My name is William Geary. This story of mine has never before been told. And honestly, I don't mean for anyone to actually read this. I'll just write it down as best I can and be done with it. I'll tell it as it happened; no going around the truth. Maybe it'll help me somehow. More likely not. 

I was raised in the suburbs of New York. Just about thirty miles north of the big city. My parents were of the best stock; they loved me much and there was never any tribulation that went unforgiven. We got on fine, is what I mean to say.

We lived in hilly Westchester County, New York and in the winter I'd go sledding with my father on Parson's Hill. Sometimes even my mother came along. One winter—nineteen thirty something, if memory serves correctly—my father bought me a toboggan. It was a long wooden plank of a thing, but it was the fastest ride this side of the Hudson. Only problem was, there was no way to steer it. One day I'm sitting on my sled at the top of Parson's, looking down and preparing myself for the ride. That was some steep hill Parson's was, and only a fool would treat it lightly. Just as I was about to push off, some dumbwit jumps on the back of my sled and forces us over the crest and down the hill at a breakneck pace. I don't think my dad even noticed. It was the most out of control downhill I had ever done. Looking back, it was also the most fun.

The whole way down I never once looked back to see who had disrupted my sledding routine. It wasn't that I didn't want to; it was just such a crazy run, what with us practically knocking anyone in front of us out of our way. The only thing I could be sure of was that it was a girl. I could tell by her lovely, excited screams that were silenced only in place of hearty giggling. I wasn't happy about going down the hill so haphazardly mind you, nevertheless, I wore a big stupid grin on my face for the duration.

We came to a stop a little ways from the bottom of the hill, so I turned around to see who my passenger had been, but she was gone. Looking farther back toward the base of the hill, I saw that she had bailed out just short of the flat and was already starting her climb back up. My heart sank. I couldn't explain it, but it was true. She remained in my sight, as I trudged up Parson's myself, wondering who she was and why she had done what she had. As my elation began to subside, to my surprise the young girl suddenly turned and waved. I returned the gesture at once, all the while trying to see what she looked like under those bulky winter clothes and that great big hood she had worn. Undoubtedly, other, more assertive boys, may have run over to make her acquaintance, but that just wasn't me. I must've been ten or eleven then, still a simple boy whose interactions with the opposite sex had been either innocent or awkward.

She disappeared over the crest of the hill and I stopped, milling over who she was. After some time, my father's call broke my thoughts and I continued uphill toward him.

That evening I sat on the floor by his feet as he listened to the evening news, a boy completely enraptured by the day's events. Soon after, I went to bed, still transfixed by the excited feeling stirring inside me.

The next morning, which must have been a Saturday, came and went, showing no sign of the girl—my girl—on Parson's Hill (or any other hill in the neighborhood for that matter; trust me I checked). In fact, I can't recall seeing any girls out sledding that day. Maybe I'm wrong. It was so many, many years ago. An old man can't be expected to remember everything, after all. These days I've got to file away certain things in order to remember certain others. But one thing is for sure: that day I didn't find the girl I was looking for.

Winter bowed down to spring as Mother Nature woke from her slumber. The days were warmer and the nights crisp and buzzing with life. I had mostly forgotten about my one-time passenger, as boys of that age tend to do with things that once so strongly held their attention.

On Wednesday nights I attended Saint Michael's youth group. Can't remember what we actually called it. It was supposed to be a sort of religious recreation, but mostly we just played ball or chummed around with each other. On our last session, just days short of summer vacation, my friend James had brought his cousin Sybil in with him. And wouldn't you know it was the girl that had stolen a ride on my sled! Don't ask me how I knew, but I did. God works in mysterious ways, indeed.

That last session went on without any of the usual game playing. Instead, the instructors had us discussing things that we would like to do over the summer. Lots of kids—mostly boys—boasted of the wonderful summer jobs they had lined up and the even more wonderful things they would spend their earnings on, others said they would play outside each and every day the summer had to offer before they set foot back into school, and others still said they would read every last book in the library's bookclub.

I wasn't thinking any of those things, but instead was busy watching. Sybil, as James had introduced her at the start of that night's meeting, was the subject of my observations. I took in as many of her features as possible: the green eyes, the strawberry blonde hair, the light complexion of her skin, the freckles on her cheeks and neck. She wore what looked like a school dress, although I wasn't sure if it was.

