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The Ghost of Windy Bush Road |
Route 232 - between New Hope and Penns Park - Well, first let me apologize for being a bit late - the holidays do have a way of disrupting even the most-hopeful of schedules. But by now the last of the Christmas turkeys and/or hams should have been consumed down to the bone and only the faint scent of cookies and pine needles remain. Christmas has become a memory, another ghost, if you will; So, with that in mind, let me introduce you to yet another. Although _she_ is our "First Ghost of 2003," I met _her_ in the summer of 1999. On July 5th, to be precise. I had been living in New Hope for three months and was looking forward to my very first Pennsylvanian Fourth of July! Expectations, I'll admit, were high - considering this was the birthplace of American Democracy. Unfortunately, I hadn't considered the fire hazard and my first Fourth fizzled. Of course, I had hoped that someone _might_ declare their own independence and consummate the nation's birthday with a few illegal displays, so waited patiently by the banks of the Delaware until the town and its good people were asleep. To say I was disappointed would be putting it mildly, so a friend, who had come up to watch the fireworks (on my suggestion) and stayed to listen to me grumble, suggested "pie and coffee" to quell our disappointment. Being a sucker for pie and coffee, I agreed. Being that it was quickly approaching midnight, most of the restaurants and diners in New Hope were closed, so we clambered into his truck and headed back toward Philadelphia. No sooner did we make the turn onto Route 232, "Windy Bush Road," than I began to experience an extreme cold that seemed to have nothing to do with the truck's air conditioning, which, because of the heat and humidity, was on. This cold, however, was penetrating, more suited to a mid-winter's ice storm than a sultry summer's night. Usually, if I was that cold, I would have rubbed my arms, but this time I clasped my hands together and placed them in my lap. Generally, I don't sit like this in cars, but this time it felt very natural . . . in fact, it felt very important that I not only sit with my hands clasped, but to keep them clenched tight. Odd, yes . . . but no more odd that the fact that I kept telling my friend to "Slow down, you're going too fast." He wasn't. In fact, he was going slower than usual - possibly because something seemed to be wrong with the truck's dash lights: They barely registered in the cold darkness. I noticed it too - how the night seemed to fill the cab - but could say nothing except to ask him to, "Slow down" a second time. For those who have driven Route 232 from New Hope to Penns Park, you'll know it's not that long a drive . . . but that night, it seemed to go on for hours. And through it all, I kept my hands clasped tightly in my lap and shivered. Then, as we were within a half-mile of Penns Park, the intense cold disappeared and the dash board lights suddenly brightened back to normal. I unclasped my fingers, wiggling them to restore circulation, and was about to ask my friend if he'd noticed anything when _he_ asked: "Are you okay now?" Hmm. I asked him why he asked and he told me that right after I'd told him to slow down the last time I'd reached over and laid my hand on his leg. HMMM! I told him to pull over - considering I didn't want to cause another accident on that road that night and I was convinced at that point that there _had_ been an accident on that road . . . an accident that may have taken a young woman's life on a long ago July 5th night. When he stopped the truck I asked him exactly what he'd felt and he said _my_ hand on his leg. I told him my hands had been clenched in my lap the whole trip and whoever that hand belonged to, it wasn't mine. My friend, knowing my penchant for ghost stories, told me to stop trying to be funny. He knew it was my hand, he said, because the hand was warm where "ghosts" are supposed to be cold, right? I said right, cold was _exactly_ what they were supposed to be and _exactly_ what I had been feeling . . . but that it wasn't me who'd touched his leg. To prove that, I reached over - first having to slip out of the seat belt I was wearing and lean over the arm-rest: Quite a stretch, even for me. When I touch his leg where he said he'd felt "my hand" before, I was in an awkward, uncomfortable position and still could barely reach his leg. Then I asked if he'd seen my hand or arm when he felt "my" touch. He suddenly frowned and said he hadn't because it had been very dark inside the cab. He also didn't reach down and pat my hand, to comfort "me," because he'd felt it was _very_ important to keep both hands on the wheel, since I seemed to be so worried about going too fast. He looked a lot more worried when I finally convinced him that I hadn't . . . but someone, possible the same someone who'd "possessed" me that night had touched him. Needless to say, I didn't get my pie and coffee that night, nor did my friend drive back down Route 232 to drop me off. We came back to New Hope via Lambertville. I can't say for certain that the haunting is real, since I haven't managed to find any record of anyone - possibly a young woman - having been killed on "Windy Bush Road" just past midnight on July 5th, but I know what I felt . . . and I know that my friend refuses to drive that route _any_ time in July. I do plan to go back, this coming July 4th - 5th and drive down the road just past midnight . . . anyone interested in riding shotgun? Happy New Year! |
