'Whisper Lane'
(A ghost story)
Although all the village knew you could save yourself a good twenty minutes if you went down Whisper Lane to get to the motorway quickly, nobody seemed inclined to use that route.
The lane, which someone had told me was once a ‘hollow way’ and was used by drovers in the past to take their cattle to market. It is a very narrow lane with raised banks on either side for most of its length and has deep ruts on each side of the unmaintained tarmac. Grass is growing in the middle which looks like a slithering snake as you drive along and sounds like it is tearing at the underside of your vehicle.
In addition to the villagers, the local farmers with land backing onto the lane seem to prefer to use other gates to access their fields, so all the wooden gates once used along the lane are now overgrown and slowly rotting away through lack of maintenance and use and are fast becoming part of the hedgerow as the brambles slowly take over. Even the uncut hedgerows and small trees, which hang over the lane seem eager to join up with each other forming a dark tunnel that even bright sunlight does not penetrate.
I have never walked down Whisper Lane but having driven down it in the summer with the windows down, there never seems to be any sounds from nature in fact, I have never seen or heard any birdsong down there.
I had never really given much thought to the locals’ avoidance of Whisper Lane, as I had only lived in the village for a mere seven years and to them, I was still classed as an incomer, so local traditions and the like are slow in forthcoming. Don’t get me wrong, I have used Whisper Lane as I have said, but only on odd occasions when the clock has been against me workwise, and apart from taking care with looking out for the ruts I could not find or see any reason the lane wasn’t in regular use, often saying so in the local pub, adding it would perhaps make the council maintain it better.
But no, my local drinking companions would just shake their heads and say, ‘Best keep away from Whisper Lane.’ with no further explanation as to why. One local, who must be in his eighties, sitting in his usual place by the fireplace and listening to our conversation, said aloud, ‘They should close it off and fill it in.’ This was acknowledged by nods of approval from the rest of the drinkers at the bar, but no further explanation as to why it should be avoided was given despite my asking. I stopped raising the subject after a while, but I continued to use Whisper Lane when I needed to.
Such was the need to use this route that occurred a month ago. My job was on the line, and I was running late for an appointment with a prospective client which if successful, would improve the company’s turnover and my monthly sales target dramatically. Also, the newly appointed Area Manager who has a University Degree in Ancient Languages and an over-zealous urge to impress the Directors', had picked up on my falling sales figures and given me the ultimatum to ‘Buck up or ship out’, and as if the fates were working against me, I had forgotten to set my alarm for an earlier start, so I suddenly needed those twenty minutes Whisper Lane would give me to get to the client on time.
I turned onto Whisper Lane just after sunrise, not as I could see the sun for the village and surrounding fields were engulfed in fog, just to add to my rising problems of the day. The locals call it ‘The Fret’ which I found out is the name for sea fog, the sea being three miles away, but if the conditions are right ‘The Fret’ can and does travel inland as it had this morning. My only blessing was that I would be unlikely to meet any other vehicles in the lane so rather than a sensible speed I increased my pressure on the accelerator and used the grass in the middle as a guide for my dipped headlights to keep the car away from the ruts at the side.
I looked at the clock on the dash and could see I was slowly making up the shortfall timewise, but the fog was getting thicker and darker. I didn’t have the radio on as the constant reminder of the time added to my stress. So, the silence in the car was broken only by the window wipers which were working away to clear that fine mist, that all fogs create, I began to think everything would be fine and I would be on time, when suddenly dead ahead appeared a dark figure riding a bicycle. I braked hard, praying | could keep the car straight and not end up in one of the deep ruts. or worse hit the cyclist.
Thankfully, I managed to bring my car to a halt just as he disappeared into the fog ahead. The fog swirled around the car as I calmed myself down, my forehead covered in a cold sweat, my hands tightly gripping the steering wheel.
I am not sure how long I was there, but I do remember feeling my anger rising as I realized the cyclist did not have any lights showing. So I set off again, now with the intention of catching him up and having a few choice words about the lights. I was now driving at a much slower speed and I was soon back behind him, and with my speed almost snail-like, I sounded my horn a couple of times with the view of making him stop, but no he just continued to cycle on with me in tow behind and with no chance of overtaking him.
My frustration levels began to rise, and a glance at the clock told me I was going to be extremely late for my meeting. I sounded the horn again but to no avail, I wound down my window and leaning out I shouted to him, he continued to cycle on but suddenly he turned his head back towards me, and with black, piercing eyes that seemed to burn into mine, he gave what I can only describe as an evil sneering deep laugh which literally, sent a cold shiver down the back of my neck. He then turned back to the front and continued cycling with his head down, his body swaying left and right as he drove his legs down on the pedals as if he were struggling to cycle up a hill.
The cold and the fog from outside seemed to have entered the car and wrapped itself around me or was the effect of that sneer and that horrible laugh. I quickly wound my window up and continued to crawl along until hopefully, a suitable passing place would appear, and I could overtake and quickly get away from him which I was now eager to do.
