The Drowned Passenger's Midnight Fare

The taxi's headlights sliced through the thick, velvety darkness like a dull blade, casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked asphalt. A thick fog had rolled in from the river, its tendrils seeping through the car windows and clinging to my skin like a damp, cold shroud. The engine's hum was the only sound that broke the oppressive stillness, a rhythmic lullaby that had lulled me into a false sense of security during my four - month - long nocturnal shifts. My colleagues' warnings, though often repeated, felt like distant echoes in the back of my mind—until that fateful night.

After dropping off a passenger in the northern suburbs, I found myself on a desolate stretch of road, the kind that seemed to stretch on forever into the abyss. The surrounding fields were barren, their skeletal crops swaying eerily in the wind. The moon, a pale, ghostly orb, peeked through the clouds, casting an otherworldly glow over the landscape. It was as if the world had been drained of all color, leaving behind only shades of gray and black.

As I scanned the empty road, hoping for a fare to fill the long drive back, a flicker of movement caught my eye. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, a shadow dancing in the fog. But as I drew closer, a figure materialized by the roadside, emerging from the mist like a specter rising from the grave. A young woman stood there, her arms waving frantically, her silhouette stark against the inky backdrop.

The moment I pulled up beside her, a wave of icy dread washed over me. Her long black hair, sodden and dripping, framed her deathly pale face like a shroud. Water pooled at her feet, soaking the tattered hem of her dress, and her clothes clung to her body, revealing a thin, almost emaciated frame. Despite the bone - chilling cold, she wore no coat, and her teeth chattered violently, a rapid, unsettling rhythm that seemed to match the pounding of my heart.

"North Third Ring Road, No. 45," she whispered, her voice as brittle as autumn leaves. Her words hung in the air, heavy with a sense of foreboding. As she slid into the back seat, a frigid draft swept through the car, turning the warm interior into an icebox. The air grew thick with the smell of damp earth and decay, a sickly sweet odor that made my stomach churn.

I stole glances at her in the rear - view mirror, my curiosity getting the better of me. "Miss, did you fall into a river?" I asked, trying to sound casual, but my voice betrayed the fear that was beginning to well up inside me. Her eyes, vacant and glassy, met mine in the mirror, and for a moment, it felt as if she was looking straight through me, into the very depths of my soul. "I don't remember," she replied, her words sending a new wave of unease through me.

The drive passed in an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water hitting the floor mat and the howling of the wind outside. The road seemed to stretch on forever, the familiar landmarks replaced by a landscape of shadows and fog. As we neared North Third Ring Road, the fog grew thicker, obscuring the streetlights and turning the world into a hazy, indistinct blur.

When we finally arrived at No. 45, the house loomed before us like a dark, imposing monolith. Its windows were boarded up, the paint peeling off in long, curling strips, and the front gate hung ajar, creaking ominously in the wind. A massive jujube tree stood sentinel in the front yard, its branches bare and twisted, like the gnarled fingers of a skeleton reaching out to grab us.

The girl leaned forward, her cold breath ghosting over my neck. "I don't have any money. Wait for me. I'll get it from my mother," she said, her plea tugging at my heartstrings. Against my better judgment, I nodded, watching as she stepped out of the car and disappeared into the darkness, her figure swallowed by the fog and the shadows.

Minutes ticked by, and as I waited, the unease in my stomach grew. The house was silent, the only sound the creaking of the gate and the rustling of the tree branches. When I finally knocked on the door, my knuckles rapping against the weathered wood, a middle - aged woman opened it, her eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and horror.

"Sir, you must be mistaken," she said, her voice trembling. "My daughter drowned in Yinguixiang River two years ago. Today is the anniversary of her death." I stared at her, speechless, as she continued, "She loved swimming there, but that day... she never came back."

I stumbled back to my car, my hands shaking uncontrollably. The fog had grown even thicker, and the world around me seemed to dissolve into a sea of gray. As I fumbled with the keys, a soft voice from the backseat made my blood run cold. "Uncle, I got the money," she said. Slowly, I turned around. There she was, sitting in the back seat, a stack of ghost money extended towards me. Her wet hair hung in strings, and a sinister smile played on her lips, a smile that seemed to hold a thousand secrets and a promise of something far more terrifying than I could ever imagine.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the driver's seat, the morning sun streaming through the windshield. The fog had lifted, and the world around me was bathed in a warm, golden light. But despite the brightness of the day, the memory of that night, and the terrifying encounter with the wet passenger from North Third Ring Road, would haunt me forever. From that day on, the night became my enemy. I traded my nocturnal shifts for the safety of daylight, but no matter how far I ran or how hard I tried to forget, I could never escape the feeling that I was being watched, that somewhere out there, in the darkness, she was waiting for me.