The road stretched on forever behind, a ribbon of asphalt in the wild. It was that kind of road, that long, uninteresting road that seemed to lead nowhere, and yet to lead everywhere at one and the same time, i.e., to be everywhere. The sound of the machine mixed with the sharp sound of swishes of winds against a shattered glass window façade.
12 PM. The side streets were faster, but also empty just like her head. She had heard tales of such roads, tales too suggestive to be spoken aloud in the quietude of a family holiday, or during the mischievous reticence of a child’s play, “secretly” at school. Ghost stories. Urban legends. But she dismissed them as nonsense. Farah wasn’t the type to scare easily.
Her phone’s screen lit up on the passenger seat, a message from her friend Amna asking if she’d made it home yet. Farah just blocked it out; texting at the wheel wasn’t a good idea, especially on a road such as this.
Once the car lights hit the night, a human could be seen far off at the roadside. Farah’s heart skipped a beat. A guy of regular size but slim and tall carried a knapsack over one shoulder and used his thumb like a taxi light to indicate a direction.
“Never pick up strangers, beta. There may be an unknown number there and an unknown quantity of items in their clutch, for example. But something about the man seemed harmless. His face was drawn, almost cadaverous and his clothes were dirty, as if he’d been already walking for hours. The pang of pity outweighed her caution.
The car moved very smoothly in reverse while she very cautiously pulled down the window slowly, with a feeling of uneasiness. “Need a lift?” she called out.
The man nodded; his expression weary. “If it’s not too much trouble. I’ve been walking for hours.”
Farah opened the passenger side door and the man got in putting the backpack at his feet. The air temperature in the car dropped when he sat on the seat. She looked at him, and glimpsed the series of deep lines that ran down his face, as well as the sunk look in the way his eyes stared back at her.
“Where are you headed?” Farah asked, her voice light.
“Just down the road,” he replied. I’ll tell you when to stop, the voice was quiet and steady,” the man’s voice said.
Farah nodded and pulled back onto the road. For a while, neither of them spoke. Silence, absolute, was punctuated by the rhythmic hiss of the tires on the pavement. Farah knew of the location of the observer’s gaze, but whenever she saw it, the subject looked at the fact that lay in front of him.
“What brings you out here so late? she finally asked, trying to ease the tension.
The man hesitated before answering. “Looking for something,” he said cryptically.
Farah raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. People hitchhike for all sorts of reasons, she told herself. It wasn’t her place to pry.
Meanwhile, driven by Farah’s attention, the car temperature drops and drops. She adjusted the heater, but it made no difference. The effect of that cold, deep penetration into her marrow, all the way along her axis numbing her to everything. She nervously rubbed her arms, stealing a quick glance at the man again. He sat just with the hands hanging loosely in the lap.
“Are you cold?” she asked.
“No,” he said, his voice flat.
Farah shivered and focused on the road. The low beams of headlamps stretched across the right and left of the road trees, naked branches scraping the sky. The fear she’d been holding inside suddenly boiled over. Something about this ride felt wrong.
Suddenly, the man spoke. “You should turn left up ahead.”
Farah frowned. “There’s nothing down that road. Just more woods.”
“Please,” he insisted, his tone sharper. “It’s important.”
Against her better judgment, Farah complied. As soon as she obtained onto the narrower street the car’s tires got onto gravel. They made them smaller, tree trunks became gestures, even as they contorted and contorted an odd creature all around and above them.
“Stop here,” the man said abruptly.
Farah slammed on the brakes and the car went skidding to a full stop about kerning with a scream. The man got hold of his knapsack, and for a second, she thought he might grab something in the way of a gun. He opened the door without a word and walked out in silence.
“Wait here,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“Just wait.”
Before she could utter a word, the man vanished into the shadowy embrace of the trees. Farah listened with a mute mouth, her fingers in the center of the steering wheel so tight, that the knuckles turned white. Minutes passed one by one, getting ever more oppressive. Another beep went on her phone in the car, but she just ignored him/her and went past. Her focus was on the darkness beyond the windshield.
An explosion of noise caused her to jump–a thud and then sounds of something heavy being dragged. Farah’s breath hitched. She put it out, looking out to the darkness but not a thing to be observed. Panic set in. She seized the gear lever, with the aim of getting rid of the stranger, however the stranger steps out of the wood. His countenance seemed wan; his eyes protruded with an unnatural intensity.
“Drive,” he said, climbing back into the car.
“What happened? What’s going on?”
“Just drive!” he snapped.
Farah obeyed, her heart racing. Sedentary man’s hands were shaking and shallow breathing. She saw a dark smudge on his shirt, but she did not dare to enquire about it. Panic holds her prisoner in the grip of a python, constricting her tighter and tighter with each passing second.
Unhurriedly, pompously, in a nearly automatonlike voice, while moving on the main street a man started to talk. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Farah glanced at him, startled by the question. “Not really. Why?”
He let out a bitter laugh. “You should.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine. “What do you mean?”
The man didn’t answer. He, however, got back into the seat and closed his eyes. Farah’s mind raced with possibilities. Was he dangerous? Was he running from something? Or someone?
Farah’s car headlights cut the view and Farah stomped on the brakes. In the middle of the road there stood a figure under the harsh light. There caught a woman with hair out of order and tattered clothes. She raised a hand, gesturing for them to stop
Farah’s pulse thundered in her ears. “What do we do?” she whispered.
The man’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t stop,” he said urgently. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”
Farah paused, her foot hovering over the gas pedal. The woman’s face was ashen, her gaze frantic. She looked directly at Farah, mouthing the word “Help.”
“We can’t just leave her!” Farah cried.
That’s irrelevant,’ the voice said, cold and sharp. “If you stop, you’ll regret it.”
Torn between compassion and fear, Farah made her decision. She slammed the gas, and the car tore down the street. The woman screamed, and the scream resonated through the night but Farah stood rooted.
“You did the right thing,” the man rumored vocally.
Farah wasn’t so sure. Her arms trembled and she tightened the wheel grip on the handle, literally replaying in her mind the woman’s face.
Having waited what seemed forever, the man resumed speaking. “You can let me out here.”
Farah pulled over; her nerves frayed. The man grabbed hold of his pack and opened the door.
Touching the door, he turned to her, looking grave.
not everything on these roads is alive.”
With that, he vanished into the night, leaving Farah alone with her racing thoughts. For a few seconds she stayed perfectly still, but it took some time to regain the respiratory rate, so it felt. She moved the car out of park and backed into drive, left and right down the road, every shadow and every gleam.
Also Read: The Girl Who Followed Me Home
At last arriving at the house, Farah brought the car to the driveway, shut the doors, and her hands continued to tremble. Nevertheless, she lay in bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind was haunted by the man’s words, the woman’s face, and the chilling realization that some urban legends might be more than just stories.
Some rides are totally off limits, and some people are not to be picked up by the cab.