The Midnight Road

The Midnight Road
Some Roads Don’t Lead Anywhere… They Keep You Forever

The old pickup truck, lovingly called Ol' Betsy, rumbled down Route 17—a lonely strip of worn asphalt slicing through miles of dense, whispering pine forest. Liam, a travel blogger chasing forgotten myths and mysterious legends, had specifically chosen this road for its eerie reputation. Midnight had long passed. A paper-thin moon cowered behind clouds, and only Betsy's flickering headlights fought the oppressive darkness.

He'd been driving for what felt like ages. The engine’s hum and the tires’ steady rhythm on cracked pavement worked like a lullaby, tugging at his senses. Then, something odd happened.

A flickering, run-down gas station appeared on his right—the kind you’d see in horror films. Its neon sign blinked like a dying heart. Odd, but forgettable. Until a minute later, he passed it again. Exactly the same. Same broken sign. Same angle. Same shadowed window. Liam’s hands tightened on the wheel. Just tired, he whispered to himself. Sleepy mind playing tricks.

But it didn’t stop there. The pine trees lining the road became unnaturally symmetrical, looping endlessly like wallpaper. He checked his GPS. It was stuck. The little blue dot hadn’t moved in ten minutes. No signal. No updates. No escape.

Then he saw them—headlights, small and distant in his rearview mirror, gaining fast. A dark muscle car, classic in shape, roared behind him with thunder in its engine. It flashed its high beams, aggressive and blinding. Liam sped up, nerves electrified. He wasn’t about to play road games in the middle of nowhere.

Ol’ Betsy groaned as he pushed her past her limits. But when he rounded a sharp curve, the headlights disappeared. No car. Just empty, black road. No engine sound. Just the haunting silence of midnight forest.

He stopped. Heart hammering. Silence everywhere. Was he hallucinating?

He pressed forward, cautiously now. And things got worse.

He passed the same rusted mailbox—three times in twenty minutes. The same crooked rock shaped like a howling wolf. Time distorted. Minutes dragged like hours, and hours vanished like seconds. The moon hovered above like a broken clock, unmoving and indifferent.

Then came the muscle car again. Not behind—everywhere. In front. Beside. Behind. A game of shadows and menace. He couldn’t see the driver. Just a figure, motionless, watching.

It dawned on him—this road wasn’t real. It was a trap. A loop. The car wasn’t chasing him. It was part of this nightmare, the Collector—a guardian of this endless purgatory.

He remembered old internet whispers—rumors about Route 17. How it took travelers at night. Their cars found days later. Empty. Cold. But the drivers were never found.

Liam tried to turn off the road, to escape into the forest. But the trees shifted, bending unnaturally, blocking all exits. The road held him tight. A black magnet dragging him deeper into madness.

Then came the whispers. Faint at first. Then louder. Echoing from the pines. Not wind—voices. “Trapped… Lost… Stay…” they cried.

And then—the faces.

Pressed against his windows. Pale, shimmering faces with silent screams. Men, women, children. Their eyes pleading, fingers clawing at the glass. They weren’t alive. They were echoes. Shadows of those who came before him. Now bound to this road. Watching. Warning.

And the muscle car? It pulled beside him again. Closer than ever. The driver—if you could call it that—was no longer a silhouette. Its shape shimmered with hundreds of shifting, tormented faces. Eyes within eyes. Mouths moving in agony. A kaleidoscope of trapped souls, steering the dark machine.

A voice rose from it—deep and layered, as if every soul spoke at once:
"Welcome, traveler. This journey is forever."

Liam screamed. He floored the gas pedal. Ol’ Betsy roared like never before, her engine screaming in protest. He pushed past 80. Then 90. Time shattered around him. Trees blurred into smears of black and green. The faces screamed louder, their ghostly palms slapping against glass.

The muscle car stayed beside him, never fading, never slowing.

And then—light. A blinding white light. Tires screeched. Air shifted.

Suddenly—silence.

He skidded to a stop. The pine forest was gone. The cursed road was behind him. In front? Familiar streetlights. Civilization. Salvation.

Liam sat in shock. The forest was gone. The sky was clearing. His GPS blinked back to life. Full signal. The map now showed he was miles from Route 17.

He drove to the nearest motel, every muscle trembling. He never told anyone what happened. Who would believe him?

But his blog changed. The tone. The focus. Still beautiful places. Still adventures. But always—a subtle warning.

And sometimes, late at night, he’d glance in the mirror and see a shimmer in his eyes—something foreign. Something left behind. A trace of the road that almost claimed him.

And when he closed his eyes, he could still hear it. A low engine hum. Far off. Yet near. Forever searching. Forever waiting.