My GPS Led Me Somewhere That Doesn’t Exist

Story

My GPS Led Me Somewhere That Doesn’t Exist

It started as a simple late-night drive.

I’d been on the road for five hours, heading back from a work trip, when fatigue began to set in. The interstate was a black ribbon unspooling in front of me, and my eyes kept flicking to the glowing GPS screen for reassurance.

“Turn left in 1.4 miles,” the calm voice instructed.

I frowned. I didn’t remember any turnoffs along this stretch — it was nothing but farmland and patches of forest. But I figured maybe the GPS had found a shortcut, and at midnight, saving twenty minutes sounded good.

The left turn came onto a narrow road with no streetlight, the kind of cracked asphalt that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. I hesitated, but the screen chirped again:

Continue for 4.7 miles.

The trees closed in on both sides, their branches bending over the road like skeletal fingers. My headlights caught the occasional glint of something in the brush — maybe a tin can, maybe animal eyes. The air felt heavier here.

After two miles, I realized I hadn’t seen a single house, mailbox, or even another car.

The GPS spoke again.

In 500 feet, turn right onto…

The voice trailed off into static. I tapped the screen. The map was still there, but the road ahead was marked in a faint, pulsing red line that I didn’t remember ever seeing before. The name of the street flickered, then disappeared entirely, replaced by a single word:

ARRIVING.

Something cold crawled up my spine.

But I kept driving. Because what else was I supposed to do?

A minute later, my headlights illuminated a small clearing. The pavement ended abruptly, crumbling into dirt, and in the center stood a house.

Or what was left of one.

The siding was rotted, the porch sagged, and the windows were black squares that swallowed the light instead of reflecting it. No driveway, no mailbox. The air smelled faintly of wet soil and rust.

I slowed to a stop. The GPS screen went black.

Then, without touching anything, my headlights flicked off.

For a heartbeat, I sat in complete darkness. I could hear my own breath, quick and shallow. Somewhere in the trees, a branch snapped.

I fumbed for the ignition — and froze.

There was someone standing at the edge of the clearing.

Too far for me to see clearly, but close enough that I knew it was a person. They didn’t move. I couldn’t even tell if they were facing me.

I don’t know why, but I rolled my window down a few inches. The air that came in was icy cold, colder than it should’ve been for September. That’s when I heard it — a whisper.

Not words. Just… breath.

The figure stepped forward.

That broke whatever spell had been holding me in place. I slammed the car into reverse and tore back down the road, tires spitting gravel. My heart was punching at my ribs.

I didn’t look in the rearview mirror. I didn’t want to know if they were following.

The GPS stayed black for the entire drive back to the interstate. When I finally saw the familiar green highway signs, I pulled over on the shoulder and sat there with my hands shaking on the wheel.

After ten minutes, I dared to check my phone. The GPS app was open, but there was no history of the route I’d just taken. No “recently searched” address. The last destination listed was my home — four hours away.

I told myself I’d misread something, that it was just my brain playing tricks after a long day.

But last night — three weeks later — I found something wedged under my windshield wiper.

A folded piece of paper.

No handwriting. No markings. Just a GPS coordinate written in perfect black typeface.

When I put it into my phone, the map zoomed in on that same spot in the woods.

And in the corner of the screen, just for a second, the word ARRIVING flickered.