The Shadows of The Forgotten Road

The Shadows of The Forgotten Road 

During the mid-1950s, becoming a star was a dream cherished by many. At the time, only the privileged few owned vehicles, while most people relied on simpler means of transportation. It was a period of transformation for a developing town, newly freed from centuries of colonial rule. With independence came a renewed sense of identity and opportunity. The townsfolk, eager to shape their futures, began pursuing a variety of occupations that suited their interests and aspirations. Some turned to agriculture, others ventured into trade or craftsmanship, while a growing number embraced education and new industries. It was an era of hope and ambition, as people sought to build a life that reflected their newfound freedom and individuality.

Mervyn's dream 
As the eldest of six children, Mervyn harbored a wild dream of becoming a star. He was a charismatic and promising young man, leaving a lasting impression wherever he went. From a young age, his talent shone brightly—he secured major roles in school plays and became a sought-after actor in local drama productions. His involvement with various associations in his town allowed him to further hone his craft and showcase his potential, earning admiration from all who witnessed his performances.

Sometimes, it’s difficult to comprehend how the fate of certain individuals can take such a remarkable turn. Mervyn, with his undeniable talent, was selected for the leading role in an upcoming movie—a dream few dared to even imagine. His natural charisma and unmatched acting abilities set him apart, making him the obvious choice for the role. At that time, there was no one who could rival his stage presence or his ability to breathe life into every character he portrayed. This opportunity marked the beginning of what many believed would be an illustrious career, cementing his place as a rising star in the world of cinema.

Since the filming locations were near his town, Mervyn decided to travel by train every night to return home. It was a privilege for him to meet the famous stars of the time, and he worked tirelessly, staying late to refine his skills and learn from the best. After disembarking at the nearest station, Mervyn would often hum the songs he loved, especially the famous ones that resonated with him, as he made his way home. This small, peaceful ritual became a part of his daily routine, a soothing way to unwind after a long day of work. For a few of the townsfolk who happened to spot him at night, it became a familiar sight—Mervyn, lost in his music, walking home with a sense of quiet determination. It was a simple but meaningful part of his journey, reflecting his passion for both his craft and his roots.

The old revolving gate
Mervyn paused at the revolving gate that separated the Old Galle Road from the cemetery, which was divided into two sections—one belonging to the church and the other a general burial ground. It was the general section that gave off an unsettling aura, with its crumbling tombstones and overgrown weeds creeping like tendrils over forgotten graves. The air here always felt colder, heavier, as if the earth itself were holding onto some ancient secret. The silence was thick, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by an unseen breeze. 

Many townsfolk used the revolving gate as a shortcut, slipping through the church garden to reach the other side of town, where a larger population lived. But most of them hurried through the general cemetery, their footsteps quickening as they passed the graves. No one lingered here after dark; the place had a strange, foreboding presence that seemed to grow stronger as night fell. The neglected graves, some with broken headstones, seemed to lean into the path, as if reaching out to those who dared walk through. 

The unexpected presence
Mervyn, however, continued his routine, but tonight the oppressive atmosphere felt different—almost as though something was watching him, waiting for him to acknowledge it. As he passed the old graves, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone. A shiver ran down his spine, but he shook it off, continuing on his way, his footsteps echoing in the eerie quiet of the cemetery.

As Mervyn turned the revolving gate, he was suddenly confronted by a tall, gaunt figure standing by its side—a hideous, almost otherworldly man whose presence seemed to drain the very light from the air. His skin was pale and wrinkled with bony fingers, and his large eyes gleamed with an unnatural intensity. Mervyn froze, his heart racing in his chest. The man’s gaze locked onto him, and for a moment, Mervyn could only stare, paralyzed by an instinctual fear he couldn’t explain. 

Before he could react, the man lunged forward, blocking his way. With a strength that seemed unnatural, he gripped the gate, holding it in place with an iron-like grasp. Mervyn's panic surged as he desperately pushed against the small revolving gate, his hands trembling. The more he shoved, the harder it became, as though the gate itself had turned into a solid, immovable wall. The man’s skeletal fingers tightened around the bars, his presence suffocating. Mervyn could feel a coldness radiating from him, like the chill of the grave itself. 

The creature’s breath was slow, heavy, and filled with an eerie rasp, as if he was savoring Mervyn's terror. Mervyn’s pulse raced, his mind screaming to flee, but his body betrayed him, frozen in place, no match for the terrifying strength of the figure before him. He could feel the weight of something ancient and malevolent pressing down on him, and in that moment, he realized there was no escaping the man’s grasp—no escaping the dark force that seemed to bind him to that cursed place.

Mervyn's heart nearly stopped, his body frozen in terror as the man’s presence seemed to swallow him whole. But , he gathered every ounce of strength within him and, with a desperate gasp, sputtered a string of curses, his voice cracking with fear. His words, raw and frantic, echoed into the eerie stillness as he tried to push the creature away, exposing his half-naked body trembling under the pressure. His breath came in sharp gasps, his skin slick with sweat, but he refused to be paralyzed by fear. 

The escape
To his shock, the gate—once immovable—suddenly seemed to loosen, the resistance giving way as if the man’s grip was weakening. In that instant, Mervyn didn’t hesitate. He threw himself through the gap, sprinting away with every ounce of his being, his legs pumping furiously as if the very ground beneath him might pull him back into the darkness. He dared not look behind him, knowing that the man—or whatever he was—could still be lurking in the shadows, waiting to claim him. 

Mervyn didn’t stop until he reached the safety of his home, his chest heaving with panic and disbelief. He slammed the door shut behind him, his mind racing with the horror of what had just transpired. For days, the image of the strange figure haunted him—its eyes, its breath, the way it seemed to control everything around it. Shaken to his core, Mervyn took a few days off from acting, unable to shake the feeling that whatever he had encountered wasn’t of this world. The terror lingered, the memory of the nightmarish encounter seeping into every waking moment, leaving him questioning whether he’d truly escaped at all.

Decades had passed since those chilling events, and the once eerie general cemetery had been swallowed up by progress. A speeding highway now ran through its place, cutting through the ground where countless souls lay buried. Over the years, there were whispers—rumors of strange occurrences along that stretch of road. It was said that many who traveled there, whether on foot, by car, or even by animal, had faced fatal accidents. The crashes were often sudden, as if something unseen had dragged them into the path of disaster.

The highway had become a place of dread, a constant reminder that some spirits never leave, and that the land they once haunted was never truly at peace.