It started like any other evening.
Mark was stuck in traffic, headlights bleeding into the dusk. He texted his wife:
Mark: "Running late again. Want me to grab dinner?"
A moment later, she replied:
Wife: "Sure. Surprise me. Drive safe ❤️"
He smiled. Familiar. Warm. He drove on.
A few minutes later, another message buzzed:
Wife: "Can't wait to see you. Miss you already."
Mark chuckled, thumbed back a response:
Mark: "Miss you too. Almost home."
Then another message came in. Odd this time:
Wife: "Are you sure you're alone in the car?"
He frowned. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror—empty.
Mark: "What?"
Wife: "I saw something. Behind you. A shape. Just for a second."
His pulse quickened.
Mark: "Very funny. I'm alone."
Three dots appeared… then stopped. Then another message:
Wife: "I'm not joking. I’ve been watching the traffic cam outside the office. Someone got in when you stopped at that red light."
Mark’s throat went dry. That light… the one near the old underpass. He remembered glancing away for just a moment to change the music.
He pulled over, heart hammering. Turned to check the backseat again—still empty.
Buzz.
Wife: "Mark… where are you?"
Mark: "I just pulled over. I don’t see anyone."
Pause. Then:
Wife: "Mark, I haven't texted you all evening. My phone's been dead. I'm using the tablet now. Who have you been texting?"
The last message from the unknown number popped up then, as if it had been waiting:
Unknown: "Too late."
Mark’s car door clicked—locked from the inside.
And something breathed behind him.
Mark froze.
The breath was faint—raspy, wet—as if lungs had forgotten how to work. Slowly, his eyes crept to the rearview mirror.
Still empty.
But the air was different now. Heavy. Cold.
He reached for the door handle. It wouldn’t budge.
The screen of his phone lit up again.
Unknown: “You should’ve kept driving.”
Mark’s hands shook as he typed.
Mark: “Who are you? What do you want?”
The reply came instantly.
Unknown: “I want to come home.”
Then his headlights flickered—once, twice—and shut off, plunging the car into darkness.
In the silence, a soft tap came from behind his seat.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not metal. Not glass. It sounded like... fingers. Nails. Knocking on fabric.
Mark twisted around—slowly, trembling—only to see nothing but shadow. Then the dome light flickered on by itself for half a second.
And he saw it.
A shape crouched in the back seat—long limbs folded unnaturally, a pale face stretched into a grin far too wide. Black, sunken eyes locked on his.
Then the light blinked off.
He screamed, fumbling at the door, at the lock, at anything. The engine sputtered on its own, the gear shifting with no touch.
The phone buzzed one last time.
Unknown: “Home now.”
And the car began to drive itself down the road, into the dark… away from his neighborhood.
Away from his wife.
And toward whatever had climbed inside.
Mark clawed at the steering wheel, trying to wrench it back, but the car moved as if guided by invisible hands. The road ahead bent toward the woods, a stretch he never drove at night. His phone slipped from his grip and clattered to the floorboard.
He dared one last glance at the rearview mirror. The thing was closer now. No longer crouched—its face hovered inches from his own reflection.
“Mark,” it rasped, the sound not coming from its mouth, but vibrating through the car itself. “I told you. I’m coming home.”
The trees swallowed the headlights.
Hours later, police found the car abandoned at the edge of the forest. The engine was cold. The doors unlocked. The driver’s seat empty.
The only sign of Mark was his phone, lying on the passenger side.
Its screen glowed with a final, unsent message to his wife:
“Don’t let it in.”
