Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. Today's story is about a man who tries to
hold on to what's gone, and that includes a decommissioned road. My name
is Edwin, and here's a scary story. I lowered down the volume of
the radio static as I made the first turn into the valley. The roads
were dark, and somehow the quieter sounds but not quite the silence, helped
me navigate. The place had been decommissioned for several years. A dead road,
we used to call it back in my day, where the scars on
the pavement turned to cracks and then gashes before they start to show the dirt
underneath once again, no one around to fix them, no important place to
go between them anymore. The place is a connected barely survived, hard to
tell which one caused the other. I used to turn off my head lights
while I was there, but I stopped doing that once I almost drove off
the side of a cliff. It was a moonless night then, and the
road blended in with the dark pit just feet away from the tires of my
old truck. Luckily I was paying attention and managed to stop. But I
know my mind was and has been somewhere else. It was the reason why
I took those roads. I didn't have to follow someone else's pace or be
somewhere by a certain time. Plus no one was expecting me. Do you
ever wonder how long it would take for people to notice you were missing?
I measure my time in years. It wasn't always this way though. This
road wasn't like this either. If you got here on a weekend when people
went down to camp by Baseline Road or to climb and stay by the lake,
this place would be packed. I mean, it was not enough to
get the county to continue the road all the way there. It ended somewhere
by Pine Point, where I would turn right and it would take me straight
home. But people like that. They enjoy the bumpy roads and they feel
like they're out there doing their own thing, depending on wooden signs that are
made to look old in order to guide them. Today people will take the
main highway. Technically I'm not allowed to take this road. No one is,
but the sheriff. Let's it go. I always put the barriers and
cones back where they belong. It connected me with home, my wife,
are two children, and the amazing place we were building now it connects me
to just another empty wooden structure. I never quite let go of it,
you see, I've always had a tough time doing that. I sometimes imagine
Annie and Jamie in the back of the truck, laughing with their paper airplanes,
Tracy watching them, making sure they didn't get too close to the edge
of the bed of the truck, and keeping an eye out for the cookies
from the grocery store hall from that day, I hear her looking at the
receipts, saying, how we say so much on this thing or the other
for proud moments. My proud moments too. But I'm not the only one.
I know many others that become attached to people or places that keeps them
returning in hopes to see something different while chasing the same thing. And all
they hope to get in return is another day, another chance to try out
their luck again. It would be the same thing that night, I could
tell. Just around the second turn, I saw his familiar shape. He
didn't notice me and never did, and so I pulled up right next to
him. Must have been his age. Hey, Ojoe, where are you
going? The road only takes you to one place, I joked. He
knew my line. Ooh, I got a head up to the lake.
Joe, how fast can this thing go? He started how he usually did,
always the same story, but it was good we actually met there.
Seeing another person roaming around the dead road on foot was strange enough, but
the county was full of these types of people, independent, not afraid to
walk in the dark for long stretches at a time. He'd get off by
the egg, a large oval stone by the end of the patch of trees
near the long stretch of road, and continue on his own from there.
He was a salesman, barely making ends meet and always selling one thing or
another. When he met another guy rich, he would call him rich in
name and in bank, he would say. His eyes never quite lit up,
but his voice did when he started talking about the deal. They wanted
to build a hotel out there, one of them investing in it and the
other one him in charge of the commissions to get the customers and make the
connections. He would go into detail, the percentages and costs, the struggles,
and if I drove slow enough, he'd actually start telling me how everything
went, but would never finish. He always got to the park where they
were having an important meeting with another group from a county out of state.
Changes were about to be made, regulations, tourism board, and changes that
will let them turn the lake and the area into an attraction. The plays
used to freeze up sometimes in the winter, and they had a plan for
skiing, then water sports in the summer, mountain biking, and luxury resorts.
And I don't know why he always ignored my questions about this, but
I was curious as to what he would do in all of this. I
never wanted to offend the man, but he didn't look like the type to
have important connections. But hey, looks can be deceiving and it goes both
ways. He had his arm out the window and tapped on the door with
the palm of his hand when we got to the egg, although it wasn't
necessary. They were picking him up there in a bit. He would say
things and climb out, his white shirt reflecting this time around against the moonlight,
until I lost him with the next turn among the trees. I always
thought there was something wrong with him, and the very first time I picked
him up, I offered to wait with him for his ride, but he
refused. Part of me actually thought that he had something to do with the
shutting down of the road I drove on, or that he was using it
for something illegal, along with this rich guy and the others involved. Since
that first night, I never asked too many questions, and whenever I took
the road, I would see him. He would get in the truck with
the same story get off at the same place. I got to the house
where I slept and shut off the truck and wondered for how much longer I
would be doing this driving the dead road. The house was as sad as
you can imagine it. I used to take care of what I could,
but there were rooms that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't
cross the threshold of photographs and boxes of memories were in there. I needed
to go inside sometimes to find receipts for the hospital and other stuff the lawyers
wanted. I think it was that visit, the very first one, that
ruined it all for me. I shouldn't have gone in there. One time
I was leaving the town to go back home a little later than normal.
One of the guys from the hardware store needed help with carrying a couple of
things. Who had been friends for such a long time, it was weird
to have him ask for a favor. Back just two years ago, he
probably would have just taken the keys out of my hands and told me that
he was borrowing the truck for the night, asking me where I wanted him
to drop me off. But he didn't know what to say. Nobody knew
what to say to me when I lost my family. He got to talking
for a bit. A coffee from the donut shop was enough to get us
yapping over old times. He asked how I was doing, and I forgot
how to answer that. He stayed quiet, and he nodded, jesting,
as usual, let's go fishing sometime. I'd always noted back and he would
get what I meant. Being the only one left is a strange feeling,
And it wasn't about the loneliness, but about the waiting, the patience I
needed to get through the days watching over a house with very few neighbors.
