Kate (standard:drama, 4055 words)
Author: J F Maschino	Added: Apr 20 2004	Views/Reads: 3451/2277	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An urban legend brought to life

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“Nothing.” 

I rubbed my temple, exhaled sharply.  I didn't want to go, I could
easily imagine what it would be like out on the roads, but she was my 
mother.  Michelle and I had tried to get her to spend the night with us 
when we learned the hurricane was indeed coming, but she wouldn't think 
of leaving her house unprotected.  It was my fault for giving her the 
choice to stay. 

“Fine, Mom,” I said.  “It might take awhile, but I'm on my way.” 

* * * 

Before leaving for my fifteen mile trek, I grabbed the cell phone from
Michelle's BMW and took it into her.  I appropriated one of the 
battery-powered lanterns and grabbed an axe and a shovel from the 
utility shed.  I put the axe and shovel on the backseat floor of my 
Land Rover, the lantern on the front passenger seat.  I went back into 
the house, water dripping off my raincoat, and kissed Michelle, 
promising her I'd be careful and that I'd call her as soon as I got to 
my Mom's.  I scurried back to my vehicle, slid behind the wheel, and 
eased out into the stormy night. 

It was like what I pictured driving on the bottom of a lake would be
like.  The windshield wipers were going full tilt; going so fast I 
feared they might snap off, yet they couldn't keep up with the 
torrential rain.  Strong winds buffeted the Land Rover from all sides 
threatening to shove us off the road.  I was hunched over the steering 
wheel gripping it so hard my knuckles were white, eyes wide open 
struggling to see what lay ahead.  The radio was off.  I didn't need 
the distraction. 

The signal light at the corner of Stone Street and Eastern Avenue was
gyrating wildly as though it was controlled by a demented puppeteer.  
Trees as thick as my thigh were bent nearly in half.  Leaves and small 
branches dotted the roadway.  Rapids formed in the gutters carrying 
small rocks and other debris towards the storm drains.  Small ponds 
formed in the low lying sections of the road.  Twice I fought to regain 
control of the Land Rover after striking one of the small ponds causing 
the vehicle to hydroplane dangerously close to the edge of the road. 

I couldn't fathom how insane the situation was.  If I didn't kill myself
getting to Mom's, I'd be extremely lucky.  I wanted to turn around, 
head back to the safety of my own home.  I knew Mom's intruder was 
nothing more than a wind swept limb, she was in far less danger than I 
was, but every time I thought about turning around, I'd visualize a 
hulk of a man, no doubt an escapee from the Maine State Prison serving 
a life sentence without parole for murder, brandishing a butcher's 
knife chasing Mom from room to room finally cornering her in the 
kitchen.  And so I continued as fast as I dared hoping to get there 
before he could harm Mom.  At times, having a writer's imagination is a 
curse. 

Despite all the obstacles, I arrived at the Townsend Road in Pittston
sooner than I had expected.  I turned left onto the narrow country 
lane, the tension I had been under for the past fifty minutes began to 
ease.  Twelve miles down, three to go.  It seemed I was going to make 
it to Mom's house without incident after all, a major miracle in 
itself. 

Five minutes later, driving into a valley just over a mile from Mom's
house, contemplating on how I was going to deal with her when I got 
there, I first saw Kate.  She was standing at the edge of the road, one 
foot on the pavement, the other on the soft, grassy shoulder.  She was 
wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a red and white-striped short 
sleeve blouse.  Her long dark hair was a mess, a few loose strands 
pasted to her narrow face.  She might've been all of twenty.  She was 
holding out a thumb. 

I slowed, dimmed my headlights so as not to blind her.  By rule, I never
pick up a hitchhiker unless I knew who they were.  It's not safe.  Even 
the most timid looking hitchhiker could be a dangerous felon. 

But at the last moment and against my better judgment, I did stop.  If
it wasn't for the hurricane, I wouldn't have.  As I slowed to a stop 
next to her, I was wondering why she was out hitching in such a 
ferocious storm.  Who was she leaving behind?  More importantly, what 
was she leaving behind?  Questions I wasn't going to ask and ones I was 
sure she wouldn't answer if I did, but still I had to stop.  I would 
have felt terrible if I hadn't and something bad had happened to her. 

I grabbed the lantern off the seat and sat it in back near the axe and
shovel.  The girl wasted no time.  She quickly opened the door and 
jumped in allowing very little rain and wind to follow. 

