BOBBY BUMPING By Diane Arrelle

A chilling ghost story set deep in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. A casino worker discovers an unsettling local legend that has drawn thrill-seekers for decades. Blending roadside folklore, supernatural suspense, and psychological horror, this eerie tale explores how fear can slowly become fascination.

Listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast
Originally published in GraveStone anthology in 2021

Bobby Bumping

Brett yawned, taking his hands off the steering wheel to stretch.   At five-thirty in the morning he had no oncoming traffic to worry about.  In fact, he knew the only thing he had to worry about on this South Jersey back road was the occasional stray deer.  He shuddered involuntarily and gripped the wheel again as he remembered how a deer had taken out the entire rear quarter panel of Tim’s old Buick.  If Bambi could do that to one of those gas guzzling tankers from the seventies, imagine what it could do to his tin and plastic import.
    He straightened up and glanced at his watch.  Working the night shift at the casino really screwed up his life, but the money was too good to complain. “So what if I don’t have a social life?”  he mumbled, stifling another yawn.  “I’ll get on the day shift soon.   Just need to be patient.”
    Brett frowned as a fog seemed to roll in out of nowhere.  One minute it was a clear night with daylight hiding just behind the eastern horizon, and the next he was in cream of mushroom soup.  He tried to concentrate on the road but he was so tired.  He blinked, fighting the urge to close his eyes, to rest them just for a moment.  He slowed, then picked up speed.  Better to get home faster than to be lost in this mess, he thought. After all, he knew that when he felt this exhausted the quicker he was safe in his own bed, the better off he’d be.  
    Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a figure standing on the road in front of him.  Brett practically stood on his brakes, but he knew it was a reaction way too late to do any good.  He covered his eyes, but not before seeing the terror on the kid’s face just before he heard that hideous thump-bump-crack.   He was sure by the sound the teenager had bounced onto the hood and into his windshield.
    Brett sat, his eyes covered, his foot still jammed on the brake and waited.  He waited, hoping to hear a sound; a moan, a groan, a “hey buddy, watch where you’re driving.”  But all he heard was the intolerable silence that made the slow motion time seem even slower.
    After what felt like hours, Brett uncovered his eyes and shifted the car into park.  The fog was lifting, he could see the smoky lake off to the left and the scrubby pines off to the right.  He could hardly see anything straight ahead because the windshield glass was spiderwebbed with cracks and a few streaks of red.  “Oh no, no, no, no,” he moaned, watching a red droplet roll down the glass, catch in a crack and fan out.  “Oh, no, what have I done?”
    He waited another minute, then two, hoping that something would happen, hoping that something would move, hoping the guy he just slammed into would get up and yell at him.  Finally, he gave up hope and slowly undid his seatbelt.  He gingerly opened the door, and waited.  He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but nothing happened.  He thought about all those horror movies from his adolescent years and a new fear started to gnaw at him. He wanted to get out, see if he could help the kid, but he sat frozen.  What if he’s not dead, but undead instead, Brett wondered, fighting off an urge to shut the door and drive away.  What if he’s going to grab my ankles as soon as I step out of this car and drag me off to the lake.  Nobody’d miss me till tonight.  Tim wouldn’t even know I’m gone until his next day off or until he didn’t find my rent check on the table at the end of the month.  What if I’ve wandered into a real life slasher flick?  Brett laughed, a little too loud for his liking and perhaps a little to shrill. “I’m getting hysterical!” He shook his head and told himself, “Time to be a man about this!” 
    He stepped out of the car, hesitated a second, waiting to be grabbed and dragged, then slowly inched toward the front of the car.  He saw the feet first, then the twisted legs and he knew that the kid was beyond help.  As the head came into view, bent at a wrong angle, Brett suddenly lost control and threw up.  He held the crumpled fender for support or he was sure he would have collapsed; his knees were so rubbery.  “What do I do?” he asked the kid when he straightened up.  “What do I do?”  
He wiped at his cheeks and found them wet.  He touched his tears, amazed that he was crying.  “Like a baby,” he mumbled and realized that was exactly how he felt at that moment.  Like a helpless baby waiting for mommy or daddy to come make everything all better.   But Mom and Dad were back in Washington and he was alone on a secondary road buried in the Pine Barrens between two hick towns in Cape May County.  The town he was living in didn’t even have a police department, they probably didn’t even have 9-1-1 yet.  
    He walked backwards, unable to take his eyes off the body until it was blocked by the front end of his car.  He slid back in and sat behind the wheel.  After closing the door, he couldn’t help but quickly glance at the backseat.  Finding it clear of monsters and maniacs, he sighed then tried to figure out what to do.  
