The Dead End

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Of all the streets in my town, there was only one dead end. The only problem was, it was never in the same place.

Part of childhood in Clearview was learning about some of the town’s idiosyncrasies. Little do’s and don’ts that kept you safe and out of uncomfortable situations. And as soon as I was old enough to go out around my neighborhood on my bike, my parents sat me down and told me about the dead end.

“Beth,” my mom said as I was putting my helmet on. “If you ever run into the dead end, don’t go past the barrier. Just turn around and ride in a different direction.”

“I’m just riding in our neighborhood, Mom,” I replied. “There’s no dead end.”

She gave me a look. “Just stay out of it if you see it, okay?”

I assured my mom I’d heed her warning and shot down the driveway, ready to enjoy my little taste of freedom.

And that day, everything was normal as could be. I rode around for a while and returned home happy as can be.

But it wasn’t long before my mom’s admonition came in handy. One beautiful summer afternoon, I was out riding my bike when I turned a corner and everything was different. I should have seen Mrs. Roberts’s house on the left and that house with all the dogs on the right. But I didn’t see any houses at all. I had finally encountered the dead end.

It wasn’t much to look at. The asphalt ended at one of those metal highway barriers, beyond which was a tall sand mound and some trees. As uncomfortable as it was to have the geography of your neighborhood shift before your eyes, there was nothing particularly frightening about it. Still, I did exactly as instructed, turned around, and pedaled in the opposite direction. Later on, I rode past the spot and everything was back to normal. No problem.

This happened to me a few times that summer, and each time everything resolved when I turned around and rode away.

Until it didn’t.

It was a cool and cloudy day, one of the first days where autumn’s arrival felt imminent.

I rode my bike to the end of my street, but quickly turned around. I was underdressed for the temperature and wanted to grab a sweatshirt. So, back to my house I pedaled. As I rounded a bend only a few houses from my own, I ran into the dead end.

I huffed in frustration. The dead end, which was once ominous, was now merely an inconvenience—one more obstacle between me and warm attire. Plus, the only way back to my house was miles longer and through streets I wasn’t even allowed to ride on.

Still, my plan was to turn around, ride for a few minutes, and simply return to where I needed to go. The dead end would be gone. It always was before long.

My first trek out was only five minutes. Goosebumps were forming on my arms and legs, and I really wanted to get home. I returned to my street. No luck. It was still there.

So I went out for a longer time. By now, I was very cold and very impatient. Returning to the spot, I found the dead end still hadn’t moved from its place.

I stood there staring at the barrier, wondering if my house wasn’t just over that sand mound.

Soon, my exasperation won out. I parked my bike in front of my neighbor’s house and approached the dead end. I was just going to look—nothing more.

I stepped over the metal barrier and trudged up the sand mound. Relief washed over me as soon as I could see the other side. Beyond a few trees, the rest of my neighborhood sat, just as normal.

I didn’t think twice. Running down the sand mound, I passed the trees and was in my driveway within a minute. Nothing looked different. Nothing was out of place.

“Mom, I’m just here to grab a sweatshirt!” I yelled as I passed through the front door.

No answer.

I ran to my room, threw on an extra layer, and headed back toward the front door.

“I’m heading back out, Mom!”

Still nothing.

It was unusual for my mom not to answer. It was a small house. Even if she were in the bathroom, she would have heard me.

“Mom?”

For the first time since I passed through the dead end, something felt wrong.

With a pit in my stomach, I stepped back into the living room. Slowly, I approached my parents’ room and peeked my head around the doorframe.

I gasped.

There on the floor lay my mom. My first instinct was to run, and I made it halfway back through the house before the thought even occurred to me that I should help her.

With all the courage I could muster, I returned to the room, stepped inside, and kneeled over my mother.

She was dead.

I had never seen a dead body before in my life, but I had seen dead animals on the side of the road in various states of decomposition. From close up, my mother looked more like the roadkill I had seen than her former self.

Her skin was pale, her face gaunt, and her eyes were sunken in. Her hair was thin and fell in matted locks.

I lost it.

Through tears and heaving breaths, I sprinted from the room. Running to the phone on the kitchen wall, I picked up the receiver and dialed 911, unsure I would be able to speak when someone picked up.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Until finally, the ringing stopped, and silence took over the line.

“Hello?” I sniffled into the receiver.

Then I felt something cold grab my arm from behind. I turned around and saw my mother, still decaying, staring down at me through white, lifeless eyes.

I screamed and beat my mom’s hand off me with the receiver of the phone. Once free, I took off. Mom made a noise somewhere between a gurgle and a moan and followed me, hobbling, toward the front door.

I shot down the driveway and into the street, back toward the dead end. But it wasn’t there. Still, my bike sat where I had left it before I crossed over the sand mound. As I ran toward my bike, I noticed movement in the houses I passed.

Slowly, lumbering out of front doors, were the undead versions of my neighbors. Mr. Ken, who was over four hundred pounds, pressed himself through the doorway, losing a slab of flesh from his side as he emerged from his home. Mrs. Parkinson still had on her nightgown and carried a bottle of red wine within her skeletal fingers.

Everyone bore some resemblance to their former selves, but everyone was clearly dead, and everyone was chasing after me.

I jumped onto my bike and raced down the road as my transformed neighbors poured onto their front lawns.

My only hope (though I had no idea if it would work) was to find the dead end again and pass back over. But as I sped along, that became increasingly difficult. The streets were growing crowded with lumbering corpses. And while they were slow, if I got knocked off my bike, I was done for.

After a few turns, to my immense relief, the dead end came into sight. Perhaps I got careless seeing my salvation, but somehow I rode too close to the outstretched arm of one of my neighbors. I lost balance, skidded to the ground and, despite the pain, scrambled to my feet in a mad dash to the dead end.

I dodged grabbing hands and snapping jaws, receiving more than a few scratches as I clambered over the divider and up the sand mound.

Throwing myself over, I sprinted through the trees and into the street. It was empty.

I fell to the ground, gasping and panting. My chest felt like it was going to explode.

When I could manage to stand, I found my bike and pedaled home.

Cautiously, I opened my front door and shouted inside.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

Mom’s voice was normal. I rushed over to her and gave her a hug. Not wanting to scare her, I just told her I fell off my bike and kept it at that.

She tended my wounds, and we made brownies together that evening. But as we worked, I noticed that she kept grabbing her right wrist.

“Did you hurt your wrist, Mom?” I asked.

“I’m not sure what happened,” she replied. “It feels like I hit it on something. But I don’t remember hurting it at all.”

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