While I generally don’t write ghost stories through the year, I do jot down ideas whenever and wherever they strike. Case in point, I have a note with the above picture from November 25^th of last year when Akilah and I were driving back from Thanksgiving in Anacortes, Washington. I was trying to get my steps in wandering the Baldock Rest Area outside of Portland when I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the season. I snapped the above picture and titled the note with what is now the first sentence of this story.

Forget cemeteries, highway rest stops are the most haunted places.

Let me set the scene: it’s three am (you know, the Witching Hour), in the middle of Nowhere, Oregon just off of I5. I noticed the rest stop we pulled into had an interesting collection of trees that was at least noticeable in the dark. (I’m a bit of a tree nerd after all). At that moment there were still a few folks coming and going, so it didn’t feel like I was, you know, going off into the darkness (I was going off into the darkness)…

And my ride left me.

After reading the plaque about the “Grove of the States” (“a tree representing each state in the USA and the District of Columbia. […] conceived by the Oregon Attorney General, Robert Y. Thornton to honor the passage of Lady Bird Johnson’s 1965 Highway Beautification Act” in case you were wondering…), I wandered back to where Dave had parked the Subaru Crosstrek. Gone.

There’s a second set of bathrooms farther down – maybe I got turned around while I was taking issue with the selection of the bougie Giant Sequoia for the California tree instead of the much more appropriate Coast Redwood.

No Crosstrek.

Okay, that’s a lie – I think there’s probably always at least one Subaru Crosstrek in a rest stop at any given time. But no Dave’s sunshine orange 2019 Subaru Crosstrek. In a panic, I sprinted the length of the sidewalk until the road lengthens into an onramp for southbound I5. No Dave. I was alone. And the last streetlight in the rest stop chose that moment to wink off, the tall Douglas firs swallowing the light from other lights, leaving me in darkness. I felt an unnatural chill run down my spine as I slowly turned towards the tall evergreens.

I swear I saw a shadow move from dark trunk to dark trunk. I spun to face a whisper that seemingly came from behind me. A gray orb streaked past in my peripheral vision and I turned to face that, my heart beating faster with the realization that I wasn’t alone, that this copse of trees was teeming with spirits and they were all coming to me.

“Wait a minute,” I said out loud. “I’m a ghost. Why am I scared?”

“You’re scared?” a woman’s voice came from behind me. I spun to see a young woman with her blonde hair in dreadlocks that fell over her threadbare flannel shirt.

“I.. uh… was that my out loud voice?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, “It was. Are you new here?”

I looked around and saw figures emerging from the trees – men, woman, some dark shadows. “Uh… yeah. I think I am.”

She laughed again. “Think you are? What happened? Too busy looking at the trees to notice your Living driving off?”

My eyes widened. “Yes, exactly that! I mean, the Grove of the States is a nice idea and all, but I have some legitimate concerns about some of the tree choices…”

“Whoa, tree guy…” She laughed as she put up her hands defensively. “Do you think you are going to stick around a while…?”

I raised an eyebrow, “I… I hadn’t thought about that. I mean, I didn’t know I could be apart from my… what did you call him? My ‘Living’?”

She shrugged. “That’s just what we call the people we attach to. I mean, generally, yeah, you need to be attached to a living entity – kind of tethers you. Otherwise you can kind of fade away. Isn’t that right, Jason?” She motioned to one of the dark shadows approaching.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said the shadow, the voice sounding hollow and muffled, like it was coming from deep inside a well.

“Give Jason a break,” a tall, well-built man with a neatly-trimmed goatee and shaved head. “I’m Alex,” he reached out a big paw of a hand and I shook it. “This is Autum,” he gestured to the dreadlocked girl. “You didn’t know you could change Livings? How did you attach to your Living that just drove off?”

“He… uh, he was at the coffee shop where I… I died. He performed CPR, even tagged along with the paramedics to the hospital. Seemed genuinely moved when I never came back…” I thought back to the day I died.

Alex nodded. “You didn’t have any family?”

I shook my head. “No. Only child. My parents died years ago.”

Autum shrugged. “I guess it makes sense you stuck with that Living.”

“Dave. His name was Dave Allen.”

Alex put his hand on my shoulder, “Dave Allen is probably halfway to Salem by now.”

I sighed heavily. “So… how does this place exist? Didn’t you say we have to stick with a Living?”

“That’s technically true, yeah,” Autum said. “Case in point, our cautionary tale, Jason, who thought he could just walk along the highway.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time…” Jason’s far-off voice came from the shadow.

“I know, buddy,” Alex said. “We don’t know why rest stops allow ghosts to gather without Livings – and it’s not just this rest stop. It’s like they’re such transient places that they have their own energy vortex.”

“And you give me shit for being all woo-woo,” Autum laughed.

Alex smiled and rolled his eyes. “Just a theory…”

“Whatever it is, here we are,” Autum raised her arms over her head.

“So, we’re stuck here?”