He wished he had his cell phone on him, but he didn’t.  
What was he supposed to do, leave the scene of the accident and go look for a state trooper or stay here?  He knew it was a crime to leave an accident but was he negligent to remain and wait for a passing car?   He decided to stay, the kid was already dead, and he was guilty of hitting him.  The sky was pink and the stars had retreated so he knew someone would be along eventually.  He locked the door and closed his eyes. He knew sleep was out of the question so he sat there resting his eyes.  And wondered about his life.  
Would he go to jail?  He doubted it, but he could lose his license.  If that happened he’d have to move back to Absecon Island and depend on Jitneys again.  No, he couldn’t do that either.  The rents were just too high in Atlantic City.   
Meeting Tim had been a really lucky break.  They had started out working the same shift and before he knew it they had become friends.  One evening over drinks and a pizza, Tim said, “You know I’ve got a big house about forty-five minutes from here and since Dad died, I’m living there alone.  Why don’t you rent from me, we are going on different shifts next month so the place will be yours all day and mine all night.  I’ll make the price right!”
    Brett sipped his drink, did some quick figuring and decided that even with the added mileage and wear and tear on his car this was a deal he couldn’t afford to pass up. Of course, he hadn’t figured on this kind of wear and tear, but it had worked out until now.  He and Tim got along and had no problems sharing, and it was nice to have a big old farm house to entertain in the few times he had brought someone back with him.
#
    He hadn’t heard the approaching car, and jumped when he heard the knock on his window.  He thought he was going to die on the spot his heart was facing so fast.  It was full daylight and he saw Tim standing by the side of his car.
    “Hey, Brett?  What’s the matter?  Why you sitting here?  Break down?”
`    Brett blinked for a moment and gathered his jumbled thoughts.  That knock on the window scared him just about as much as the accident.  “Tim!  Boy, am I glad to see you!   Go get some help!”
    “What’s the matter?”
    Brett frowned with exasperation.  What was wrong with Tim?   “Go get the cops, can’t you see he’s dead?”
    Tim frowned back, “Who’s dead?”
    “The kid!  What’s the matter with you?”
    Tim glanced around.  “Nothing’s the matter with me, what kid?  Where?”
    “The kid in the front of my car!” Brett yelled and pointed.  He stopped and took in a quick breath.  His windshield was intact, no cracks, no blood. Perfect.  
 He pushed the door open, knocking Tim to the side and rushed to the front of the car.  The road was empty, no mangled body, no pool of blood.  Only Brett’s vomit on the side, showed that anything had gone on at all.  “I . . . I . . . hit a kid last night, killed him.”
    Tim nodded, “Don’t worry about it, let’s go get a coffee back in town and we’ll talk.  Can you drive?”
    Brett felt confused by Tim’s lack of reaction but followed him to the coffee shop.  They ordered and as they sipped coffee, Tim asked, “Foggy last night?”
    Brett nodded, the coffee turning bitter as new fear gnawed at his guts.  He was sure he wasn’t going to like anything Tim had to say.
    “You hit a teenage boy about seventeen or so wearing an orange and blue windbreaker and a red Phillies cap?”
Brett nodded again, taking a sip of water to try to get the bad taste of horror out of his mouth.
    Tim smiled, “Well, Brett, you wouldn’t have believed me before, but the kid’s Bobby Watson.  He died about twenty years ago, a hit and run accident on that road.  Happened on a foggy spring night.  It was a terrible thing, the talk of the town for months.  Guy who killed him was never found.”
    Brett sighed, “So, every foggy night the ghost of the poor kid searches the road looking for peace, right?”
    Tim shrugged.  “I know it sounds like a cliché, but he’s been hit repeatedly for years, always dies the same way, broken neck after bouncing off the windshield.”
    Brett sat and played with the coffee cup, spilling brown liquid onto the tabletop.  “I’d laugh, except it happened to me.  I killed a ghost!”
    Tim grinned.  “You know it’s sick, but it’s kind of a sport out here.  They call it Bobby Bumping.  People sometimes go out on a foggy night looking to hit him, it’s the ultimate thrill.”
    Brett shuddered, “Some thrill!  That was the worst feeling in the world.  I thought I had killed another person!”
    Tim grinned, “Yeah I know, but after the first few times, it’s sort of fun.”
    Brett stared at his friend, “You’ve gone in for that sport?”
    Tim reddened, “Well . . . yeah . . . you know, at first you don’t want to, then the next thing you know, you see the kid in front of you and you know he’s only a ghost and that you can’t hurt him, and well . . . it just happens.”
    Brett felt a shiver run up his spine.  It had been an awful feeling, but the adrenaline rush had been exciting and it was certainly safer than the rush you‘d get from drugs or sky diving.  
He shook those thoughts off. “I think I’m calling it a day.  I need sleep.  I’m just happy I didn’t really hurt someone.”  He stood up to leave, shook his head and added, “Who’d ever believe that there really are ghosts?  Really!”
