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Miller's Lane (standard:horror, 1044 words)
Author: kendall thomasAdded: Oct 30 2002Views/Reads: 1959/1173Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Hitch-hiker gets stranded.
 



MILLER'S LANE 

By Twisted Wabbit 

Jimmy pulled up the collar of his tweed coat and stuck his thumb out for
the hundredth time. 

The blue pickup shot on by without slowing down in the slightest bit. 
In fact, every vehicle that passed seemed to be in a particular hurry. 

It was a cold, November evening.  A drizzle fell. 

If he didn't get a ride soon he was going to have to camp out in the
woods; woods that grew thickly on either side of the road as far as the 
eye could see. 

That prospect didn't much appeal to him.  He would much rather spend
what little money he had left on a warm motel room where he could take 
a much needed shower. 

Hiking across America like Jack Kerouac had seemed like a neat idea
after getting out of high school.  Now he wasn't so sure.  It wasn't 
like he thought it would be. 

He had quickly run low on money.  He was hungry all the time, and the
cold was like a constant, gnawing beast that never relented. 

And, above all, it was boring. 

He had thought life on the road would be like a great adventure.  It was
merely drudgery without let up. 

And, also, people stared at him like he was a bum.  It was humiliating. 
He longed to be back home once more without a care, kicked back in 
front of the telly, snacking on a thick burger and greasy fries.  The 
thought made his mouth water. 

As he was finishing these ruminations he saw an old man with a cane
limping as fast as he could up the other side of the road. 

“Hey!” Jimmy called out. 

Startled, the old man paused, but seemed hesitant; he glanced back over
his hunched shoulder, fidgeting as if he had to be on his way and 
couldn't spare a moment. 

“Don't people pick up hitch hikers on this damn road?  I've been
standing here for six hours.” 

The old man shook his head angrily. 

“You're on Miller's Lane, boy.  Nobody's gonna give you a damn lift on
Miller's Lane, especially toward nightfall.” 

“Well why not?” 

“Ghosts, boy.  Ghosts!  Where the hell you from?  Sure as hell not from
around here.” 

“Ghosts?” Jimmy muttered to himself.  Why the old fool must be half
crazy. 

“If you're smart, boy, you'll turn around and go back the way you came
while there's still some light.” 

“I can't,” Jimmy said.  “I've been that way.  I want to see what's up
ahead.” 

“Well, you'd better hurry then.  You've got about an hour of daylight
left.  If you can get past Selma Cemetery before then you may be all 
right.  Miller's Lane ends up there.” 

“How far's that?” 

“About three miles.” 


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