The Ghost Passenger
- Pishaach
- Feb 26
- 4 min read
Lucas sighed as he glanced at the clock on the dashboard, it was 11:57 PM.
Three minutes until his shift ended. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, debating whether to call it a night. His phone buzzed with a new ride request.
“Seriously?” He groaned. The pickup point was on Old Mill Road, a route he usually avoided.
Rumours swirled about that road, the kind locals whispered after too many drinks.
Money was money. With a resigned grunt, Lucas accepted.
Driving through town, the streets grew emptier. Streetlights flickered, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt.
Old Mill Road stretched ahead, dark, lined with gnarled trees whose branches seemed to reach out.
His headlights cut through the darkness.
Then he saw her.
A woman stood by the roadside. Pale dress. Head bowed. Long, dark hair obscured her face.
Lucas rolled down the window. “Uh… you call for a ride?”
There was no answer.
He frowned. “Look, it’s late. You okay?”
She nodded slowly. Climbed into the backseat.
A chill crept up Lucas’s spine as the car’s temperature dropped noticeably.
“Where to?” he asked, tapping his phone.
Her voice, soft, distant, murmured, “Just drive.”
Lucas swallowed. Every instinct screamed to refuse.
He put the car in gear.
As they pulled away, the rear-view mirror showed an empty backseat.
Shadows in the Rear-View
Lucas’s pulse hammered in horror. His eyes darted between the road and the mirror.
It was Empty.
But he felt her presence, cold, heavy, like damp air before a storm.
“Hey, uh... you okay back there?” His voice trembled.
No response.
His phone buzzed with a notification, GPS rerouted.
He hadn’t touched it.
The map directed him toward Hollow Creek Bridge, long condemned.
Lucas’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel. “This is crazy,” he muttered.
Then, her face appeared in the rear-view mirror.
Close. Too close. Pale skin stretched thin. Lips moving.
Lucas yelped, swerving. The tyres screeched. Heart pounding, he glanced back.
The seat was empty.
Breath quick, he pulled over. “This isn’t funny!”
His breath fogged the air inside the car.
A handprint appeared on the window, from the inside.
Lucas’s vision blurred. His ears rang.
The radio crackled to life.
“You took the ride,” a voice rasped.
He slammed his fist on the dashboard. “Who are you?”
There was silence.
Then, there was laughter. Low. Echoing.
He threw the car into drive.
But every road, every turn, led back to Old Mill Road.
The Passenger's Story
He stopped the car, chest heaving. “What do you want?”
Silence stretched.
Then, her soft voice echoed “You drive the roads... but don’t know what lies beneath them.”
Lucas’s throat tightened. “I just wanted to finish my shift…”
Lights flickered overhead, streetlamps blinking like dying stars.
“I waited,” she murmured. “Waited for the car that never stopped.”
Lucas’s mind raced. Old Mill Road—years ago—a hit and run. A woman killed, the driver was never found.
“It wasn’t me,” he whispered.
The air grew colder. “You wear the badge of his company.”
His dashboard glitched, the company logo flashing. The same company from that accident.
“Look, I didn’t—”
Her face appeared beside him, eyes empty, skin cracked.
“You took the fare.”
Lucas’s heart pounded painfully.
“Make it right,” she hissed.
“How?”
“Finish the ride.”
His GPS beeped, destination set: Hollow Creek Bridge.
Hands trembling, he drove.
The world seemed to shift, trees bending inward, darkness pressing against the windows.
Then the bridge appeared. Half-collapsed. Rotting.
“Stop,” she said. Lucas hit the brakes.
She reached forward, cold fingers grazing his arm. “Now... drive off.”
His blood froze. “What?”
“Do what he did.”
“No!”
Her grip tightened. Nails dug into his skin. Headlights flickered. Horn blared.
A vision flashed, a car, speeding... her body flying... impact... darkness.
Lucas gasped, pulling his arm free. “I didn’t do this!”
Her gaze burned into him. “But you can end it.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “Please...”
Her lips twisted into a sad smile. “Finish the ride.”
The Plunge
Lucas’s mind spun. Choices blurred.
Drive off the bridge, or face her wrath.
His hands shook. His breath caught in his throat.
“I can’t,” he choked.
Her face inches from his. “You already did.”
His foot slammed on the accelerator.
The car roared forward. The bridge cracked beneath the weight.
Wood splintered. Metal groaned.
Then, the car plunged into the water.
Air whooshed.
The water rose to meet them.
Lucas thrashed, seatbelt stuck. His lungs burned. Her face appeared outside the window.
Glass shattered. Water poured in.
He gasped, lungs filled with icy darkness.
What Remains
Lucas awoke coughing, gasping for air.
On the shore. Alone.
The car was gone. The bridge collapsed.
His clothes were soaked. Heart racing. Mind spinning.
But he was alive.
He staggered to his feet. Looked back at the water.
Ripples spread outward, like something had surfaced... and then sunk.
His phone buzzed. A notification: Ride completed. 5 stars.
His chest tightened.
A new message: Thank you.
He looked around. No one was there.
Weeks passed. The company called but there was no record of that ride. No record of that address.
But some nights, driving home he glanced in the rear-view mirror.
And saw her, waiting for her next ride.
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