“Nah,” Autum said, doing a little spin. “You can latch on to any of the Livings that pass through here…”

“Life-Latching, we call it,” Alex interjected.

“Alex calls it that,” Autum rolled her eyes now.

He shrugged sheepishly. “I’m still workshopping the term – do you prefer ‘Catching a life draft?’”

Autum laughed hard, “Oh my god, that’s terrible!”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “Maybe drop that one.”

“Anyway,” Autum gathered herself, “Anytime you want to head out you can. Or,” she added with a smile, “You can hang out with us.”

“Did I hear you talking about the Grove of States?” Alex asked.

“I did, yeah. I mean, what’s with that spindly ponderosa pine for Arizona?”

“It should have been the Palo Verde, the actual state tree,” a voice came from behind me.

I turned to see a short black man in a genuine tweed jacket. “Parkinsonia florida, exactly,” I said excitedly.

He sighed. “That would make sense. Alas, Parkinsonia florida wouldn’t survive in this andisol soil.” He chuckled, “It much prefers the dry, sandy washes to Oregon’s rainy climate.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah… good point…” I offered my hand. “I’m Peter.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said shaking my head. “Dr. Lindon Hargrove. Pleased to meet you, Peter.”

“Doctor?” I asked.

“My PhD is in dendrology, the study of…”

“…The study of trees,” I finished, a smile creasing my face.

Lindon smiled back, surprised. “Yes… no one knows that.”

“I’m a bit of a tree nerd,” I said.

“Ah, of course.”

“So, why did they go with the pretentious Sequoia for California instead of the more egalitarian Coast Redwood?”

As Dr. Lindon Hargrove started explaining, “Well, don’t forget, technically both Sequoiadendron giganteum and Sequoia sempervirens share the California state tree designation…” I heard Alex say to Autum, “I think he’s going to stay awhile,” and Autum’s lilting laughter in reply.

I’ve got about ninety minutes until my flight lands at SFO. Some people are watching the new “The Fall Guy” movie, some are sleeping. There’s at least one guy playing his Nintendo Switch (Mario Cart). Me? I’m writing a ghost story. Feels right, no?

The pickups were all basically the same – pickup was from the Starbucks in Presidio Heights and they ran down to Cypress Lawn cemetery in Colma. And always using the same Uber account – Rick Callahan. But I’m pretty sure none of these people are Rick Callahan…

It started with a twenty-something guy. Kind of unkept beard, really beat up jeans and a plaid shirt. He waves as I pulled up to the Starbucks. “Rick Callahan?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He said as he fumbled with the door handle of my Tesla 3. He settled in and we started off.

I’m the kind of driver that lets my passengers dictate the tone of the drive, you know? If they’re being a chatty Cathy, then I’ll engage and we’ll both have a great time. If the passenger doesn’t want to talk, hey, no problem, buddy.

This Rick Callahan didn’t want to talk. But he stared out the window with absolute rapt attention, bouncing from one side of the backseat to the other. His eyes never stayed on one object long, and his expression shone like a kid’s on Christmas. That’s how I knew he disappeared after I turned onto El Camino Real from Collins. One second he was there as we passed the Colma Flower Shop and then the backseat was empty.

It freaked me the hell out! But the algorithm doesn’t care if your passenger vanishes, so I finished turning into the cemetery. I stopped at the destination and checked the backseat for myself. Empty. I stood in the growing dusk when the quiet of the cemetery was interrupted by a chime from my phone in the front seat. Rick Callahan gave me five stars.

A few days later I grabbed another trip for Rick Callahan a few days later. This time, Rick Callahan was a stooped old woman who was ninety if she was a day, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. Again, she waved as I approached. “Rick Callahan?”

She nodded and this time I got out to get the door and help her in. But this Rick Callahan wanted to talk. She spoke with a slight accent I couldn’t place – maybe Midwest? A little southern? “Do you live in San Francisco, son?”

“Yes, ma’am. Born and raised here.”

 “That’s good to hear,” she nodded, pleased. “It’s sure grown, hasn’t it?”

“It’s always changing,” I agreed.

She smiled a wrinkled smile at me in the rear view mirror.

She disappeared before we got off 280.

I continued all the way to the cemetery. A few minutes later Rick Callahan gave me five stars.

There was a little girl in a checkered dress that giggled when I asked if she was Rick Callahan.

A woman with a corset hitched so tight I genuinely wondered how she could breathe. She waited until we got inside the cemetery gates before saying “thanks, hon,” and blowing me a kiss before disappearing.

A sleight man with suspenders and Pince-Nez glasses waved me down for a Rick Callahan trip. There was a Chinese Rick Callahan, complete with Coolie hat. Another bearded Rick Callahan.

And then it stopped. Once a day, like clockwork and then… nothing.

…nothing for a week, at least.

I almost dropped my pumpkin spiced latte when Rick Callahan popped up looking for a ride. As I pulled into the Starbucks lot, a man who genuinely looked like he could be Rick Callahan waved. He wore a polo and khakis and could have stepped out of any office building in SoMa.