As countless voices droned on about their summer plans, I sat with hands under chin, staring at a girl I didn't know but desperately wished to. There was nothing sexual about it (although I suppose that's what it ultimately boils down to between a man and a woman); I was practically devoid of any feelings of that nature. It just wasn't my time yet, I suppose. But there she was, looking right at me and smiling, a deep dimple in each cheek. And then it occurred to me that I was staring, and she was staring back! I looked away immediately, surely red as a beet, as my mother used to say.

She caught me looking at her two more times over the course of the evening. It didn't seem to bother her. In fact, I thought she rather liked it.

Our parents used to carpool when it came to transportation to and from the youth group. After the meetings we would hang around the foyer of Saint Michael's and wait to be picked up. That night I sat alone on a small bench built for two, under a life-size wood carving of Jesus holding out his right hand. James, always outgoing, made his rounds from group to group, until he saw fit to come and join me. I wanted to ask about his cousin, but couldn't. Too shy and all that. But as luck would have it, she came bopping her way on over to us, sitting down right next to me. Boy was I terrified! I couldn't speak. James picked up my slack—reading the situation just right—prodding me to talk. I would mostly nod or shake my head at him. Sybil thought it was amusing. Don't you ever talk? she asked me. I only smiled and nodded. After James had had enough, the son-of-a-gun actually popped me one on the arm and asked if I didn't have it bad for his cousin. And with her right there!

Of course, I offered no answer; I was too busy looking at the space between my shoes. But then James, in his romantic genius, got up and announced he'd leave us two love birds alone. I was so scared I didn't want him to go.

"Aren't you the boy with the long sled ... the one I rode with that day?" she asked after he had bailed on me. It amazed and somehow calmed me, learning that she remembered who I was, and a smile touched the corners of my mouth. "It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I managed.

"That was fun."

"Yes," I said again.

"I'm staying with my aunt Judy"—that was James's mom—"for awhile," she said. "Maybe I'll see you again?" It was only partially a question.

"Sure," I said, likely red-faced. Then, without knowing what hit me or how I managed, I actually said, "That would be nice," and looked at her not quite in the eyes.

"Syb! Mom's here. Let's go!" It was James.

And before I could turn my head to look at her fully, she planted a kiss on my cheek.

It sealed our fate.

2

We ended up getting married, the two of us did. Very early on, too. In the beginning it was good–it was heaven, quite frankly. We had loved each other without the slightest reservation. But we ran into trouble along the way. I won't try to sugarcoat it—I promised myself I wouldn't—instead I'll state it plainly.

Sybil was hooked on the bottle. She was what we used to call a lush.

It did not happen all at once, but built up slowly over time. Should've seen it coming though, and maybe I did, but we were young and strong and stupid, and so didn't seek any help. We hid it as best we could; I hid it, mostly. I can trace the demon back to her first drink, a drink she took on the day of our wedding. We had married in the courthouse with only my immediate family plus James and his parents present. (Sybil's family was mostly gone and by then she had been staying with James for years.) Afterwards, we all drove out to O'Rourke's for a little after-party, and I shelled out the first round, a round that included my Sybil. She refused at first but I insisted, it being our special day and all.

It was the first real drink to part her lovely lips and the beginnings of a diseased wedge that grew between us.

We existed as best we could. Me working at the GM plant, her staying home nursing the bottle. We were never able to have any children. In retrospect, that was surely a blessing. Would've been a heck of a time for any child trying to grow up with her as a mother. We did try, though. I thought maybe she'd have no choice but to clean up her act. The way things went, I never found out.

One day after work and a quick stop at the corner bar, I walked through the front door of our apartment in what was then Tarrytown. As I did, I heard civil talking loudly in the kitchen. Her volume increased as I crossed what served as our living- and dining-room, then fell short as the footfall of my first step on the kitchen's tile floor announced my presence. What I saw disturbed me, to say the least.

Her back is to me as she stands at the stove with all the burners working. The old woman next-door is pounding on the wall between us. There's white flour everywhere, even on the ceiling. Small fragments of broken dish are on the floor against the far wall. The icebox is open and its contents are sprawled on the floor, covered in patches of water and flour. Slow condensation rises out of the box as if it were letting out a long winter's breath. There's a loaf of bread on the counter with a deep handprint in it. And there's the booze; empty bottles no matter where I look.

