I take the same route home every night. A quiet highway that cuts through the hills, always empty this late. Nothing strange. Nothing unusual.
Until last night.
At exactly 3:07 AM, I took my usual exit. But instead of the row of gas stations and fast-food signs, there was only darkness. The road stretched on longer than it should have, lined with trees I didn’t recognize. The air felt… wrong.
My GPS glitched, the route loading slower and slower until the screen went black. Then my radio turned on—by itself. Static at first. Then, through the distortion, a woman’s voice:
“If you can hear this, you’re already too deep. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Whatever you do—don’t answer them.”
The voice cut out.
And that’s when my headlights caught movement up ahead.
A figure in the road.
It wasn’t walking. It wasn’t moving at all. Just standing directly in my lane, facing me. I barely had time to register it before I swerved. My tires screeched. I lost control. My car spun out.
And then everything stopped.
I sat there, gripping the wheel, heart pounding. My headlights were still on, illuminating the road ahead. It was empty.
No figure.
No one.
The radio crackled again. This time, the voice was closer, clearer.
“You saw it, didn’t you?”
I whipped my head around. My backseat was empty. But the voice—it was coming from inside the car.
“You stopped. That was your mistake.”
I threw the car into drive. My hands were shaking. I hit the gas. Hard.
The road stretched endlessly. The speedometer climbed—50 mph, 60 mph, 70—but the scenery didn’t change. The road wasn’t ending. I wasn’t getting anywhere.
Then, in my rearview mirror, I saw them.
Figures.
Lining the highway behind me. Spindly, unnatural. Their faces were all wrong—smoothed over, as if they were never meant to be seen. And they were getting closer.
Not walking. Not running. Just appearing nearer every time I blinked.
My phone screen lit up. A call. No number. Just a name.
My own.
I didn’t want to answer. But my hands—my hands weren’t listening to me.
My fingers moved on their own, pressing accept.
I put the phone to my ear.
And I heard my own voice.
“Where do you think you’re going? You never left.”
My headlights flickered. The road ahead twisted, warping, folding into itself—and suddenly, I wasn’t on a highway anymore.
I was back at the start. The same road. The same spot. 3:07 AM blinking on the dash.
The figures were waiting for me.
This time, they were smiling.