THE
BLACK CARRIAGE
By
Daniel Skye
Chuck Vitti was a writer, a cynical one at that. He wrote
about what he knew; and what he knew was lies, hatred, betrayal, deceit, and
heartache. His bleak outlook gave him a dark assessment of the human condition.
Cynical as he was, Chuck understood what others refused to acknowledge. He
understood that people only want you as much as they need you. Once you have
nothing left to offer, that’s when everyone forgets about you.
Two weeks from his deadline, Chuck had been hit with a
sudden rash of writer’s block. Nothing worse than a cynical writer with nothing
interesting to say, Chuck thought sullenly.
It was just after dark when he descended the steps of the
Fairview Public Library, having spent the day there reading and looking for
inspiration for his latest piece.
He walked two blocks east from the library and it was
there he saw the woman, her face shrouded by a black veil. She was shuffling
along, pushing a baby carriage in front of her, the wheels squeaking across the
pavement. It was one of those vintage black models with the ruffled hood
hanging over the cradle.
“Evening ma’am,” Chuck said in passing, trying to be
polite.
“Sir, can you help me?” the woman asked, and Chuck turned
his attention back to her. If not for the streetlamps, he wouldn’t have been
able to see her due to her full black ensemble. But he turned back to her with
a quizzical look on his face.
“Yes, ma’am, what is it?”
“It’s my baby. I think he’s sick.” A terrible cry emitted
from the carriage.
Chuck moved around to the front of the stroller and
reached his hand inside the dark cradle of the carriage, brushing the baby’s
forehead.
“You should get him home,” Chuck advised. “He’s very
cold.”
“That’s because he’s dead,” the woman said, her words
causing a chill to rush down the back of Chuck’s neck. It was then he noticed
the two streaks of blood trickling down from beneath her dark veil.
She
was bleeding from her eyes.
His
hands trembled as they reached forward to pull back the veil, but something,
some strange invisible force, stopped him from pursuing.
A
ghost, he thought. He was standing face-to-face with a ghost.
It was
two blocks east from the public library where Heidi Straub had her accident. It
had happened four years ago on that very night.
The
front tire of her van had blown out and she lost control of the wheel,
careening off the road and smashing head-on into the brick façade of a local
storefront.
The
jagged glass of the shattered windshield had punctured her eyes. The paramedics
pronounced her dead on arrival as the shards had pushed their way through and
were embedded in her brain.
The
paramedics had found her baby in the backseat, still strapped into its car
seat. Its fragile neck had snapped upon impact.
The
baby’s cry was heard again, but it didn’t emanate from the carriage. It came
from behind Chuck. So he glanced over his shoulder, finding nothing. And it was
during that brief moment that Heidi had vanished, carriage and all.
Chuck
mashed his knuckles into his eyes in disbelief. Cynical as he was, he did not
doubt the presence he had felt. Heidi Straub and her baby were there, standing
inches away. And he was their solitary witness.
This
meant two things. One: Life after death was not as ambiguous as he assumed. And
Two: Chuck finally had something new to write about. The Ghost of Fairview.
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