This story happened about four years ago in Yogyakarta, Indonesia — a city still surrounded by sacred places and old mysteries.
There had been a tragic bus accident on a winding mountain road. Everyone on board was killed instantly. After that, some locals claimed they could still hear people screaming at night — voices full of pain, fading into the wind.
Time passed, and the story slowly disappeared.
Three years later, my wife and I drove along that same road late at night in our sedan. Every 25 meters, a streetlight would pass behind us, glowing faintly in the rear-view mirror. We were simply enjoying the mountain drive, chatting softly, not thinking about anything… and no one was sitting in the back seat.
Then suddenly, our conversation stopped.
I saw something — a dark silhouette in the rear-view mirror, blocking the light of the streetlamp we had just passed. My chest tightened — fear mixed with curiosity. I looked again at the next light, and the shadow was still there. It looked like someone sitting right in the middle of the back seat… but I could only see its outline.
I glanced at my wife. She was silent, like holding her breath, staring straight ahead. I said nothing — I didn’t want to scare her.
With each passing streetlight, the figure remained. Only I could see it — the angle of the mirror aligned perfectly with my eyes and that shadow.
After about five streetlights, we turned a corner and began to see the lights of nearby houses. Suddenly, I felt the car lift slightly — the suspension rising as if a weight had just been lifted… or as if someone had quietly stepped out.
The shadow was gone.
I gathered my courage and turned around. The back seat was empty — only a tumbler and two packs of snacks lay there.
Then my wife broke the silence.
“Did you feel it too?” she asked softly.
“I saw it… in the mirror,” I replied.
She nodded, her voice trembling.
“I smelled blood. That’s why I held my breath.”
