the brochure.”

“Are you sure we’re on the right road?”

“Oh Paul, of course we are on the right road. It’s on the dash map in front of you. There’s a fork in the road coming up and oh, it’s not giving us directions as to which way. Wait a minute, it’s showing an arrow left. There’s another route to the right that goes through the village of Blanchland. It looks longer, so let’s take the shorter route left.”

Paul was frowning. “You know we haven’t passed another car since we left the city, and not one following us. Very strange, if you ask me.”

I could tell that he was tense and uncomfortable in a car that obviously didn’t drive quite like his sports car at home. “You okay?” I asked patting his arm.

He shrugged my arm away. 

The road had narrowed considerably, and a gust of wind sprang up bringing a shower of yellow leaves from the tall trees at the side of the road. When large drops of rain spattered the windshield and thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance I was worried. Paul hated rain, and I knew he’d remind me of that.

I could feel a headache beginning, and I prayed it wasn’t one of my migraines that had plagued me for months after my accident, so I studied the drops of water on the windshield as they slid into each other, like tributaries joining a wide river. Pretty soon there was a stream pouring down the glass. Paul finally found the wipers. He was staring out as though in a trance. “Geezus! One lane and narrow. Look at it! This can’t be right.”

Yes, it was different from the five lane Freeway in L.A. and I wondered what would happen if a car came from the other direction.

A sudden gust of wind slammed leaves and twigs at the glass, we both jumped. Paul sucked his breath in sharply, “I can’t see a damn thing, I’m gonna have to pull over. Oh good grief, where can we stop on this road?”

I held my breath as we cruised slowly along until there was what looked like a space large enough for one car. Just as we moved into the space, there was a sharp cracking sound, like gunfire. I screamed as a branch landed heavily on the car roof, rolled on to the trunk and off on to the road. “My God! We could have been crushed!” I whispered. An image appeared before my eyes, headlines in the local newspaper back home. ‘American couple killed by falling tree-limb in England.’

 “Geezus!” Paul looked at me and let out a long breath. “I bet that didn’t do the paintwork a lot of good.” He leaned back in the seat and nervously ran his fingers through his hair. “Now what?”

We sat quietly for a minute. After twenty four hours of travel we were both exhausted. The plane was late leaving Los Angeles, so we’d missed the connection in Chicago to London, as well as the flight to Newcastle. Paul had suggested we stay in a hotel in the city and tackle the trip in the morning. Sadly, I had disagreed. Now, here he was on a one lane road, in the middle of nowhere, in a terrible storm. What else could go wrong?

He squinted into the storm, “So where in the hell are we?”

“Look,” I pointed to the lighted GPS map on the dash, “here we are on the A68 - about here. The hotel should be five miles away.”

Paul was muttering something about sunny days in Hawaii when he stopped talking to peer through the misty glass. “Hey. There’s a light up ahead, and it’s coming toward us. Wait a minute…it’s… it’s someone walking with a lamp. What the…? Looks like a woman in a long dress.”

I gasped. The vision floated toward us. White robe billowed out in the wind. “A ghost!”

“Oh for God’s sake Clara, it’s…it’s a woman in a long white dress.”

Up close, the figure in front of the car was not a woman, but a man in a long white robe with a hood, holding his arms out to the side. His face was hidden. He swung the lantern forward and back repeatedly.

“I think he’s telling us we can’t go any further,” I said.

“Well, that aint gonna happen. We never could turn around on this road.”

I was suddenly angry, “Paul, there’s a gate ahead and that’s a good reason why we can’t get any further. Please reverse the car and let’s get out of this mess.”

“Hey, it’s one fucking lane and narrow. Do you wanna do it.”

“Yes, if you can’t.”

“Shit!”

I said, “Look at the camera on the dash, you can see the road behind, stick the gear into reverse, you can do it.”

“Which is reverse? Oh God.”

Finally with a lot of swearing, Paul found the gear and within three or four minutes we were back to the main road. He sat with his head in his hands while I studied the map. “Okay drive to the right,” I said firmly. It’s got to be the road through the village of Blanchland.”

He shook his head and turned to me. “I really can’t understand why you’d come here for a vacation. It’s a good thing you aren’t sitting at the wheel, you’d be a basket-case.”

I wanted to weep. I was a basket case. Why had I allowed him to come with me? Because I couldn’t drive. I tried to concentrate on the dark road. Then a mile or so further, large sign in fancy lettering: Blanchland 3 miles. “That’s it. You should turn—”

“I see it Clara. I’m not blind you know.”

I gritted my teeth and kept quiet. He swung the car left and accelerated up a very steep hill; the headlights revealed low stone walls either side the road, and ahead the road loomed like a black tunnel. I realized I was gripping the handle above the door. I shouted, “Paul, slow down!” 

