The Devil's Backbone: A Stranger’s Plea

When I was a kid, there was a winding mountain road that snaked behind our little town in Maple Heights. Plenty of folks had lost their lives on that stretch. My grandpa knew that road better than anyone, so people passing through would stop by and ask if he’d drive them.

I remember how that road twisted through the hills. The cracked pavement was nearly swallowed by wild grass, with the shadows of old maples arching overhead. The townsfolk called it Devil’s Backbone, and every kid in Maple Heights grew up on stories of cars vanishing in the fog or headlights tumbling down the ravine at night. Grandpa would always shake his head and say, “That road’s got a mean streak, Eli. You gotta know her moods.”

One afternoon, dusk settling in, the sky turning orange behind the maples, a man walked into our yard.

The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, and the distant hum of cicadas. I was sitting on the porch steps, swinging my legs, when I spotted him trudging up the gravel drive, the last bit of sunlight glinting off his muddy boots.

He was covered in red clay—the kind that stains everything in this part of Ohio—filthy from head to toe. When he saw me, he gave a tired smile and asked, “Hey, kid, is your grandpa home? I need him to drive me over the mountain.”

His voice was hoarse, and he looked about ready to drop. The red clay caked on his jeans and jacket told me he’d probably come up from the quarry road, not the main street like most folks. I noticed his hands were trembling as he wiped sweat from his brow, and his eyes kept darting over his shoulder, like he was scared something might be following him.

I answered, “He’s not here. My grandpa and grandma went up the ridge to gather firewood. They’ll be back soon. You can wait out here if you want to.”

The man nodded. “Alright, thanks.”

I brought him a lawn chair. He sat down, looking like he’d been walking all day, rummaged through his jacket pockets, and muttered, “Cigarettes? Where’d my smokes go?”

He patted himself down, came up empty, and just shrugged—like he’d already given up on the day. I could hear the frustration in his muttering, the kind of tone grown-ups use when the world’s just a little too much.

I heard boots on gravel before I saw them. Just as he finished, my grandpa and grandma came back, each carrying bundles of branches.

Their boots crunched on the gravel. The branches they carried were silhouetted against the sky. Grandpa’s face was flushed from the hike, and Grandma had a kerchief tied tight over her hair, her cheeks rosy from the cold.

The man got up quickly, smiling. “Mr. Walker, you’re finally back. I need your help driving over the mountain.”

He almost tripped over the chair in his hurry, brushing off his jacket with nervous hands. The way he said Grandpa’s name—like it was a lifeline. It made me pay attention.

Grandpa’s face went hard as soon as he saw the man. He froze, then said coldly, “You’re not going to make it over that mountain tonight. Go home.”

His voice had a steel edge I’d never heard before. Grandpa was usually the kind of man who’d offer a glass of sweet tea to anyone who showed up. But this time, he sounded like he was locking the door against a storm.

Normally, whenever truckers came by, Grandpa would agree. But tonight, something was off.

The man blinked, surprised. He hesitated, then stepped closer and tried again. “Mr. Walker, I know Dave Shull. He told me to come to you. If you help me get across, I’ll make sure you’re well paid.”

He pulled a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket, as if proof of knowing Dave might change Grandpa’s mind. His voice cracked a little, desperate. I could see the sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air.

I’d never heard Grandpa sound so serious. Grandpa narrowed his eyes. “Son, I’m not trying to scare you. If you want to stay alive, turn back now.”

He headed inside with the firewood. Didn’t even spare the man another glance.

The man frowned, just staring after Grandpa, lost in thought.

He slumped back down on the lawn chair, jaw clenched. His boots tapped a nervous rhythm on the porch boards. The silence between us grew heavy, broken only by the rustle of leaves overhead.

Grandma came over, voice gentle but firm. “Young man, you should go home. Nothing is worth more than your life.”

Grandma always believed in second chances, but when she got that worried crease between her brows, you knew she meant business. She set her bundle of branches down and gave the man a long, searching look.

The man’s face fell. He fumbled with his wallet, hands shaking. “Ma’am, if I don’t deliver this load, my wife’s life is on the line. Please, help me convince him.”

His voice trembled, and I could see tears gathering in his eyes. He pulled out a battered wallet, showing a faded photo of a woman holding a baby. “She’s all I got. Please.”

Just then, the mudroom door creaked open. Grandpa stepped out. The man, seeing him, pleaded, “Mr. Walker, I know the mountain road’s dangerous. It’s a real gamble. If I’m unlucky, I could die in a wreck. But I’ve got no other option. My wife’s in the hospital, waiting on the money for her treatment. My son’s only seven months old, can’t even say ‘Dad’ yet. If my wife dies, my family’s done for. Please, help me.”

He choked up, voice breaking. For a second, nobody said anything. The porch light flickered on above us, throwing long shadows across the yard. I could feel the weight of his words settle over all of us, heavy as the dusk.

Grandpa sighed. “Son, it’s not that I don’t want to help. But if Death’s coming for you, even if I help you through the worst stretch, you still might not make it. Listen to me—just go home.”

He looked older than I’d ever seen him. Lines deepened around his eyes. He set his firewood down with a thump, pipe clenched between his teeth, and stared out toward the mountains, like he could see something coming none of us could.

I jumped. Thunder, even though the sky was still clear. As he finished, thunder rumbled across the clear sky.

A low roll echoed through the hills, making the windows shiver. The air suddenly felt charged, the way it does before a Midwest summer storm.

“It’s gonna storm. Stay here tonight, head out first thing,” Grandpa said.

He gestured toward the porch, inviting the man to take shelter. Just then, the wind picked up, rattling the loose tin on the woodshed.

The man’s eyes grew red. “Mr. Walker, Dave Shull said you’re the best. If I can’t deliver, I’ll owe the boss, and I just don’t have the money. Please, help me work something out. Even if it’s risky, I’ve got to try. I can’t pay the damages.”

His hands were shaking.

He gripped the porch railing so hard his knuckles turned white. His voice quivered. The desperation in his eyes made me look away, ashamed I couldn’t do anything to help.

Grandpa frowned, lit his pipe, and asked, “What’ll you do if I don’t help?”

The pipe smoke curled around his head. He looked at the man with a mix of pity and sternness—the way he did when he thought someone was about to make a bad mistake.

That made my stomach drop. The man said, “I’ll drive the truck myself. If I die on that mountain, it’ll be an accident. At least the insurance will pay out for my wife and son.”

He looked dead set—like nothing could change his mind.

He squared his shoulders, jaw clenched, eyes hollow but determined. In that moment, I saw a man with nothing left to lose, and it scared me.

Grandpa tapped his pipe against the doorframe a few times. Then he said, “There’s one way, but you’ll have to face the Devil’s gate.”

He spoke the words quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. Just the mention of the Devil’s gate made the hair on my arms stand up. That was the spot on the mountain road where most of the accidents happened—a sharp turn with a drop-off so steep folks said you could see hell if you looked down at midnight.

“If that’s what it takes, I’ll do anything,” the man said.

He leaned forward, hope flickering in his expression. I could see his chest rise and fall, breath coming fast as he waited for Grandpa’s answer.

Grandpa took a couple puffs from his pipe. Then he said, “Martha, go wring a chicken and bring me half a bowl of blood.”

Grandma hesitated, but she still went out to the coop.

She paused, glancing at Grandpa like she wanted to protest. Then she wrapped her shawl tighter and headed out into the dark. The old screen door creaked behind her.