She was very pale, except for her lips, which were blue tinged. 
Rainwater ran down her face, off her clothes, and onto the leather 
seat.  Her clothes were soaked, her blouse virtually transparent.  With 
no bra, I had a good look at her ample breasts.  I quickly averted my 
eyes, felt my cheeks redden, set the heat on high, then pulled back 
onto the road. 

“Thanks,” she said in a tiny voice.  “I'm getting your seat wet. 
Sorry.” 

“That's okay, they'll dry,” I said giving her a quick glance before
turning my attention back to the road.  “Not a great night to be out 
hitching.” 

“Tell me about it,” she snorted.  I caught a glimpse of her pushing her
hair away from her eyes.  “You're the first person I've seen in the 
past five miles or so.  Thought I was going to have to walk all the way 
to my folk's house.  Do you know where the Victorian Manor is?” 

I did.  The Victorian Manor was a privately owned nursing home about a
mile and an half beyond Mom's house. 

“My folk's live in a cape just before it.” 

“I'm heading to my Mom's house, too,” I said, “but not by choice.”  I
told her about Mom's phone call. 

She laughed, a pretty laugh that caused me to smile.  “She sounds like
my Mom, and I'm not going there by choice either,” she said.  “Me and 
my fiancée, well, ex-fiancée I'd guess you'd call him now, had this 
big, knock down, drag out fight.  I just couldn't stay in that 
apartment with him another minute.  Storm or no storm, I just had to 
get out, but I didn't think it was going to get this bad so quick.  I 
thought I'd snag a ride long before now.” 

“I'm sorry.” 

“It's life, and life can suck,” she said, shrugged.  She held up her
hand, gazed at the ring adorning her finger.  “It's the prettiest ring 
I've ever owned.  I hate the thought of giving it back.  Think it's 
wrong if I keep it?” 

I glanced at the ring, whistled. It was extravagant, not your average
everyday, run of the mill engagement ring.  A half carat diamond set on 
a gold band framed by two rubies.  It must of set her fiancée back a 
mint. 

“Social etiquette, says you should,” I told her, “but if it was on my
finger, and I didn't do anything to cause the fight, I'd keep it.” 

“Social etiquette be damned, eh?”  She smiled.  I had no problem
imagining how Kate would look in a normal setting.  She was beautiful.  
“You talked me into it.  I'll keep it.” 

We rounded a sharp ninety-degree turn.  I could see the Victorian Manor
at the end of a short straight away.  I couldn't remember passing Mom's 
house, but we must have. 

“There's home,” she said pointing at a dark cape a dozen yards or so
from the road.  I slowed to a stop at the foot of the driveway.  She 
leaned towards me, pressed a quick kiss to me cheek.  Her lips were ice 
cold.  “Thanks for the ride.” 

Like a cat, she slipped from the Land Rover before I could say a word. 
I watched her lithe form run up the driveway.  She paused before 
entering the cape, turned, waved, and then disappeared. 

* * * 

Mom's house was lit up like a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve.  Either
before or after she had phoned me, probably before, she'd gone through 
the two and a half story, nineteenth century farmhouse turning on every 
single light. 

I located Mom's intruder easy enough the moment I pulled into her
driveway.  One of the green shutters on the second floor had lost its 
top mooring.  The shutter was swinging wildly in the wind battering the 
house unmercifully.  The noise inside must have been horrendous.  As I 
came to a stop behind her Volvo, a gust of wind, the strongest so far, 
finished the job.  The shutter was ripped from the wall and carried off 
into the night as though it was nothing more than a maple leaf. 

Mom was waiting for me in the foyer wearing the faded L. L. Bean
housecoat Dad had given her for her birthday when I was in high school, 
and was brandishing an old baseball bat, a memento from my youth.  She 
let me in, slammed the door shut and slid the lock bolt into place. 

"Did you see him?” she asked, excitement adding a spark to her raspy
voice.  “He was up on the roof trying to get in through your old 
bedroom window.  He went running off the moment he saw you pull in.” 

“I didn't see anyone on the roof, Mom,” I said as I slid out of my rain
jacket hanging it on a peg beside the door, “but I did see a loose 
shutter fly out into the field.” 

She tapped the bat on the oak floor as if it was a fat cane.  “Don't you
think I can tell the difference between an intruder and a loose 
shutter?”  She asked, then scowled shaking her head side to side.  “Of 
course I can.  “You just didn't see him.  Probably was too busy looking 
at that shutter.” 