He was hunched over the steering wheel, and then I noticed the road was not as wet up here. In the headlights, I could see moorland, flat and barren apart from low shrubs and what appeared to be heather.   

A few minutes later I spotted a sign: Blanchland. Population: 135.  Another sign: Bishopstone Hotel and Spa-2 miles.

We came to a right turn and a sign: Welcome to Bishopstone Hotel and Spa. Gates swung open as we neared. Half a mile along was an archway that led into a cobblestone courtyard. Paul maneuvered the car between a Land Rover and a Jaguar. “I bet this place costs an arm and a leg,” he said. “Look at these expensive cars.”

I reached for my handbag on the back seat. “Please, let’s get some dinner and then you’ll feel better.”

The courtyard was well lit with tall lights. Every few feet, doors and archways were cut into the wall. The ancient structure of stone was three stories high. Inside, hunt scenes dotted the walls of the narrow wood-panelled hallway. Then a sign, Reception. Further down, large gilt-framed paintings were all of men in white robes.

 A grandfather clock at the end of the hall chimed eight and the hum of conversation drifted from an open door. “Oh thank God. Civilization, at last,” Paul said, “And I see the bar.” He was just about to head for that room when a short balding man in a gray suit came toward us with his hand outstretched.

“Ah, you must be the Americans we were expecting. Have a good flight?” Without waiting for an answer he said, “Let me get you registered. It’s such a nasty night to be ’anging around outside. Sorry about the weather.” He looked at Paul. “We don’t ’ave no control over small that though, and I’ve got a lovely room for you. Lucky you booked on line when you did. Filled up totally you know and I—”

Paul interrupted, “Compton is the name.”

The man smiled. “And I’m Lloyd Jones. I’m from Wales, o’course,” he said. “With a name like Jones where else could I be from?” He laughed. “My family left Wales many years ago. You ever been to Wales? It’s a lovely place, very different from England and Scotland. Very different. Are you on your way to Scotland? Lot’s o’ folk stay ’ere on their way up north.”

Paul sighed.

“No,” I said, “We’re here to explore the area of Blanchland. I’m writing an article for the L.A. Times, Vacation pages. It looks beautiful in the brochure. Didn’t mention the rain though.” I smiled.

“What rain? Oh That’s funny! This is England. By the way, you’ll find a lot of history right here in this hotel. It was a monastery for the white monks who came from North East France in 1165. Can you imagine? Of course like most monasteries it was destroyed by Henry the Eighth, but it was rescued later, changed of course, added on to and the like. Since 2000 it’s been a very popular hotel and spa.

I wanted to tell Mr. Jones that we had been caught in a storm, but he was already talking about the hotel facilities and the great restaurant that would be closing in an hour. 

I hardly touched the well-presented dish, but the wine was delicious. Paul had three beers and then headed for the private bar, much to my disappointment. I’d hoped he could stay sober on this trip.

I found the library Mr. Jones had mentioned. It resembled an old book store with a high ceiling and moveable ladders along each wall. Wonderful old bound books filled the spaces, and on a shelf above a small table, I found a stack of old newspapers. I thumbed through the dates, all old. Then a headline on the back page of one of the newspapers caught my eye, ‘American couple killed on Abbots Lodge Road.’

I gasped when I read the date, September 2001. An American couple on their way to the newly opened Bishopstone Hotel were caught in a storm. A large branch fell from high up and hit the car. It is believed that they died instantly. There was a footnote: Abbots Lodge Road was the original road to Bishopstone Monastery. A new road is being built via the village of Branchland for easier access to the newly opened Hotel and Spa.

The date. September, ten years ago, when we had planned to be here. I had booked it. Was it us? I knew Paul would think I was losing it but surely Mr. Jones would have registered our names when I had booked back then.

I found him in his office and explained what had happened to us in the storm. He didn’t laugh, he looked at me over his glasses and said quietly, “Well there are rumors that the old ruin of Abbots Lodge on that road is haunted by one of the white monks. But it’s been closed for ten years. It’s probably unrecognizable as a road. All grown over. I can’t imagine how you would get to the old gate.”

“Well, we did, and there was a storm. A falling branch did hit the car.” I said. “Honestly. I bet there are dents on the car.”

“The concierge didn’t mention a dent on the boot when he brought your luggage in.”

I shook my head. Mr. Jones didn’t believe a word I’d said. Was I going crazy?” What about your registration book from ten years ago?”

The book was huge, leather bound. He ran his finger down a list of guests, names and dates. “Ah. Yes,” he said, He glanced at me and then continued, “A bad storm was recorded in our notes, and a registration for two people, same last name. Your name. September 2001. No shows.” He slammed the book shut.

I looked at him in astonishment. “Was it us?” I whispered. “Did we die. Are we ghosts?”

Mr. Jones studied my face. “I think you were in an alternate universe. Perhaps you died ten years ago in another life, a past life, we all have those. An alternate life.”