To this day I don't know how or where she obtained it all. Maybe I'll ask her soon.

"YOU!" she growled, as she turned to face me. She had draped a white apron over her head, but hadn't tied it at the back. Maybe she thought she was cooking or something, I don't know. What I do know is that when she turned around I saw she had a knife deep in her chest. It was buried nigh to the hilt, but there was hardly any blood to be seen. Just a red ring around where the blade had gone in. I was in disbelief. This couldn't be happening to me ... to us. All the suffering we'd endured; all the anger and apathy suppressed. All for her.

But I was relieved. It's horrible, yes, but over the years I've come to accept that the truth—the honest to goodness truth and not simply something fabricated to alleviate one's pain or guilt—was mostly like that.

Sybil looked through me with her angry eyes just like I had stabbed her myself. She pointed, jabbing her finger at me again and again as if a corpse identifying her killer. The red ring grew larger as she did.

Her eyes widened and she took a shaky step forward. I stood my ground, more out of terror than courage, as her accusing finger and wretched moaning summed up what she perceived as our pitiful circumstance—and the one who had caused it.

She took another awful step forward and fell on her face, driving the tip of the blade through her back.

3

Eight and a half years later I was released from prison. Manslaughter charges; they couldn't get me for murder, and rightfully so. I had nothing to do with it, you understand, but someone had to go down for such a dreadful incident, and I was the only other person there. The public demanded a conviction, and so a convict I became.

Whatever happened to Sybil was left a mystery to me, save for the fact that she had not survived.

4

Upon my release, I moved almost to the opposite coast, rebuilt my life. Maybe it was easier to do back then. Managing a business—nothing remarkable, just a small town hardware store—was what provided for me and my family. Yes, I remarried and had two beautiful children, although none of them are with us, not a one survived the accident that day.

The dream had been taunting me for three weeks by that time. It came most every night, and it was getting so that I didn't want to sleep anymore. I tried to go some nights without closing my eyes, but that only lasted a day or two and then exhaustion prevailed.

Every time, the dream was the same. I would be driving—always alone—on old Route 100 in Delaney. I would round the turn, passing the ballfield on one side and what they were calling an "executive park" on the other. The red fence would approach on the right and I'd travel with it that way for a clip. It would be leaning out at an impossible angle toward the highway and I'd shoot nervous glances its way, as if it was the last, weak defense against some marauding supernatural army. At one point, a few hundred yards before the fence came to an end, there would be a great big tree in the grass-and-gravel shoulder that extended from the fence to the roadway. My headlights would catch it's enormous trunk as I rounded the bend. The car would charge on, steering wheel locked, heading directly for that rock-solid tree trunk. I would be screaming toward it, hopelessly slamming the brake pedal and gripping the wheel as hard as I could.

Then it would end, and I'd wake up in a sweat, body clenched tight. There would be no more sleep after. My day, no matter the hour, would have begun.

Old Route 100 was an actual highway that we used a few times a year, most likely when traveling to and from the county fair. Opening day was nearing by this time, a tad over a month away, and I had promised the children that we would go. But I'll be honest with you, I was deathly afraid. The plan brewing was to leave early enough so that we could return when it was still light out. That, maybe I could deal with.

Some weeks later my nightly battle with slumber was lost—as almost always was the case—and sleep overtook me. The next morning I woke, having been undisturbed all night. As suddenly as they began, the dreams had ceased.

Nine more dreamless nights passed and we piled into the station wagon. The drive over to Delaney was uneventful. Once there we spent the day enjoying the fair's various games of "skill," its catalog of children's shows, deep-fried food, and, of course, each other's company. We had a wonderful time! I was grateful for that day and I'll never forget it. Close to my heart, it lies.

As for the ride home, it was another story.

Trista and William Jr. were asleep in the far back of the wagon. They loved to sit back there and goof with each other and the passing cars. My wife and I spoke quietly in the front. We rounded the turn on Route 100, nearing the fence, and Ella, my wife, had gently taken my hand in hers. She knew about the dreams, you see. Up until that moment everything was well, I think, and I had even mustered up the nerve to look away from the roadway to give my wife a thankful glance—just a little something to show my love. As I did, she pulled her hand away and pointed out through the windshield.

