​Google Maps Said This Route Was 30 Minutes Faster. I’ve Been Driving On This Road For 6 Hours.

​Google Maps Said This Route Was 30 Minutes Faster. I’ve Been Driving On This Road For 6 Hours.

​I hate traffic. That’s the fatal flaw that led me here. I was driving home from college for the holidays, stuck in a gridlock on the interstate, when my GPS chimed.

​"New route found. Saves 34 minutes. Tap to accept."

​I didn't think twice. I tapped 'Accept'. The blue line on the screen rerouted me toward an exit ramp I had never noticed before. It was a narrow, unpaved exit leading into the dense pine forests of Oregon.

​"Weird," I muttered, "but if it saves time..."

​I took the exit.

​The first hour was fine. The road was gravel, winding through tall, ancient trees. The sun was setting, casting long, eerie shadows across the path. I lost my radio signal about twenty minutes in, leaving me with just the sound of tires crunching on rocks.

​By the second hour, the sun had set completely. It was pitch black. My high beams cut through the darkness, illuminating nothing but endless rows of pine trees. They looked identical, like a repeating loop in a video game.

​I checked the GPS.

Time to destination: 45 minutes.

​I kept driving. Another hour passed.

I checked the GPS again.

Time to destination: 45 minutes.

​"What the hell?" I tapped the screen. The signal bars were gone. No service.

​I decided to turn back. This was creepy, and I was tired. I slowed down to make a U-turn.

​That’s when I saw it.

​In my rearview mirror, the road behind me was gone.

​It wasn't just dark. It physically wasn't there. Where the gravel road should have been, there was a solid wall of thick, impenetrable trees. The forest had closed up behind me instantly, like a zipper.

​I slammed on the brakes. I was hyperventilating. I put the car in reverse, thinking maybe it was an illusion. I backed up a few feet and thud. The bumper hit solid wood.

​I was trapped. The only way was forward.

​So I drove. I drove for what felt like eternity. The dashboard clock was glitching; the numbers were cycling randomly. 88:88. 00:00. 66:6.

​Then, I started seeing the cars.

​At first, it was just one. An old 1980s sedan, rusted and abandoned on the side of the road. Then a 90s station wagon. Then a modern SUV.

​They were lined up on the shoulder, empty, covered in moss and vines.

​I slowed down to look at a Honda Civic. The driver’s side door was open. There were scratches on the seat—desperate, frantic scratches. And on the dashboard, there was a phone mount.

​I peered closer as I rolled past. The phone was still there, plugged into a dead charger. It was coated in dust.

​Then, my own GPS spoke. The voice was distorted, deep, and slow.

​"Destination... approaching... on... the... left."

​I looked to my left. There was a clearing in the trees.

​It wasn't a town. It wasn't a gas station.

​It was a pile. A mountain of cars. Hundreds of them. Stacked on top of each other, crushed, twisted metal reaching up into the night sky. And at the base of the pile, I saw movement.

​Pale, human-like shapes were crawling out from the wreckage. They were dragging things. Suitcases. Clothes. Bones.

​They stopped moving as my headlights washed over them. Dozens of glowing eyes turned to look at my car.

​I slammed my foot on the gas. I didn't care about the road anymore. I just drove.

​But the GPS spoke again.

"Recalculating. You have reached your final destination."

​The engine died. The headlights cut out.

​I am sitting in the dark now. I can hear them scuttling toward the car. They are tapping on the windows. They want to know if I have any food. Or maybe... they just want to add my car to the pile.