I saw what I saw

I saw what I saw.

The road stretches in front of him. Wet, slick, and unpredictable.

The storm came out of nowhere. The forecast had promised a sunny day and a clear night.

Torrential rainfall beats down on the car. Working continuously, the wipers make no difference. He can’t even see the bridge in front of him.

The headlights barely break through the darkness of the stormy night.

A lightning blinds him for a second, printing the outline of the bridge on his inner eyes. The thunder crashes a heartbeat later.

The white middle line on the road is his only orientation. Until it isn’t.

“What the heck ...?” Harold grumbles.

A weirdly shaped package wrapped in what is supposedly a garbage bag lays in the middle of the bridge. He slows the car and comes to a halt. There is no going around this thing. Small stone walls border both sides of the bridge to protect drivers from going over the edge and falling a thousand feet into the ocean.

Harold sits in the darkness for a couple of minutes watching the downpour in his headlights. A cascade of lightning slices into the dark sky, coming from different directions, each followed by a violent thunder that shakes his car. He contemplates turning around, but that will cost him at least three hours. Dragging his feet to get out of the car and moving the obstacle, he listens as the rain tortures the roof of his Mini. The gusts rattle the car. The seat under him vibrates like a volcano about to erupt. Harold is happy that he hadn’t picked the convertible for his trip. He could have chosen any of the ten cars in his garage, but he loves this little car. It reminds him of Italy, the beautiful coast, the picturesque houses and - of course - Emily.

He shakes his head. No use thinking about her.

Harold opens the car door. Icy rain pelts him, drenching his hair, his coat and his pants in seconds. He hurries over to the black form and pokes it with his Gucci loafers. It doesn’t move. He tries to drag it to the left, but it is way too heavy. It’s not a garbage bag; there is a zipper on one end, and Harold bends down to open it. His hands, wet and cold, he fumbles to open the bag.

He jerks backwards when he sees the dead eyes staring at him.

“Oh, my God!” Violent blows of wind carry away his words.

The wind pulls roughly at the hair of the dead body. A woman. Even in her death, she is beautiful. Her long blond hair shines in the diffuse light; her face is almost symmetric. She wears a red evening dress. A nametag spells A. Baker.

Heavy rain pelts her beauty, runs down her cheeks and vanishes into the blackness of the body bag.

“Hello, stranger.” The voice is a little smoky but mellifluous.

Harold jerks his head around. Where had that come from?

He looks back at the dead face. No, that can’t be.

With a yank, Harold zips the bag shut. He stands on the dark street, shaking. The Mini’s headlights aim directly at the body bag.

Was there a movement?

He shakes his head. I might not ever get this out of my head, he thinks.

He had seen dead people, sure. But not like this. Usually, someone had made them up nicely, and they almost looked like they were about to go out. They were in expensive coffins so one could pay one’s respects. Not in a body bag in the middle of the road.

Harold sprints back to his car and gets in. He sits there for another while, still shaking. His breath comes in heavy sighs.

Finally, he peels off his drenched coat and grabs the little towel he stores in his glove compartment. He dries off his face.

Now what?

“I should call 911,” Harold says to the dashboard, “or I could just turn around and leave.”

“Don’t call 911. Let’s have a chat.” The voice again, the female, smoky one.

“What?” Harold whips around, only to see - no one. His heart beats against his ribs. His stomach churns. The wind shakes his Mini. The heavy rain, coming down in streams, runs down the car windows.

“Let’s have a chat, Harold.”

“What sick joke is that? Emily? How can you talk to me? That’s impossible!”

“Sorry, I’m not Emily. And yes, that’s impossible indeed. Emily can’t talk to you anymore. My name is Angela.”

“Angela? Angela - who? And how did you get into my car? How do you know my name?”

“Do I really have to say it, Harold?”

He feels an icy hand on his shoulder. A shiver runs through him when he looks in the rearview mirror. Nothing to see there. There is no one in the back seat.

“There are no ghosts.” Harald states.

“Yeah, I thought so, too. But look at me now.”

Another wind blast rocks the car violently. Harold feels it move under him.

Are they moving towards the edge?

“What do you want?”

“Nice to meet you, Harold. I always wanted to meet you when I was alive. You know, I admire your business ethics.”

Harold coughs. “There are lots of people who say I don’t have any.”

“Exactly.” The voice sounds different now. A little higher than before. Harald can hear her smile.

“How do you know me?”

“Actually, I don’t. But I know Emily.”

Cold sweat collects on Harold’s forehead. He swallows hard. “You knew Emily?”

Another gust of wind rattles the car. It moves again. They are almost at the stone wall now.

“No, I said, I know her. She is one of the good ones. But they can reach us down there. Ask us for favors. And that she did.”

The merciless wind jolts the car again and lifts one side off the road, tipping it up towards the edge.

“Oh, my gosh! What’s happening? No! No!” Harold stems both hands against the dashboard, his feet against the bottom of the car, trying to get a hold.

He tries to open the door, but it doesn’t budge. Desperately, Harold pulls on the door opener, again and again. The door doesn’t move.

His legs tremble; he feels awfully cold, as a shudder runs through him.

“What did Emily tell you?” His voice shakes too.

“She didn’t have to tell me; I saw everything.” The voice almost sings.

“Everything?” Harold whimpers. “How?”

“It’s just how it works when someone from above asks someone from the underworld for a favor. We can see what they tell us. But we don’t need to get into details here. You wouldn’t understand now anyway, but you will soon.” The voice is full of disgust. “I saw what I saw. How you manhandled Emily, gaslighted her, and then beat her. How you finally pushed her over the edge of that beautiful waterfall in Hawaii. Of all places,” the voice grows louder, threatening. “The most romantic place on earth. Where people get married. You could’ve had something special with Emily. But you, you had to be right. As always. Over nothing. Pitiful! You had to show her how she was inferior!”

The whole car is now in the air, held up by the wind, rocking over the wall. Then, with a jerk, the wind hurled them over the edge of the bridge.

“But now, Harold, Emily wins!” It is just a whisper in Harold’s ear as he and his precious Mini tumble into the dark and raging ocean. Enormous waves crash over the vehicle, swallowing it like an angry and aggressive wild animal.

There is no way to go but down.