The Writer Read Free Page A

house again a few nights ago. How did their appearance manifest?”
    “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
    “You worry about that a lot, don’t you?” he asks. “People thinking you’re crazy? Why don’t you just tell me what happened the other night, from your perspective, and let’s not worry about labels such as ‘mad’ or ‘crazy’. They’re not very helpful. Nobody’s judging you here.”
    “Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask.
    “Do you ?”
    “I asked first.”
    “I believe that other people believe in them,” he replies calmly.
    “I never used to,” I tell him. “Never, ever. And then…” I pause, worried that if I tell him the truth, he’ll have me sectioned. “I keep telling myself that it’s all in my mind. My neighbor thinks it’s some kind of post-traumatic disorder, and I guess he might be right, but…” I pause, seeing the image of Hannah in her bed again. “It always feels so real, so immediate, like they’re really there.”
    “You told me that your neighbor went to check the house,” he continues. “That being the case, how do you explain the fact that he found no traces of the blood you claimed was all over your daughter’s old bed?”
    “I can’t,” I reply, feeling tears start to well up in my eyes. “I can’t explain that at all.”
    “But you really believe that these were ghosts, rather than figments of your imagination?” He waits for me to answer. “Beth, is that what you truly believe?”
    I pause for a moment, unable to answer, until finally I nod.
    “I’ve seen them,” I tell him. “They were really there, right in front of me.”
    ***
    As soon as I switch the engine off, I’m surrounded by the silence of the forest. Looking out the window, I see the tall, quiet trees that line the road.
    The same trees that were the only witnesses to the accident. If they could talk, they could tell me what really happened.
    Getting out of the car, I look both ways but there of course there’s no sign of life. Hell, there’s probably not another human being for miles. This road cuts straight through the heart of the forest and serves no real purpose other than to offer an alternative route out of the city. Nearby, a sign warns drivers to watch for wildlife that might wander onto the tarmac; I still remember the night when a man from the council phoned to tell me that, after careful consideration, a sign was going to be erected in an attempt to avoid a repeat of “this terrible tragedy.”
    “It’s the only thing we can do at this stage,” he told me. “Unfortunately, from time to time wildlife will stray onto the road, so the onus is on drivers to be alert and ready to slow down.”
    “It’s still not certain that he was speeding,” I remember saying, “or that he swerved to avoid anything.”
    “It’s the most likely explanation, though,” he replied. “Isn’t it?”
    “Maybe,” I told him. “I just feel like it wouldn’t have made much difference.”
    That conversation was so long ago, but I still remember every word.
    Finally I realize that I’m holding my breath again. Sometimes I have to actually remind myself to breathe in and out, as if my motor responses have a tendency to pause themselves. I wander away from the car, making my way toward the exact spot where the accident happened. There’s still a gap in the treeline here, although the stump of one tree remains in place to serve as a reminder of the impact. Looking down at the surface of the road beneath my feet, I squint a little as I realize I can just about make out the tire marks, even after all this time. Then again, maybe they’re just in my mind.
    Maybe I really have begun to crack up.
    “David?” I whisper.
    Silence.
    I turn and look back toward my car, then at the trees on the other side of the road.
    “Hannah?” I add, keeping my voice low just in case someone might happen to hear me.
    Silence.
    “I just want to know,” I continue, turning in a full circle as I look for any