I refused to answer, let Mom think what she wanted to think.  I learned
long ago it wasn't worth arguing with her, she won even when she was 
wrong. 

“Why don't you pack an overnight bag and come spend the night with
Michelle and me,” I said rather than asked.  “We'd love to have you.” 

“And leave this house unprotected, Aaron?”  She said.  “I don't hardly
think so.  If I hadn't been here that man would have robbed me blind.  
No, Sir.  I'm staying here and protecting my property.” 

Mothers, I thought.  I had to convince her to come home with me.  But
how? 

“Lot's of people out storm watching?”  She asked deftly changing the
subject. 

“Didn't see another car,” I said, “but I did pick up a hitchhiker.” 

“A hitchhiker out in this mess? What was he, crazy?” 

“It was a she, not a he.”  I told Mom about Kate, where I picked her up,
where I dropped her off, and what she had said minus the part about the 
ring. 

Mom's eyes sparkled brighter the longer I talked.  She kept shifting her
weight from foot to foot like a child who has to use the bathroom 
really bad. 

“That was Kate Witherall you had in your car,” she said when I finished.
 “You dropped her off at her folks house ‘cept they don't live there no 
more.  They moved to Florida about five years ago.  She really got in 
your car, Aaron?” 

“Yes,” I said slowly trying to digest what Mom was saying.  “Why
wouldn't she?  She was hitchhiking.” 

“Because she never gets into cars.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Don't you know?” 

“No.” 

Mom sighed.  “Kate Witherall disappeared almost twenty years ago.  I
think you were going to college out in Colorado then.  Everyone but the 
police knows that no good Donald Upson killed her.” 

“What?” 

“Donald Upson,” she said.  “He was her fiancée.  He killed her and
buried her somewhere, sure enough.” 

“Wait a minute, Mom,” I said holding up my hands.  “Is this another one
of your silly stories?  The girl I picked up was alive, not dead.” 

Mom wrinkled her face.  “You never listen to me, Aaron,” she said. 
“That girl you picked up wasn't no girl, she was a ghost.” 

“You've been reading too many books.” 

Mom clicked her teeth together.  “I'm telling you the truth.  Every now
and then on a rainy night she's seen hitching for a ride out near where 
you picked her up.  Some people have stopped to give her a ride, but 
she always disappears before she gets into the car.  You're the only 
one I know who claims she actually got in the car.” 

“Right, Mom,” I said.  “Anything you say.” 

She sneered.  Then after a moment of silence, said,  “I've got to call
Bess.  She'll be absolutely thrilled to death.” 

“It's almost midnight.  She'll kill you if you call her.” 

“She'll kill me worse if I wait ‘til morning to tell her MY SON gave
Kate a ride.” 

She turned, moved cautiously into the sitting room in the slow, painful
stride of the arthritic.  I rolled my eyes, shook my head.  What I'd 
give to have a normal Mother. 

I left her to her phone call and wandered about the house checking the
windows and doors.  Rain spanked the clap boards.  Wind produced the 
same howls and shrieks that had terrified me so badly as a young boy 
lying beneath the covers late at night that sometimes I'd wet the bed 
rather then take a chance running to the bathroom downstairs afraid the 
bogey man would get me before I made it half way. 

The antique Grandfather clock sitting in the corner of the family roomed
chimed twelve times.   I returned to the first floor. 

Mom was still on the phone with Bess.  I kissed her on the forehead and
told her I had to go.  She mouthed a thank you, said she'd be fine, and 
continued her lively conversation. 

I phoned Michelle using my cell phone while still sitting in Mom's
driveway.  I gave her a brief rundown of what had happened without 
mentioning Kate.  Michelle hated hearing those types of stories at 
night, especially when I wasn't home.  Come to think of it, Michelle 
hates those stories when I'm home, too.  Again, she made me promise to 
be careful. 

The intensity of the hurricane had diminished somewhat.  Driving wasn't
as stressful.  I thought about driving past the Witherall residence, 
but decided against it.  I knew all I'd see was a dark house; no neon 
sign telling me Mom's ghost story was more than a story. 

I drove towards home going slightly faster than was safe, but still well
under the posted speed limit.  My writer's imagination was working 
overtime.  I was mentally plotting a short story I'd write using Mom's 
tale as a basis. 

