Page 99 of Corpse Roads

“Nearly there,” he mumbles.

“Where are we going?”

“Croyde is up ahead. You’ll like Devon. It’s nice and quiet compared to London.”

“Will we see the sea?” I ask excitedly.

His chocolatey eyes slide over to me. “Yeah. I’ve booked us a hotel on the coast for the night.”

As anxious as I am to find out what on earth we’re doing here, the idea of seeing the ocean has my fingers spasming with anticipation. This is exactly the change of scenery I’ve been craving.

Tia loved the beach; it was her happy place. She grew up in Skegness, amongst slot machines and arcade games. Her stories were the best—summer holidays spent touring the pier’s attractions.

Remembering her late-night tales whispered between bars, a muddled, dream-like memory slips into my mind. I can see it so clearly as the hum of the car engine fades into the background.

There’s soft, golden sand between my little toes. The summer sun beats down on me, carried by the whip of strong, coastal winds. Saltwater washes over my skin with a slight sting, filling the bright-pink bucket I’ve dipped into the sea.

Where am I?

Is this place… real?

The car jolts as we hit a pothole, slamming me back down to reality. I have to suppress a gasp. The clinging embrace of my fantasy remains, taunting me with images of a place I’ve never seen.

I shake the cobwebs from my head. A dream—that’s all it was. More and more, these disjointed images appear at random moments. I dream about places I’ve never seen, conversations I’ve never had, nonexistent relatives that cuddled me close.

None of it is real.

With Hunter’s eyes focused on the road, I can turn towards the door and begin to pull at my hair. Each snapped follicle lances me with relief. More. More. The pain brings me back to the present.

My motto accompanies each sharp tug.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

“Here we are,” Hunter declares, turning into a tiny town centre. “This is Croyde. It’ll be dead in the winter months.”

Releasing my hair, I plaster on an award-winning smile. No one would ever know that I’m being eaten alive by doubt. At least, that’s what I tell myself each day.

With the winter temperature setting in and thick, swirling clouds covering the skyline, there’s nobody on the roads. We pass thatched cottages and slick cobblestone roads that rise and fall with the cliffs.

It’s beautiful. Deserted and quaint, like the traditional English villages you see in movies. Hunter navigates the tight roads as we begin to descend, winding through a cluster of closed shop fronts.

“Where is everybody?”

“There’s a winter storm blowing in.” He glances in the rearview mirror, noting an estate car several yards back. “Not much appeal for tourists, especially this time of year.”

“Do you think it will snow?”

“Possibly. It’s pretty rare on the coast, but the forecast said to prepare. I’d like to get this wrapped up as fast as possible.”

I bite my lip. “Why the urgency? Couldn’t it wait until after the storm, whatever this thing is?”

“No.” He refocuses on the road, the nerve in his neck twitching. “It couldn’t wait.”

Leaving the main stretch of the town, we climb a steep hill that leads to a proud, three-story building overlooking the shoreline. Peeling white paint and wide bay windows are battered by the rising wind. It looks alone, isolated on a deserted cliff.

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