Warning: this is dark. I mean, it’s not even super scary, but it’s dark AF. The inspiration came from a podcast where a caller told of seeing three pale little girls. The rest? Yeah, I mean, I wrote it, but… man. Now I’m worried about me.
It’s one of those memories you can still smell when you think about it. I had to have been eight or nine in the backseat of my parent’s ’72 Chevelle. They were both chain smokers, and once every fortnight we’d go to the reservation nearby so my parents could stock up on cigarettes. The summer night still smoldered as we turned down our quarter-mile long driveway, the mix of warm dust and cigarette smoke made an indelible sensory impression, though the specific night in question is etched indelibly into my psyche like a tattoo.
The headlights of the Chevelle shone on three figures ahead on the edge of the driveway.
“What the hell?” my dad said aloud as we drew nearer and the figures resolved into three little girls. The middle girl was the tallest and looked to be a year or two younger than me. They were dressed in old fashioned gingham dresses that seemed out of place, but what stood out the most was their pale complexion. All three girls seemed nearly translucent they were so pale, though when the headlights shone across them they were clearly solid.
My dad pulled up aside the girls and from his open window asked, “Who are you and what are you doing on my property so late?”
The girls stared at him without speaking.
He repeated himself, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The girls stared.
“James!” my mom broke the standoff, “Go!”
He did. Clearly unnerved, he pressed the accelerator harder than he intended on the loose gravel and the rear tires spun before catching, sending us down the driveway. We didn’t get more than a few dozen feet before he abruptly slammed on the brakes.
“James? What are you doing? Go!” my mom coaxed.
“Laney, look!” we all craned our heads around to verify what my dad had already clocked in his mirrors: the girls were gone.
We sat there in the dusty driveway for long moments, engine idling as we stared at the empty space behind the car. Open fields lay on either side of the driveway, so there wasn’t anywhere the girls could have gone without being seen.
“Go!” my mom insisted, and we hurried down the remainder of the driveway and, like that memory, left it in the dusty summer evening, never to speak of it again.
***
My mother died when I was 24. Lung cancer – not much of a surprise as a lifelong chain smoker, but it’s never easy, and that death is never nice. I untied my tie as I stepped out on the back porch of my parent’s house, the throngs of family and friends inside made the mourning feel oppressive, and I needed to get some air.
My girlfriend, Annie, accompanied me out into the cool fall Oklahoma evening. Her hand on my shoulder, she asked gently, “How are you doing?”
“Shitty,” I said honestly. “Holding it together for my dad, you know?”
She nodded.
“I just… needed some air,” I said, the porch swing bouncing awkwardly as I sat heavily.
Annie sat next to me. “I get it,” she said. “I’m here for you, Jason.” She leaned her head on my shoulder.
That’s when I saw them again.
Standing on the edge of our back lawn, before the green gave way to the fields beyond, two pale little girls in the same gingham dresses.
“Holy shit,” I said. “It’s the girls!” I pointed.
Annie stiffened. “Oh my God,” she said. “Who… what are they?”
I didn’t answer but stood and started for the steps. “Who are you!” I called loudly.
The girls stared at me as I hit the lawn.
“Who are you!” I bellowed as I crossed the lawn towards them.
They kept staring.
I was within ten feet of them when they faded out of existence, the determined set of their eyes sending ice through my heart.
“Jason?” my dad called from the doorway. “You okay?”
“Dad! They were here! Those pale little girls!”
My dad stared at me, blood leaving his face as he lied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you come inside.”
“Dad! Don’t you remember? The little girls?”
“Jason,” his words firmer and no longer an invitation but an order. “Come inside.”
“Come on, Jason,” Annie echoed.
I turned to where the little girls stood, a chill running through me. But they were gone.
Annie put her arm around me as I came back up the steps. I said quietly to her, “You saw them, right?”
“I did,” she confirmed. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”
And we didn’t talk about them again.
***
Grief weighs on people differently. After our daughter Lilly drowned, Annie passed through sobbing wails, to heart-wrenching gasps, to remain nearly catatonic for days. I compartmentalized my grief because I had no choice. Looking back, I remember the steps mechanically – the funeral home, the funeral, the gravesite, the reception. And then the days after the reception when the visitors and well-wishers had gone home, and the house remained eerily quiet without the vivacious little girl. I remember for days just staying home with Annie, who was beside herself, just trying to make sure she made it through the next day.
I turned onto what was now our long driveway after getting groceries. The sun had set early, as it does in the winter, and the ground crunched under the tires of my pickup as I made my way towards the house.
And my headlights shone upon a single, pale girl in a gingham dress on the side of the driveway. I slammed on my brakes; the little girl illuminated by my headlights as I stepped from the truck.
I stared at her and she stared back, unmoving.
“What do you want?” I said, my voice flat, exhausted. I should have been terrified, but I didn’t have the energy to feel anything.
The little girl didn’t move.
I didn’t move. “Why?” I said.
No response.
“Why?” I said again.
The girl slowly faded into nothingness, my headlights shining on empty gravel.
That’s when I broke, falling to my knees in the driveway and sobbed like my own life was over.
***
The oncologist called it Glioblastoma Multiforme. It even had an easier to pronounce acronym: GBM. The brain cancer overtook Annie like a wildfire. Though the cancer took her quickly, I genuinely think her broken heart was the root cause. Months after Lilly, Annie barely went through the motions of a life. And then headaches started, sharp, sudden, and debilitating. Upon hearing the diagnosis, a smile creased her face and to this day, I don’t know if it was a wry smile at the inevitability of the end or whether it was a smile at being reunited with Lilly. Not that it matters. A few weeks later, I buried my wife.
I found myself on the back porch during a funeral reception again, but this time without my support. My dad’s hand fell on my shoulder. Somehow the onery bastard had outlived his wife, granddaughter, daughter-in-law, and even his own battle with lung cancer. And despite our relationship never being especially open, his hand on my shoulder still felt comforting.
“I’m so sorry, Jason,” he said in his gravely baritone.
All I could do was nod and stare at my feet.
“What the hell?” he said suddenly.
I looked up and saw three pale figures standing at the edge of the lawn. But they weren’t the little girls. It was my mom, and Lilly, and Annie standing in the gathering dusk, pale and nearly luminescent wearing simple, old fashioned gingham dresses.
