Drear Tales #1

The Hitchhiking Lady

It was around 11 p.m, one day at the end of December 1972. On the road from Nhon to Hanoi, there was a young man, Lam, in his 30s riding a city bike alone in the night relentlessly. The coldness of the North winter made the atmosphere unusually hard and dense; Lam's breath was like a spread of wavy fog in front of him. To protect himself from the frosty cold, Lam wore an old padded cotton waistcoat with the sewing path already turned pale green.

Lam whistled faintly hoping to dispel the isolating feeling on the empty road.

The beverage stalls were flickered with oil lamps, which at 7 p.m when Lam passed by, were covered completely by several bamboo panels. During the war period in the North, there was hardly any light; Hanoi was engulfed in darkness daily at 7 p.m. Only the sound of frogs and insects remained steady around Lam.

Suddenly at the three-way intersection, a young lady with a plastic knitting basket on her hand waved and gently asked Lam for a ride. The lady had shaggy long dark hair and pale olive skin like she had not left home for a long time. Lam hesitated, but he was allured by her gorgeous eyes and her plump red lips making him stop before he even noticed. She said that she was from the nearby village and she needed to go to Hanoi for urgent matters. Lam did not trust the lady yet, but right now, it would be great to have a companion so Lam happily let the lady sit on the bike back seat and intentionally pedalled more leisurely. They both started their stories. The lady told Lam that she lived at number 44, Quan Thanh street. Her whole family evacuated all the way to Son Tay, and she went to the family's house in the village. Today, she had to go back to the city because of urgent work. Lam said that he was part of the Hanoi civil defence officials and had a duty here this afternoon.

The two enthusiastically chatted and laughed, making the distance seem short. After a while, Lam felt the lady huddling slightly, trembling in the back. He remembered that the lady was wearing a thin braided white shirt only. Lam hurriedly stopped the bike, gallantly took his waistcoat off, gave it to the lady and made an excuse of being too hot while riding the bike. The lady shyly put the waistcoat on and they continued the journey. Lam excitedly told many stories about his life and only heard soft "yes" sounds from the back.

All of the sudden there was no reply at all from the lady. Lam repeated but heard nothing in return. He quickly turned back worrying that something was wrong with the lady. Lam felt a cold breeze going through his spine. The lady was no longer there. She was gone. Why did the lady jump off while the bike was still moving? And when did it happen? All of Lam's body hair wanted to stand up, his stomach was churning. He took a long breath then immediately drove his bike fast to Hanoi. Lam was finally relieved as soon as he saw houses with flickering oil lamps in the close distance.

In the time of war, the warm coat was an expensive asset. Although Lam was unsure of the information the hitchhiking lady gave out, he still cycled to the address the next morning. Unexpectedly, the address was real; the house was quite big, but it did not seem like anyone had been here for a while: spider webs everywhere, dry leaves on the ground, and the wall full of dust. Lam stood in front of the door wondering if he should knock.

"What are you doing? What do you want?" said a hoarse voice behind him. Lam turned back and saw an old man with a grumble face full of sorrow.

"Sorry. I'm just looking for the address 44, Quan Thanh Street. Is this the house?" Lam paused thinking that he might get the wrong house. "No?"

"Yes. I'm the owner here. How can I help you?" the old man did not even look at Lam. Lam explained his situation and described the face of the hitchhiking lady. The old man suddenly stopped.

"Please let me see her. I won't cause any trouble," Lam insisted. The old man calmly pushed the door open.

Entering the house, Lam's soul seemed to jump out of his body. On the altar right in the middle of the house, even though the smoke of the incense blurred a bit, he could clearly see the photo of the lady with the same face, the same hair and the same smile. It was the hitchhiking lady. Lam suddenly plopped down on the bench close to the wall near the door.

"I'm her dad. She died in a coach accident more than two years ago on the road where you just told me about," the old man wiped some tears out of his eyes. "Since then, sometimes her friends had come to light her incense stick, and sometimes strangers too. Some of them were nice and some came to crash the place because they thought my daughter teased them. I thought you were one of them."

"Please. I don't think she meant any harm. She must be cold and lonely up there," the old man could not hold his tears in anymore. "I'm too weak now. If you don't mind, please help me light some incense there for her when you pass by."

Lam did not reply. He just approached the altar, lit three incense sticks for the lady and then hurried home.

From that day, although Lam never revisited the old man, he still remembered to bring some incense sticks with him in case he somehow passed by that street again. He did not forget his coat, but wondered if he dared to ask for it back when he met her again.