I wasn't surprised or frightened when Kate appeared in the glow of my
headlights as I entered the valley.  She was walking towards me, head 
down, hands stuffed deep in her pockets. 

I drove onto the wrong side of the road, stopped next to her turning on
my four way flashers.  I rolled down my window.  Rain and wind invaded 
the inside of the Land Rover bathing my face and left shoulder. 

“Hi Kate,” I said as she neared. 

She stopped, looked up at me, and smiled.  It was a warm friendly smile
of recognition.  Just as I thought she was going to speak, she turned 
and walked down the steep embankment into the thick undergrowth and 
disappeared. 

“Hey!” I yelled.  “Where are you going?  Wait for me!” 

I rolled up the window, grabbed my lantern, and stepped out into the
wind and rain.  My jeans below my raincoat was immediately soaked.  I 
stepped off the pavement holding the lantern high looking for her 
tracks; my Nike's sunk into the soft ground and filled with cold water 
and mud.  I searched in vain for Kate's tracks.  It was as though she 
had never been there, but she had.  I had seen her. 

I carefully made my way down the embankment, slipping once falling onto
my backside.  I regained my feet and kept going until I came to a 
washout.  The swift runoff had turned a small meandering brook running 
parallel with the road into a raging stream.  A section of the 
embankment had broken off preventing me from going any further.  Dirt 
from the embankment was continuing to break off, falling into the 
rushing water.  I was afraid the entire bank could collapse at any 
moment, but I couldn't leave until I had found Kate. 

I held the lantern high, wiped the running water away from my eyes as I
peered into the dark night.  There, stuck to what looked like a tangle 
of roots at the base of the washout was a red and white piece of 
clothe.  Something sparkled at the edge of the lantern light.  I leaned 
forward as far as I dared straining to see better.  The tangle of roots 
were actually human bones and the sparkle was coming from a ring, a 
diamond framed by two rubies. 

* * * 

The following morning was warm and sunny.  High cumulus clouds, huge and
puffy, hung seemingly motionless in the air as though an artist had 
painted them in the sky.  It would've been easy to discount the eleven 
inches of rain that fell overnight if the ground hadn't been so 
saturated. 

I was standing on the edge of the Townsend road next to Detective Tom
Dubuc of the Maine State Police.  If he hadn't told me he was going to 
retire in three months, I would have guessed he was in his late 
forties.  We were watching the forensic team exhume Kate Witherall's 
body. 

“I always hoped this case would be solved before I retired, but I wasn't
counting on it,” he said.  “I always knew she was dead, I just didn't 
know where he buried her.” 

“By ‘he' I assume you mean Donald Upson.” 

He looked at me like a boxer sizing up his opponent before the bell
signifying the start of round one.  “None other,” he said.  “Donnie was 
the only suspect.  Said she wanted to travel some before she'd tie the 
knot with him.  Claimed he dropped her off at the Greyhound Bus Depot 
in Portland, but I didn't believe him.  There was no proof he killed 
her, but I knew he did.” 

“Are you going to arrest him?” 

Dubuc shook his head.  He pointed up the hill towards Mom's house.  “See
that light pole?”  He asked. 

I nodded. 

“Two years after Kate disappeared, Donnie got himself killed when he hit
that pole doing about seventy-five in his Camaro.  Not that pole 
exactly, the one that was there he broke in two and the power company 
replaced it with the one you see now.  The official report said it was 
caused by speed and alcohol, but you know what I think?” 

He glanced at the forensic team.  Satisfied no one was in hearing range,
he leaned closer to me.  I could smell coffee and stale cigarettes on 
his breath.  “I think Donnie had heard stories about Kate being seen 
out here,” he whispered.  “He got himself liquored up and came out for 
a look.  And when he saw her standing beside the road, he tried to run 
her down.” 

I pondered that.  I had no problem imagining Donnie stomping on the gas
pedal when he saw the girl he knew he had killed and buried two years 
earlier standing beside the road determined to get the job done once 
and for all.  I think I might have done the same thing. 

“You know, my wife's probably your biggest fan,” Dubuc said.  “She's got
just about every book you ever wrote.  I've even read a couple of them 
myself.”  He looked me in the eyes.  “You ain't no Stephen King, 
Mister, but you're good, I'll grant you that.  Perhaps, if you're ever 
hard up for material, you could write a story about all of this 
someday.” 

“Perhaps I will.” 

The end 


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