"Lookout!" she yelled, and then the figure was upon us. I swerved to the right anyway, attempting to lessen the blow if at all possible. But there was no impact, just a white blur, and for a second I thought we had avoided a great disaster. Then the true impact—the one that was inescapable—came just as I was marveling at our good fortune.

Darkness engulfed me.

When the daze finally passed, I saw the trunk of the tree from my dreams framed by the crumpled and crack-ridden windshield. The gnarled trunk was horribly close, as if there were never any engine in our car to begin with. I looked at it, a foot or two from my face, still trying to regain my bearings, when I spotted movement through a space in the slats of the red fence. The figure hid away just as I coaxed my slow eyes upon him. Or was it her? Consciousness drifted from me as I wondered.

An unknown time later my eyes opened upon the gravel shoulder. How I came to be there I cannot explain. Dusk had taken hold of the countryside now, the warmth of the sun replaced with an unseasonal chill. I grasped the driver side door of the car and pulled myself up off the ground. Vertigo overcame me, but the mangled hulk of the car offered good support. As my head cleared and my vision focused, again I spied the person behind the fence, and again the figure slipped away from sight, although this time I saw that the figure was a female. All at once I knew who it was that had done this.

"Stop!" I yelled, suddenly enraged. So infuriated that I forgot about my family and the accident and everything else. I gave chase. I passed by Ella's body but did not pause. Her positioning and was enough to tell me she hadn't made it. Thankfully, the children were not in my immediate sight. I pushed through an opening in the fence, determined to confront the apparition.

On the other side it was dark, not so much as in my nightmares, but enough to make it difficult to survey the cemetery, for that is what I entered when I emerged on the other side of the fence.

I looked frantically from left to right, my blood still boiling. Low fog wafted lazily around the headstones and few mausoleums. Terror had full grasp of me now but I ignored it, adrenaline urging me on with temporary courage. Then I spotted her.

Her.

Sybil.

My first and truest love was wearing the white one-piece dress and apron she had on the day she died, only now it appeared the drab grey of prisoner garb. The apron was worn correctly this time, and a black stain marked the place of entry the carving knife had made high upon her chest.

My head pounded, each heartbeat sending a pang throughout, and I pressed the side of one fist to the middle of my forehead, shutting my eyes tightly. When again I dared look, somehow Sybil was farther into the night.

She stood, hands at her sides, motionless, black eyes seemingly without intent. Although shaking, I too remained in place, waiting for her to give some sort of sign. What did she want me to do? Why should she torment me all these years later? "I knew it would be you!" I yelled, accusingly. It didn't seem to matter. She turned darker now, the color of menacing storm clouds, and walked slowly downhill through the cemetery.

After a moment, I followed.

I matched her pace, walking deeper into the landscape. In time she stopped and turned, looking up at me as if in wait. I pressed on and when I reached the place where she once stood, she had somehow traveled into the distance. It was an unexplainable phenomenon; never was there any detection of her moving away from me. She only stood as before. This continued for some time—the length of which I cannot determine, for I had lost my senses, no longer able to think as a rational adult—and it seemed she was taunting me, showing me I would never reach her.

Mad as hell, I ran, wanting to catch her, to wring her neck, to kill her even though she was already dead. I charged at her, teeth clenched and narrowed eyes crying. The distance began to close, fanning the flames of my fury, and as I came upon her the miserable expression she bore became evident. It did not alter my intention.

Finally on her, I dove, meaning to catch her with both arms and drive her to the earth, but I passed through her like an arrow through air and slammed headfirst into the grave marker behind her.

Later, when I woke, it was still dark save for the light of the half-moon. There would've been silence if not for the relentless song of the crickets throughout the grounds. I put a hand to my head and winced. The blow had been very hard. I attempted to get to my hands and knees, and then saw her gray feet and the hem of her dreadful dress close by to my left. This time there was no anger, only fear, as hot liquid filled the front of my pants. I fell back on my ass and elbows, blubbering incoherencies and pleading her forgiveness.

Slowly, her arm rose from her side as she pointed over my shoulder. I turned to look at the headstone and read:

SYBIL ROSE GEARY

1923-1949

May She Rest In Peace

The world became black, so black as my heart.