The smart ones knew when to get out, and the others, like me,
stayed behind. Plus I guess we were all trying to figure out where
to go from there. If the lake project worked, we could be sitting
in million dollar properties. But it felt like they were waiting for us to
die out. I don't think any of the remaining property owners had anyone to
inherit their land, myself included. It was almost midnight when I was on
that road, the usual static of the radio in the background, the same
turns, and the dark tad rode ahead. The moon was gone, reminding
me of the day I almost fell off that cliff. But my headlights were
on now my mind was paying attention to the cracks and potholes up ahead.
That must have been too late to catch Bill on the side of the road
this time, but I turned my head and stopped for a bit, just
to make sure I knew he was there somewhere. I just didn't want to
miss him, and so I kept driving. But it wasn't long until I
saw another figure ahead of the truck, a woman standing looking out over the
darkness by the edge of what remained of the pavement. I knew who she
was. I'd seen her before, could never figure out what she wanted.
It would play out the same way. I would get closer to her silhouette,
and with any sudden shadow or odd reflection of my headlights, she would
vanish. I was used to it by that point, although I won't say
that it ever stopped creeping me out. I called her Joanna. I don't
know, it just seemed to fit. As I would drive another five minutes
or so, she would be at one of the only remaining mile markers,
number forty two, no longer with reflective paint, and again, as I
would get closer, she would disappear unreachable. It was that about her that
kept me wondering, who was she, what was she doing, and why
was she here. Images of Tracy, my wife, came to my mind
again. The safety in her smile when I would get home, and the
ring and her voice whenever she would call our kids' names. They could hear
her calling my name. Sometimes, you know, in the early morning,
it would wake me up, and although I knew the truth, my body
would get out of bed and my feet would hit the floor before I realized
that she was gone. Just then, the static from the radio got a
little bit louder on its own. The call from the sheriff was playing.
Whether in my head or on the radio, I didn't know. Get to
the police station. Your wife has been in an accident. Why the police
station, Why not the hospital? Played on repeat, why the police station,
Why the police station. The silence on the other end answered everything for
me. Part two of Dead Road is coming up right after this. Stay
with me. I remember everything about that day, that phone call. We'll
go get you right now. Don't move, even if I wanted to.
I knew I wouldn't be able to move. Two seconds or two hours passed
before I saw the police car pulling up to my driveway. The pressure felt
like two hands pressing against both sides of my head, legs moving on their
own. As I walked up to the cold room area just outside of the
police station, stretchers were being wiped fleen, filling the air with alcohol and
disinfectant. Those memories were clear. I made another turn on the road and
saw the woman again, my head lights directly on her as she turned her
head toward me, the black hair and pale skin, mouth wide open.
My truck kept going straight toward her, too close to the edge of the
road, but just as expected, she vanished right in front of me.
Just then I thought I saw Bill, the man I would pick up somewhere
near the base of the road. This time he was by the large rock
the egg It was crouching down by the rock and then vanished. The tail
lights barely did anything to help see behind me on that dark road, but
I knew there were more like the little old woman from the town next to
ours, the delivery man, and the Hulbert winds. The headlights kept shining
down those roads until I got to the clearing the long stretch of road.
Just before it ended. I turned up the radio static in the truck to
see if I could hear more conversations, hints as to where they go and
what they look for. We salvage their cars and bury their bodies. Sometimes
we honor them with crosses on the side of the road, and yet they
still remained. But I couldn't help to feel that anger to never see my
family again, forcing me to drive down that dead road as often as I
could, wondering where they could be. Another goes with the story, like
Bill and his failed deal at the top of the mountain by the lake.
If only he would answer one question, just one, Where are you going?
I got past a long stretch of road and onto the dirt one toward
the house where I lived and stayed in the truck. The sun was rising
when I stepped out and got to see the front. An envelope was taped
just above the doorknob. I ripped it off and stepped into the living room
couch. Even with just a dim sunrise from the outside, I could see
it land acquisition offer written on the front. Someone was buying out the land.
The deal for the place closed not long after that. I managed to
keep most of the things I was afraid of seeing again, still kept in
boxes and still ignored every single day. Last thing I heard about the project
where the house used to be was that they constructed another road nearby to get
to it. It worked, and it now has tourists coming up from all
over the state to spend weekends there. As for the Dead Road, it
still remains closed. Some say they were trying to rebuild it for the project,
but it proved to be too dangerous, too many deaths, they said.
They were talking about the county records. And although it's partially blocked by
bushes and trees near the base of the hills, I still know how to
get through to the Dead Road whenever I want to search again. Bill,
Joanna and the rest of them are still there, trying to get somewhere,
just like me. Scary story podcast is written and produced by me edwin Kovarugyez.
To find me, head on over to scarystorypodcast dot com or search for
my username on TikTok and Instagram. It's at edwin Cove. That's E.
Dwincov. This podcast has a YouTube channel. You can find it with links
in the description of this episode. And to support the stories, you can
try out scary plus over on scaryplus dot com. If you have questions about
it or just want to get in touch, fel free to email me.
I'll leave my contact information and the description of this episode. Thank you very
much for listening. Keep it scary everyone, See you soon.