The Red Sweater

I’ve been doing a bit of storytelling lately at my granddaughters’ grammar school, as well as at a story swap on Zoom. I told a story at the Do Tell Story Swap last week that’s just right for this season, when people are carving pumpkins, hanging skeletons from their eaves and tree branches, taking children through cornfield mazes and otherwise preparing for Halloween and Day of the Dead. The two celebrations are highly complementary, given that the roots of Halloween date back to ancient Ireland’s Samhain, a time when the veil between the living and the dead lifted, and people could communicate with the departed.

Anyway, I created “The Red Sweater” by combining exaggerated aspects of my own experience with a reimagined plot inspired by an urban legend often told at this time of year. So, here ‘tis!

Driving up a dark and bumpy dirt road in a gas-guzzling behemoth …

The Red Sweater

By Laura McHale Holland

What I remember most about that night is driving up a winding dirt road so devoid of light it seemed as though I’d crossed into an alternate universe at the last turn. But I’d followed my roommate Betsy’s directions perfectly. She’d written them with such clarity that even I, who always turned the wrong way when making snap decisions while driving, even I kept on the right path. This was in the early Eighties, before cell phones, GPS, internet—all the technology we use today.

I could have kept on 101 and found a place to stay the night near the freeway. That was my initial plan, for I was headed all the way to Grant's Pass, Oregon, and since I’m not an early riser, making the trek from San Francisco in one day wasn’t doable. I was muttering about that while Betsy and I sipped coffee around ten o'clock that morning, and she said I should spend the night with her sister, Jo Jo, who’d bought some land in Mendocino County with a group of people and was building a home there with her boyfriend.

“That's not a good idea, is it?” I asked. “I mean, their house isn’t habitable yet, right?”

“Oh, the outside's all done. It’s just the inside that doesn't have walls, so there’s no privacy, but that’s no big deal.” She called Jo Jo, who said she’d love to have me stay overnight, even longer if I wanted.

So, hours later, there I was, coaxing my behemoth gas-guzzling Chrysler along when I saw the sign for “Countrysong Community,” the name Jo Jo had given their compound. An arrow pointed to the right. I turned. The road narrowed, rutted and rough beneath my tires. A thick fog descended and rendered my headlights almost useless. I leaned forward, squinting into the murk, and saw a pale shimmer, like a large glowing lantern up ahead.

I slowed, heart thumping, trying to make out the source. Then the shape sharpened into a figure—a teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen, waving a red sweater above her head. She was disheveled, eyes wide, hair blowing wild despite a lack of wind. I pulled over and stretched to roll down the passenger-side window.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I crashed my bike back a ways, and I’m so tired of walking. Can you give me a ride home? It’s just up the road.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m headed for Countrysong Community. Have you heard of it?”

She shrugged and gave me a blank look before opening the door, and sliding in. She clutched the sweater to her chest as we proceeded uphill. It wasn't long before we reached a weathered wooden house set back from the road. Betsy had described this, so I knew I was still going in the right direction.

“That’s it. That’s home,” the girl said.

I stopped the car. She thanked me and got out.

I watched her head toward the home, but then I heard an owl hoot. It sounded like it was inches from the window to my left. I turned my head and saw nothing but the dark. I blinked trying to figure out if something was there. I gave up and looked back toward the home. The girl was gone. On the seat, lay her red sweater. Wanting to return it and make sure she was safe, I got out, walked to the front door, and knocked.

After some time, a feeble front-porch light flickered. Then the door creaked open, and an old man with hollow eyes and slumped shoulders peered at me.

“I just gave a girl a ride here and wanted to make sure she was okay.” I said.

The man swayed and leaned against the door frame. “She crashed her bicycle ... was tired of walking it ...” His voice trailed off.

“Yeah, I gave her a ride. Did she make it inside okay?”

“My daughter never made it home," he sputtered. "She was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver fifty years ago.”

I held up the sweater she’d left behind. “But—”

The grieving father shook his head. “Please go away," he said, and closed the door. I thought of turning back toward the freeway, but I couldn't face going back down that creepy, dark road just yet, and according to Betsy, Countrysong was right around the next curve, so I pressed on. When I arrived, I told Jo Jo, her boyfriend and a group of neighbors, who sat at a big table made from a door resting on saw horses, what had just happened. I showed them the sweater.

Jo Jo walked me to a large trunk at the foot of her bed. She opened it, and pointed to the interior. Inside were three other red sweaters just like the one I held.

“You can put it in there if you want,” she said. “I've started a collection.”

I couldn't drop that sweater fast enough. Afterward, I tried to relax, sip sangria and jabber with the rest. But I couldn’t stop my churning stomach and headache coming on. I soon curled into a sleeping bag Jo Jo put out for me in a corner. Of course, I couldn’t sleep. And for the first time in my life I rose early the next morning. Quietly, I readied myself for the road while my hosts slept. I wrote a thank-you note and was out the door before dawn.

I never returned to Countrysong, and I lost touch with Betsy a long time ago. But sometimes I wonder how many sweaters are in that chest now.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this tale!