The Wrong Passenger

It was just past midnight when I accepted the ride request. I’d been driving for hours, my eyelids heavy, my patience thin. The city had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against your ears and makes you too aware of your own heartbeat.

The pickup point was a dimly lit street on the edge of town. Streetlamps flickered weakly, fighting to push back the shadows. I pulled up to the curb, scanning for my passenger. At first, I didn’t see anyone. Then, from the darkness between two buildings, a man stepped forward.

He was tall and thin, wearing a black coat that seemed too heavy for the mild night. His face was pale, almost gray in the glow of the dashboard lights. Without a word, he opened the rear door and slid inside.

“Uh, hey,” I said, forcing a friendly tone. “You John?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared ahead, eyes fixed on the back of my headrest.

Awkward silence filled the car. I glanced at the app. Normally, the destination pops up immediately, but this time the screen was blank. I frowned and tapped it, thinking my phone had frozen. The GPS blinked, recalculated, and suddenly a route appeared—no address, no name, just a glowing blue line leading out of town.

“Guess you’ve already got a place in mind, huh?” I joked, trying to mask the unease crawling up my spine.

No reply.

I started driving, the tires crunching softly against the empty road. The man sat motionless, hands folded neatly in his lap. I checked the mirror more than once, half-expecting him to vanish like a bad dream.

Minutes ticked by. The city lights faded behind us, replaced by long stretches of highway swallowed by darkness. The GPS arrow guided me deeper into nowhere.

“So,” I tried again, “you heading home from work? Visiting someone?”

Still nothing.

My throat tightened. His silence wasn’t just rude—it was heavy, unnatural, like a void that sucked the air out of the car.

After twenty minutes, the highway narrowed into a two-lane road flanked by dense forest. No houses. No gas stations. Just endless black trees swaying in the wind. The GPS arrow pulsed calmly on the screen, leading me deeper.

I risked another glance in the mirror. His eyes met mine this time.

They were wrong. Too dark. Too still.

I jerked my gaze back to the road, heart hammering. My palms were slick against the steering wheel.

“Listen, man,” I said, forcing a laugh I didn’t feel, “if you don’t tell me where you’re going, I’m turning around. This ride’s getting weird.”

That’s when the radio crackled to life.

Not music. Not static. A voice.

Keep driving.

I froze. The man hadn’t moved his lips. But the voice—low, distorted—filled the car, bleeding through every speaker.

He’s waiting for you.

The hair on my neck stood on end. I slammed the radio off, but the voice continued, softer now, whispering directly into my ear though no one was beside me.

Almost there.

The GPS dinged. “Turn left,” it instructed.

I slowed, headlights cutting across a narrow dirt path disappearing into the woods. My stomach clenched. “Nope,” I muttered, spinning the wheel to keep straight.

That’s when his voice finally broke the silence.

“You missed the turn.”

Cold. Flat. Not angry, not pleading—just stating a fact.

I pressed harder on the gas. “Ride’s over,” I snapped, trying to sound braver than I felt. “You can get out here.”

His reflection in the mirror smiled.

But in the back seat, he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even moving.

I blinked hard, eyes darting between the glass and reality. Reflection: smile. Reality: stillness.

My vision blurred. The forest road stretched endlessly ahead, though I knew the highway should’ve ended by now. The GPS recalculated again, the line twisting back onto itself, leading me in circles.

“You can’t leave,” the man said softly. “Not yet.”

I slammed the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, gravel spitting under the tires. Heart racing, I spun around.

The back seat was empty.

The door had never opened.

Chest heaving, I scrambled out of the car, sucking in sharp, cold air. The night pressed close, thick with silence. I grabbed my phone to call someone—anyone—but the screen glowed with a single notification:

Rider picked up. Drop-off in progress.

And beneath it, the time: 12:00 a.m.

The exact moment I’d first seen him.

I looked back into the car. The rear door hung wide open now. A shadow stretched from the seat to the ground, long and unnatural, pointing into the trees.

I didn’t wait to see what cast it. I jumped back behind the wheel and tore down the road, headlights shaking as I sped through the night.

But the worst part?

The app is still running.

The ride has never ended.