The Phantom Patrolman of Grantville
The road from Brighton to Wonthaggi was long and hollow that night. Penelope and Dassah drove in silence, the darkness pressing against the car windows like a weight. Their Aunty Anne had insisted they take a gift for their mother—a small, framed photograph wrapped neatly in paper. Anne’s hand had trembled as she’d passed it over.
“She’ll know,” she whispered.
Sleep dragged heavy at Penelope’s eyes. Just for a moment her head dipped, the car drifting before she snapped awake. In the rear-view mirror: blue and red lights slashed the night.
Her pulse quickened as she eased the car to the shoulder. She nudged Dassah awake, both sisters sitting rigid as a shadow approached the window.
The man was in uniform, but wrong. His hair waved in unseen currents, drifting like weeds underwater. His skin was pale and sunken, his eyes wide, unblinking. The nameplate on his vest glinted faintly:
“Constable Ben Raloday.”
He bent toward the glass, voice deep and hollow.
“Do you know why I am speaking to you tonight?”
Penelope’s throat was dry. “I… I must have dozed off. I’m just so tired.”
“How far have you to go?” His eyes didn’t leave hers.
“Wonthaggi. To my parents’ farm. I just want to get home.”
His head tilted.
“Home,” he repeated, like it was a word he hadn’t spoken in years.
Then, with a faint smile, he said:
“You should rest. Lock your doors. Sleep here awhile.”
He moved back into the shadows, his body dissolving into the blackness beyond the beams of their headlights.
Penelope blinked and gasped. Somehow, they weren’t by the roadside anymore. They were in a lit Rest Area, the car neatly parked beside deserted washrooms.
Neither spoke the rest of the way.
At dawn, they told their mother everything. She unwrapped Aunty Anne’s gift.
Inside was an old photograph of Constable Ben and his Maremma dog at his side.
“That’s my brother,” their mother whispered. “Ben. He died near Grantville—fell asleep at the wheel coming home. They found him here, in his patrol vest, eyes wide open at the bottom of the Powlett River. That was thirty years ago.”
Penelope felt her stomach turn cold.
“He told us to stop at a Rest Area,” she said quietly.
Their mother looked at them strangely.
“But there is no Rest Area near Grantville. Not on that stretch. There never was.”
Silence thickened.
And then Dassah, pale and shaking, whispered the words that broke something inside them both:
“He didn’t tell us to stop. He told us to stay. And when he looked at me… it felt like he wanted us to never leave.”
—————-/ The End /—————
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