The Forgotten Road

Rain pelted against the windshield, each drop illuminated briefly by the car’s headlights before sliding away into darkness. It was late at night, and the sky above rumbled like an old beast awakening from a long slumber. Arif had been driving for hours when his GPS suddenly chirped with a new suggestion—a shortcut that would save him thirty minutes.

“Let’s see where this takes me,” he muttered, turning the wheel.

The new road was narrow, winding, and completely deserted. Dense trees pressed in from both sides, their branches swaying in the wind and rain, whispering to each other in some secret language. There were no other cars, no streetlights—only the dim beams from his headlights cutting through the darkness.

After about twenty minutes, Arif spotted a faint light in the distance. As he drew closer, it revealed itself to be a small gas station with an attached convenience store. A faded sign above the building read: “Zahid Travel Stop.”

The gas gauge was dipping low, so Arif decided to stop. “Might as well refuel and grab something to drink,” he thought.

The moment he stepped inside, a damp, musty smell hit him. Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man with an expressionless face, his eyes void of any warmth.

“Fill the tank and give me a bottle of water,” Arif said.

The man gave a slow nod and stepped outside. His movements were sluggish, as though each step took effort. Arif glanced around the store—dust coated most of the shelves, and many of the canned goods had expiration dates from years past.

Just then, two more people entered—a thin man in soaked, torn clothing, and a woman holding a lit candle. Without a word, they walked to the counter and stared directly at Arif.

A chill ran down his spine. He decided to pay quickly and leave. The cashier returned, scribbling the total on a slip of paper before handing it to him. There was no store name, no currency symbol—just a strange circle with a cross-like mark in the middle.

Arif tried to hand him a credit card, but the man said, in a cold, mechanical voice, “We don’t take cards here.”

Arif handed over some cash and headed for the door. Rain had eased into a drizzle, but as soon as he climbed into his car, the thin man pressed himself against the driver’s side door.

“This road is not for you,” the man rasped.

Startled, Arif turned the key in the ignition and tried to close the door, but the man held it firmly. Suddenly, the woman stepped in front of the car, as if to block his way.

Heart pounding, Arif slammed the accelerator. The man clung to the door, his feet dragging on the wet pavement. Arif swerved at the last moment to avoid hitting the woman, and the jolt finally shook the man loose. He shut the door and sped off without looking back.

Ten minutes later, he dared to glance in the rearview mirror. No cars followed, but far down the road, through the rain, he could see three figures standing in the middle of the street, watching him.

His pulse quickened. He checked the backseat—empty.

He didn’t stop until he reached the interstate. Pulling over briefly, he looked at his GPS and felt his stomach drop. The location history showed him traveling through a “No Map Area” for the past forty-five minutes—an uncharted patch of dense forest with no roads. It also indicated he had stopped for exactly eight minutes, though to Arif it had felt like nearly half an hour.

When he got home, Arif recounted the story to his friend Imran. Imran immediately searched “Zahid Travel Stop” on his phone but found nothing.

“Show me your gas receipt,” Imran said.

Arif reached into his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper. His hands froze. The strange circle and cross were gone—it was now just a blank piece of paper.

The room fell silent. Imran’s expression hardened. “Where exactly did you say this place was On the shortcut… after the old forest,” Arif replied slowly.

But before he could say more, his gaze drifted toward the window. Outside, on the empty street, a thin, shadowy figure stood perfectly still in the mist—watching.