The Taxi Ride I Wish I Never Took

I had always taken late-night taxis in the city, but something about that night felt wrong from the start. The rain poured in thick sheets, and the streets were almost deserted. When the old yellow taxi stopped for me, I felt a chill crawl up my spine, but I forced myself inside.

The driver barely spoke. His hands were pale, with veins bulging under the dim glow of the dashboard. I tried to make small talk, but he didn’t answer—he just gripped the wheel tighter. The only sound was the faint hum of the engine and the rhythmic squeak of the windshield wipers fighting the storm.

We passed through parts of the city I didn’t recognize. Dark alleys, abandoned buildings, and streets with no lights. I leaned forward and asked, “This isn’t the way to my apartment, is it?”

The driver finally spoke, but his voice was hoarse, almost whispering:

“There’s no going back now.”

My chest tightened. I pulled out my phone, but the screen flickered and died instantly, even though I had charged it minutes before. The cab smelled faintly of damp earth—like an open grave.

That’s when I noticed the rearview mirror. It wasn’t reflecting me. The seat was empty, as if I wasn’t even there.

I panicked and yanked at the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The locks clicked down on their own. The driver’s face slowly twisted into something unnatural—his mouth stretched wider than it should, and his eyes turned completely black.

The taxi sped faster and faster. My screams were drowned by the roar of the storm outside. The city disappeared, replaced by endless roads that seemed to lead into a void.

I banged on the window, desperate to escape, when I saw something outside. Figures stood on the side of the road, dozens of them, watching us pass. They had no faces—just blank skin where their features should’ve been. Yet I felt their gaze pierce me.

The driver whispered again, almost tenderly this time:

“You shouldn’t have gotten in.”

And suddenly, the engine cut out. The car stopped in the middle of the road. Silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating. When I turned to the driver’s seat—he was gone.

The taxi door finally clicked open on its own. I stepped out into the rain, but the street was not my city anymore. The buildings leaned at impossible angles, the sky swirled with red and black, and the faceless figures crept closer.

I looked back at the taxi, hoping it could take me back, but it was already rusted, broken, covered in moss, as if it had been abandoned for decades.

That’s when I realized—this wasn’t just a ride home.

It was a one-way trip.