It was past midnight when Mark drove home from a late shift, taking the long highway that cut through the rice fields. The road was empty, the air thick with fog. His headlights pierced through the mist and that’s when he saw her. A young woman stood in the middle of the road, drenched, barefoot, her hair covering her face. She raised one trembling hand, as if asking for help.
Mark slammed on the brakes but it was too late.
The impact shook the car. He jumped out in panic, but when he looked around, there was no body. No sign of anyone at all. Only the faint smell of rust and the sound of dripping water.
Shaken, he drove away fast. But the road ahead suddenly stretched longer, darker, and the air grew heavy. His rearview mirror caught movement someone sitting quietly in the backseat.
Her pale face stared back at him through the mirror, eyes hollow and black, blood trickling down her forehead.
“Why didn’t you stop for me?” she whispered.
Mark’s car was found the next morning engine still running, headlights on, doors wide open. No one ever found him.
Now, drivers say if you pass Kilometer 66 between midnight and 3 AM, you’ll see her standing by the road, waiting.
If you don’t stop she’ll make sure you do.
