Evil sometimes wears a friendly face.”

The rain had been pounding for hours, turning the highway into a blur of slick asphalt and smeared headlights. My eyes stung from exhaustion, and the wipers screeched back and forth in a hopeless attempt to keep the windshield clear. That’s when I saw him—standing just past the guardrail, thumb stuck out, soaked to the bone.

Any other night, I might’ve driven past. But it was late, and he looked young—barely more than a teenager, shivering under the downpour. Against my better judgment, I slowed.

He slid into the passenger seat with a smile so wide it unsettled me immediately. His clothes clung to his skin, his hair plastered flat, and yet he acted as if the weather didn’t bother him at all.

“Thanks for stopping,” he said, his voice soft, almost rehearsed. “Not many people would.”

“No problem,” I muttered, pulling back onto the highway.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the rain. I tried to relax, telling myself I’d just done a good deed. Then he spoke again.

“You work long hours, huh? Must be rough, driving home this late all the time.”

My grip tightened on the wheel. I hadn’t told him I was coming from work. I hadn’t told him anything.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

He chuckled lightly. “Your boss must keep you busy. You barely even have time to eat dinner before collapsing in that recliner of yours.”

I shot him a glance. His smile hadn’t faded. It stretched, showing too many teeth, as if he were savoring the words.

“I never told you that,” I said flatly.

“Didn’t need to.” He leaned his head against the window, eyes fixed on me. “I’ve seen you. Every night, same route, same time. You don’t notice me, but I notice you.”

A shiver crawled up my spine. “Where exactly are you headed?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Wherever you are.”

My foot hovered over the brake, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop on that empty stretch of highway. My heart thudded painfully against my ribs as I tried to keep my voice steady.

“You’ve been following me?”

His laugh was low and breathy, the kind of sound you’d expect from someone telling a secret. “Not following. Watching. I like the way you live alone, the way no one expects you home at a certain time. It makes things… easier.”

My mouth went dry. I realized then how isolated we were. No cars ahead, none behind. Just miles of darkness and rain.

I swallowed hard. “Listen, I think you should get out now.”

His grin widened. “But we’re not at your house yet.”

The words chilled me more than the storm outside. My hands shook on the wheel. I forced myself to pull over, tires skidding slightly on the wet shoulder.

“Out,” I said, my voice breaking.

For a moment, he just stared, his eyes glittering like glass in the dim light. Then, slowly, he unbuckled his seatbelt.

“You’ll see me again,” he whispered, so softly I almost thought I imagined it. “You always do.”

He slipped out into the rain, closing the door with careful precision. I watched him in the rearview mirror, standing motionless as my taillights faded.

I didn’t sleep that night. Or the night after.

And last evening, when I finally tried to relax in my recliner, I saw it. Pressed into the condensation on my living room window, traced by a wet finger, was a single mark.

A smile.