The Midnight Passenger
Late one stormy night, Ethan was driving down a deserted country road. The rain pounded relentlessly on his windshield, his wipers barely keeping up. The narrow road twisted through dense woods, branches scratching at his car like fingers of the dead.
Suddenly, his headlights illuminated a figure standing on the roadside—a woman, drenched, wearing a tattered white dress. She didn’t move, just stared at him with hollow eyes. Against his better judgment, Ethan slowed down and rolled down his window slightly.
“Are you okay? Do you need a ride?” he asked.
The woman said nothing, but with a slow, eerie motion, she nodded. Reluctantly, Ethan unlocked the passenger door, and she climbed in. Her skin was ice cold, and the air in the car seemed to freeze around her. She stared straight ahead, her lips pale and trembling.
As he drove, Ethan tried to break the silence. “Where are you headed?”
The woman didn’t respond. Her silence gnawed at him. He glanced at her through the corner of his eye, and suddenly, her head snapped toward him. Her eyes—wide, black, and soulless—bore into his. She whispered, “He’s waiting for you.”
Confused and terrified, Ethan slammed on the brakes. But when he turned to her, the seat was empty.
His heart raced as he stared into the reviewer mirror. There, in the back seat, was a man, his face twisted in a sinister grin. Before Ethan could react, the figure lunged at him.
The car was found the next morning, engine still running, doors wide open. But Ethan was nowhere to be found. All that remained was a cold, damp hand-print on the passenger seat.
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