Eight-year-old Oliver pressed his face against the car window as his mother pulled up to the zebra crossing outside Wychwood Primary. The familiar figure stood waiting with her red lollipop sign—Mary, the crossing patrol, in her bright yellow vest and sensible shoes.
“Morning, Mary!” his mother called out.
Mary turned, her weathered face breaking into a warm smile. “What a lovely boy you have there, Mrs Hanson. Such a sweet child.”
Oliver shivered. He’d heard her speak to adults plenty of times, always with that grandmotherly voice, always saying nice things. But when she spoke to the children…
“Right then, Oliver,” his mother said, pulling over. “Off you go. And don’t dawdle.”
Three others were already waiting at the kerb: Sophie from Year 3, little Ben who was just six, and his classmate Chloe, who never spoke to him.
Mary raised her lollipop sign and stepped forward, halting the morning traffic with practised authority. She gestured for the children to cross.
“Come on then,” she crowed, and Oliver shivered.
Gone was the sweet, grandmotherly tone. Now her voice was low and gravelly, with an edge that made him want to run and run, and never stop. It was the voice of something that had been pretending to be human for a very long time.
“Hurry now,” Mary snarled, her eyes fixed on Oliver as the others stepped onto the crossing. “Better move fast, or you might not make it across.” All of her words were emphasised.
Sophie grabbed Ben’s hand, her face pale. Chloe bit her lip and walked faster. They all knew. Every child who crossed here knew that Mary wasn’t right… though none could explain exactly what it was that was wrong.
Oliver watched as his three schoolmates strode purposefully across the road, giving Mary a wide berth. Once past her, they ran the last few steps and turned to look back at him. Waiting. Not breathing.
“Don’t make me cross,” Oliver whispered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
Mary’s head snapped towards him, her smile widening. “What was that, dear?”
“Please d-don’t… n-nothing,” Oliver stammered, as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Good boy. Now come along. We haven’t got all day.”
Oliver forced his feet to move, one step, then another. The road felt longer than usual, stretching out beneath him, expanding with each step. Mary stood in the middle, lollipop sign held high, watching him with cruel, ophidian eyes.
“That’s it, little one,” she hissed. “Keep moving. Not much further now.”
On each side, cars waited patiently. Drivers checked their phones, drummed their fingers on steering wheels, completely oblivious. To them, she was a helpful old lady looking after the children. How could they hear what he heard, or know the horrors he saw in those eyes when they stared into his?
With each step, the cars on either side became less distinct, as if moving away from him. Mary’s yellow jacket glowed brighter, like a beacon in the gathering fog which Oliver hadn’t been aware of until just now.
He looked back at his mother’s car. She was already pulling away, giving Mary a cheerful wave. She couldn’t see how the crossing had transformed into this bridge between two different worlds, with Mary—yellow-eyed—standing guard in the middle.
“Nearly there,” Mary rasped, her voice now a sibilant whisper that clearly hadn’t been human for decades. “Just a few more steps, sweet boy.”
The children on the other side were shouting something, but their voices sounded very far away. Oliver tried to run to them, but his feet were heavy, like he was in sand.
Mary’s scaled hand touched his shoulder.
Later that morning, Mrs Hanson received a call from the school secretary.
She frowned, phone pressed to her ear. “Of course he’s in school. I saw Mary help him across the road myself. Such a lovely old lady—she’s been there forever.”
“That’s strange. The other children said—well, never mind. I’ll see if he’s turned up.”
But Oliver didn’t turn up. Not that day, not ever.
The police questioned Mary, of course, and she was as helpful as she could be. Such a sweet old woman, the officers agreed. Been keeping children safe for years. No one could remember exactly how many years, but she’d definitely been doing the job when they were at school.
“Terrible thing,” Mary said, shaking her grey head sadly. “I saw the boy start across, but then I had to stop some lorry that wasn’t paying attention. When I looked back, he was gone. Children these days—probably wandered off somewhere. They do that, you know. Children wander.”
The investigation eventually went cold. It was true: children did sometimes just wander. Just… disappeared. Life went on.
And Mary continued her work, helping children cross the road safely. And most of them made it to the other side. Most of them.
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