Continuing in low gear for what seemed like miles, I had now the opportunity to observe this cyclist. He was about seven or eight feet ahead of the front of the car, but the swirling fog made it a little difficult to get a clear view as he kept disappearing in and out of it, however, I could see that he was dressed in black, black jacket and black trousers, and he was wearing those old-fashioned bicycle clips that secured his trouser bottoms to his ankles, which I remember my granddad wearing them. Also, the bicycle itself seemed to be one of those old-fashioned black ‘sit up and beg’ types. It was obvious the bicycle had no gears, hence the slow progress.
So, resigned to the fact that I was going to be late for my appointment, I continued with this frustrating journey for what seemed forever when suddenly I was in bright sunlight, which I’m told can happen with sea fog, it just seemed as if a curtain had been opened.
I stopped the car, got out, and looked around me, the hedgerow was now thinner and less dense. The temperature was much warmer and already it had caused the morning dew on the road to turn to steam, which was rising gently and creeping silently along the surface. I looked back to where I had come from and could see the fog hanging like a thick door across the lane.
I turned and looked ahead to where I thought the cyclist would or should be, but I could see no one even though I could now see ahead for a good quarter of a mile. Surely there was no way the cyclist could have gone that far, so where was he? A cold fear washed over me, had I somehow knocked him over? and was he lying back there, injured? I knew I had to go back into that swirling fog and the darkness it contained to look for him, which I did. The damp, coldness enveloped me immediately as the sun disappeared and the dark of the fog took over.
I must have walked about three hundred yards with no sign of the cyclist or his bicycle. Where the hell is he? I walked a further two hundred yards and still no sign. Maybe he cycled faster than I thought. A quick look at my wristwatch told me I was now more than half an hour late and dared not stop any longer, so I turned to set off back to my car. It was then that I heard it. A deep guttural cold, sounding voice, ‘You will pay.’ I must own up, I suddenly felt very scared, for the sound of that voice seemed to echo all around me. ‘You will pay,’ it said again. I called out, ‘Where are you?’ but there was no reply or any other sound.
The fog seemed now to be swirling faster around me and the silence that came with it made me breathe deeply or perhaps it was fear that I felt, for truly I felt increasingly afraid. I turned quickly making my way back to my vehicle, my pace increasing with every step, my breathing now becoming erratic, with the fog continuing to swirl madly around me.
I finally passed through into sunshine and thankfully warmth, for I was shivering, cold, and sweating. With equal speed, I got in my car and, ignoring any dangers I drove fast until I reached the end of Whisper Lane and joined the main road towards my destination, and then pulled in at the first layby I came to, now having no concern for the time, for I needed to calm myself down and try to make sense of what had just happened back there, my head buzzing with possible explanations, none of which made any sense.
I then glanced at the clock on the dashboard only to find that now instead of me being late, the clock told me I was actually on time, my wristwatch confirming this. I had saved the twenty minutes as intended by going down Whisper Lane…….
Do not ask me how, but I got through that meeting and came away with the order. My Area Manager congratulated me, but not with any real enthusiasm, as I knew he would claim the credit with the directors, but I didn’t care. My head was still full of what had happened in Whisper Lane. Part of me wanted to go back there and drive along the lane again to look for something to justify what I had experienced, but another part of me warned me not to - I took the advice of the latter.
A week or so passed by and the events in Whisper Lane slowly began to fade and I got on with my life and the Area Manager, who continued to put pressure on me. But two weeks to the day, Whisper Lane burst into my life again. The doorbell rang late in the evening and two police officers faced me. My elderly father had been knocked over and had died.
After the initial shock, I learned that he was on a pedestrian crossing when a cyclist knocked into him, and he hit his head on the tarmac as he fell. The paramedics tried hard to save him but sadly, they could not. The officers also told me my dad’s last words; ‘You will pay.’ asking me if it meant anything. Suddenly I felt the same coldness I had previously felt on that day in Whisper Lane, ‘You will pay’ the very same words I had heard.
I told the officers that I did not know what it meant as I doubted, they would believe me anyway. They left, leaving me to grieve for my Dad, which I did. At the inquest, the coroner stated Dad died from an injury received as the result of being struck by a 'hit and run' cyclist, eyewitness statements said that the cyclist was dressed in black and rode a black old-fashioned bicycle, the cyclist didn’t stop and he was never found…..
Whisper Lane and that day, keeps running through my mind with a lot of questions but no real answers, was it a premonition of my father’s death? Or was it a ghost? Is this the reason the locals do not use the lane? I have yet to come up with a reasonable answer and to be honest, I'm not sure I want to find out, but what I do know is that if evil does exist, I encountered it that day in Whisper Lane.
I was again in the local after the inquest, with several of the regulars giving me their condolences, but later, another incomer mentioned using Whisper Lane. The locals as they did with me advised them to avoid it, this time I agreed with them and said so. One of them turned to me and quietly said, ‘And now you know why.’ I understood and replied that I did. The old fellow by the fireplace repeated what he had said before and I readily agreed with him also, ‘Whisper Lane should be blocked off and filled in.’
I have never driven down Whisper Lane again and I never will. I do not know what lies down, but I do know something dark, and evil lives there, and now like the locals I tell all new incomers 'Best keep away from Whisper Lane.’ But to myself, I add that 'the price is too high'.
© Penny Vickers 2024