#
    A few nights later, Brett was driving home on the same road when the fog grew dense again.  He knew that this was a common occurrence out here in the springtime when the temperatures change quickly near water but he slowed down to a crawl.  He was on the lookout for poor Bobby Watson.  Then, just as before, the kid was in front of him, terror frozen on his face.  Brett hit the brakes and the car barely nudged the kid, yet Bobby flew onto the hood and smashed his face into the windshield.  
    Brett stared in amazement.  He felt sickened, but not like last time.  Now he understood.  Whenever the kid appeared, he had to be hit.  It was all obvious to him now.  He didn’t even get out this time, he just stopped until the shaking went away.  He drew a deep breath and began to drive toward home.  He waited for the crunch as he ran the kid over, but there was none.  The minute he started forward, the cracked windshield cleared and everything was back to normal.
    Brett grinned, despite the disgust he was feeling with himself.  It was sort of fun in a morbid way.  And he hadn’t hurt anyone, in fact it was kind of his duty to hit the kid and send him back.
    Before he realized it, Brett was the number one Bobby Bumper around.  He never wanted to admit it, but he looked forward to the fog.  It’s not like I go out and wait for the stuff, he thought as the white mist started to rise off the road one morning.  It’s just a fact of nature.  He looked around and saw that it was going to be a thick one, it was usually thickest if it started right before the dawn light.  Brett felt high, He accelerated, looking for the solitary figure waiting to be sent back to purgatory.  
“There he is,” Brett yelled like a cowboy at the rodeo and floored the gas pedal. The little car roared as it rushed toward impact. “Yeehaw!” Brett bellowed as the body flipped onto his car and smashed into his windshield.  “Bullseye!”
    Brett drove the rest of the way home, feeling satisfied, like he’d just won at the table or had the best sex ever.  He glowed with triumph, flavored with a small dash of guilt and a pinch of disgust.  
Once in the house and out of the glow, he felt a full dose of remorse and disgust.  “This really is sick!  I’m going to give it up.”  
    He nodded to himself, and decided that although the other route was a few minutes longer he wasn’t going on the Bobby Road until the foggy season was over.  
“I can be strong!” He said as he prepared for his day-lit night.  “I don’t need the thrills, I’m going to enjoy my life the way it should be lived.  Maybe in a few months I’ll move back to the island.  I bet I can find a roommate to share an apartment.”
    He slept all day, satisfied that he was a strong-willed person.  That night he took the long way to work and basked in his display of willpower.  But as the night dwindled down to the wee hours and he clocked out and got into his car, he realized that he was hopelessly addicted to the sport.  “I’m a weak piece of garbage!” he snarled.  “Well, I’ll do it just one more time.  Yeah, just once more and then I swear I can give it up!”
    Brett drove home on the Bobby Road.  He felt disappointed when the sky remained crystal clear and there was no hint of a fog rising.  Just as he gave up all hope of Bobby Bumping, a light mist began forming.  Brett shouted and sped up.  The mist thickened into a full sheet of sight-obscuring white and he drove even faster.  If this really was the last time, it had to be the best.  
The figure emerged, a dark blur in the fog, and Brett gunned the engine and surged ahead.  His little car had never gone so fast.  He braced for the impact and wasn’t disappointed at all.  The figure smashed into the car and crashed into the windshield so hard the glass actually broke.  Brett hit the brakes, reversed, then accelerated forward so the figure would slide off and under his wheels.   
But this time something was different.  Brett fought off a shudder as the body crunched under his tires and the car bumped up and down.  
“That’s not supposed to happen,” he mumbled, an uncomfortable feeling trickling through his nerves.  
He slowed down to barely a crawl but kept going, and the trickling turned into a full buzz of fear when the windshield didn’t fix itself.  
The spiderwebbed glass remained broken and he started shaking.  What’s wrong, he wondered, fighting the panic that was threatening to close off his windpipe.  
“I couldn’t have possibly hit a real person,” he reassured himself just as the fog suddenly lifted and the sky to the east grew light with the sunrise.  “Who’d be out on the road at this hour anyway?”
  He slowed even more when he saw the orange flashers blinking in distress right up ahead.  He stopped dead after he passed Tim’s Buick sitting on the side of the road with the hood up.  
And he started to cry when he saw in the new day’s sunlight the small, crumpled, lump on the road reflected in his rearview mirror.


Diane Arrelle, the pen name of South Jersey writer Dina Leacock, has sold more than 400 short stories and has three published books including Just A Drop In The Cup, a collection of short-short stories and Seasons On The Dark Side, her collection of horror stories. She is the editor of the anthologies Crypt Gnats: Horror You’ve Been Itching to Read, WhoDunit,Trees and A Little Fantasy Everywhere.
Retired from being director of a municipal senior citizen center, she is now co-owner of Jersey Pines Ink LLC. She resides with her sane husband and her insane cat on the edge of the New Jersey Pine Barrens (home of the Jersey Devil).
​