The Road That Turns You Back
There was a stretch of road, just past the edge of Leighton, that locals referred to as “The Road That Turns You Back.” A stone’s throw from the town centre, it appeared unremarkable: flanked by nondescript trees whose branches reached like skeletal fingers toward the grey sky. Yet, through hushed conversations in dimly lit pubs and casual exchanges in grocery queues, tales of the road seeped into everyday life.
You see, if you ventured along this road, it was said that no matter how far you drove, you would invariably find yourself back where you began. It was attributed to a curse, a local superstition that made its rounds, sparking laughter amongst the sceptics and eye rolls among the cautious. “You’re wasting your fuel,” they’d scoff, but the few who had dared to test it remained silent, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear.
Alana, a third-year university student still trying to tether herself to her hometown roots, had heard the whispers of the legend many times but dismissed them as local folklore. A week away from her exams, she found herself in a funk, desperate for distraction, but the weight of looming responsibilities held her down. Her mates had decided on a night out that Friday, but Alana sat, restless, ruminating on the tales of the road she’d heard so often. “A good drive might clear my head,” she muttered, barely hearing herself.
With her mind made up, she took her old Fiesta and set off, the rhythmic thumping of the engine a modest relief from her racing thoughts. The road drew nearer, and as she entered the shaded stretch, the dense canopy of trees blurred her vision—streaks of green and grey mingling in a dizzying whirl.
The familiar darkness crept into her mind as soon as she hit the first mile marker. A peculiar unease washed over her; all her surroundings felt oddly stifling. Swallowing it down, she pressed the pedal further. The sudden thud of something against her car jolted her upright. She braked hard, heart thumping as she glanced in the rear-view mirror—nothing. A curious frog made the road its own for a moment, leaping back to the side of the asphalt.
“Just a bump in the road,” she told herself, though her heartbeat had not yet returned to its normal rhythm.
As she resumed her pace, the tension wrapped itself around her like a heavy cloak, and soon enough, another sense of déjà vu began to settle. The same towering trees crept alongside, the same potholes that made her bounce in her seat. Alana was unnerved, but the sceptic in her cackled softly, spewing logic over superstition.
Then came the screech of brakes somewhere behind her—unexpected, sharp. Alana glanced in the mirror once more. A pair of headlights bore down, flickering ominously before stabilising. As the shadowy vehicle drew closer, Alana’s unease morphed into panic. She blinked; eyelids fluttering back into focus revealed the car had vanished.
Feigning bravery, she spoke aloud, “That’s all in your head, Alana.” Her palms clutched the steering wheel tightly as she pressed on, trying to shake the feeling that became heavier with every mile.
After what felt like an eternity, she decided to turn back. Maybe she’d take the longer way home and get a portion from her favourite chip shop. With resolution, she spun the wheel, and suddenly, the road morphed—the trees around her thickened in a twisted maze, branches now looking like arms pointing, directing her back. The wind howled with an unsettling low hum, and for a fleeting moment, she heard her name carried within it.
Stopping was out of the question as she gripped the wheel, desperately, decisively. A small flicker of doubt passed through her—what if? The thought faltered as quickly as it had arrived; Alana rammed her car forward. “These stories are nonsense.”
Yet, despite her confidence, she found herself back at the same point where she’d started, the mile marker reading stubbornly unchanged—a trick of the light, surely.
“Right,” she muttered, her car idling. “I’ll give it one more go.”
Determined now, she wove through the familiar route once again until she reached an unsettling bend in the road. A blackened sign reeking of rot hung by a thread: the words “Turn Back” etched unceremoniously, though infuriatingly not clear enough. Sweeping past, Alana barely caught a glimpse before the darkness swallowed it whole.
As she reached the end of the road untouched by the promise of an exit, the road morphed again, stretching wildly as if time itself had distorted beyond comprehension. Panic found its purchase in her chest. She tore down the road, yet it felt interminable.
Then, the back window shimmered out of the corner of her eye. A face loomed—pale and blank, eyes wide but vacant as if caught between screaming and silence. In a rush of terror, Alana spun, looking directly toward the ghastly apparition, only to witness the figure evaporate, leaving only a clammy touch of dread trailing up her spine.
In that moment of sheer fright, instinct coiled around her, compelling her to floor it. She slammed the gear into drive and sped forward; branches dragged against her car like fingernails clawing some hidden horror that lay beneath the surface. But to her shock, the road seemed to twist again, pushing her back without remorse.
Her heart raced but fresh panic propelled her further into mindless action. She focused, keeping her hands steady as the chilling whisper of the wind seemed to mock her forward movement. “Don’t look back, don’t look back,” she chanted, a desperate mantra to drown out the unsettling urge to succumb to fear.
Eventually, after an eternity of unholy turns and a sensation of being watched, she stumbled onto a clearing. The road opened up into a deserted field, with an old farmhouse blind to the world but that was never here before, the air thick with the scent of mould.
And yet, the panic among her began to calm. This was no curse, but a spectator’s dream—a place untethered from time, lost amidst the rapture of eternity. Perhaps she could find her way back from here.
As she turned to face the open expanse, the farmhouse’s door creaked open slowly, and the silhouette of a woman etched itself against the faded hues of twilight. Her face was a shroud of familiarity, yet the warmth of recognition had been stripped bare.
“Why did you come here?” the woman asked, words oozing soft sorrow.
“Who are you?”
“Your grandmother,” the figure smiled, though the brightness in her eyes lacked warmth. “I was waiting for you.”
Alana took a step back, alarmed. “You… you can’t be here. You’re gone!”
A lurch of dread clawed at Alana’s stomach and, in that vulnerable moment, she clocked the truth flooding in. Every story she’d heard of The Road That Turns You Back was beginning to knit itself together—local children lured by the promise of an experience, returning with their tales; residents whispering of people lost, never unknown again.
There lingered nothing of safety here.
Panic surged anew, forcing desperate breaths. But as she stumbled backwards her movement halted, as she felt the cold iron grip of invisible chains wrapping around her. Time had knotted around her; she could not move forward, nor could she retreat.
The whispers, those haunting, spectral murmurs of the past—her community’s offerings—filled the space, gathering around her as she fell to her knees. “One foot in, one foot lost,” she murmured, as the strays of touch turned more accusatory, the voices rising in terrible unison until they echoed back into existence around her—“You don’t turn back. You turn in.”
And so, as she knelt indistinguishably between realms, the legend burgeoned, reborn. The Road That Turns You Back became a haven for the lost; a whispering tale for those who dared tread its cursed path, forever trapped in wandering souls, waiting for the next to find their way back. The stories would thrive, their resonance echoing through Leighton’s alleys, feeding the fears of a new generation with each chilling retelling.