“Rick Callahan?”

“Yes,” he said, climbing into the car. He stared with a look that seemed wistful as we drove away from the Starbucks. A moment later he sighed heavily. “I’m not Rick Callahan.” I started to say something but he cut me off. “I’m the Rick Callahan who ordered this Uber, but I’m not actually Rick Callahan…”

“Okay, Not-Rick Callahan. I’m guessing you know something about the other Not-Rick Callahans I’ve picked up this month?”

“I do, yeah. I can explain…” he said in a resigned voice.

“I’m really hoping you can.”

“I’m dead.”

“Look, Not-Rick, I’m not going to turn you in or anything…”

He laughed a genuine laugh. “No, I mean I’m actually dead. Heart attack – it was a defect I’d always had…” he waved at the air, “it doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say I died a few months ago. I lived around the block, on Manzanita. Did you know that whole area was a cemetery? I didn’t. Until I died and had to get out of my house.” He must have seen my expression because he added, “my wife… the grief… yeah…”

We were both quiet for a few minutes.

“I started running into other ghosts around the neighborhood – all these like gold rush era ghosts. We started hanging out at Starbucks.”

“Wait, a bunch of ghosts hanging out at Starbucks?”

He gave me a wry smile, “you’d be shocked about all the things I’ve seen. But yeah, turns out they moved all the bodies from this cemetery to Colma. Well, they thought they did. They missed quite a few.”

“The other Rick Callahans?”

“Yep.”

“How did you guys manage to order an Uber?”

His smile showed real pride. “The real Rick Callahan left his iPhone at Starbucks. I used to work in IT, so I combined my tech skills with my newfound ghost skills and I did a little ghost hacking.”

“You can do that?”

He nodded, his smile positively vulpine. “But Rick has no idea. I know his bank balance and let’s just say these trips won’t even register.”

“Huh… but what’s with the trips to Colma? Those were other ghosts, right? It’s not like I moved the bodies…”

“That was enough. The ghosts were able to latch onto you for the ride and then then when they got close enough to their friends and family…”

It was my turn to nod, “… they teleported to them.”

“Yeah, whatever you want to call it, they were able to jump to their final resting place.”

Again, we were both quiet for a long time as I merged into 280.

Finally, I asked, “but, do you have family in the Colma cemetery?”

His face clouded, “no, but I needed to get out of all those memories. You know?”

“I think I do.”

“I figured I’d hang out with my new friends for a while – have them introduce me around. I hear there’s some pretty famous people buried there, and I’ve always been a history buff…”

He fell into silence as we turned into the cemetery. I pulled up at the usual destination and was surprised to see him still in the backseat. “You’re still here…”

“I figured I’d ride all the way so I can say thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Not-Rick.”

He opened the door and started to climb out. “Who knows, maybe I’ll hit you up when I’m finally ready to go back to the neighborhood.”

“Anytime.”

He nodded and started into the cemetery. I watched as his form grew more translucent until he disappeared entirely.

My phone chimed. Five stars. And a hell of a tip!

My husband didn’t run. He didn’t understand why I did, but he supported me. He bought me a neon vest an always charged my flashlight when the days grew shorter and I was out past dusk. I told him not to worry – I always ran on busy, public streets (or at least as busy and public as our sleepy suburb would get), always carried something to defend myself, and then a backup something. And if everything else failed, I wasn’t afraid to scream really loudly. I demonstrated for him once; he asked me to never do that again.

And then he died.

Aortic aneurysm last spring. He had time to know it was something bad and to say goodbye. It was that fast.

Getting over it has been anything but fast. I turned to running further and further. My best friend, Annie, says I’m running away from it. Frankly, I don’t care if I am. I’ve seen grief counselors. Annie, Taylor, Mitch, they’ve all been great friends, but… they’re not James.

And so I run.

But the days have been growing shorter, and my runs keep me out later. And I’m crap at keeping my flashlights charged these days…

And so I was out well after dark. I took a side street to get home faster and immediately felt something was off. But I told myself I was being stupid and to just keep going. That’s when I saw the man ahead of me crossing the street, his gaze fixed on me. All my womanly instincts screamed for me to Get Away Now™. I felt panic start to rise, anxiety disrupting my breathing as the man drew closer.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder – yeah, that should be terrifying in this situation, but it wasn’t. It felt familiar, warm. It felt like home.

And then I heard his voice deep and resonant from behind me. “Hey, do we have a problem here?”

The man in front of me paled, his eyes going wide and I thought he was going to trip over himself he came to a stumbling halt and hurriedly turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.

I spun to face the voice, the reassuring hand, my James…

And there was nothing behind me but the dark sidewalk.

No, that’s not true… from the wan light of the streetlight two houses back I could make something out on the ground. It was my little flashlight. And a blackjack. I picked them both up, verified the beam of the flashlight was bright, tested the weighted leather pouch, and felt the tears start to fall.

My husband didn’t run. But he clearly does now.