It started like any other drive—just me, the open road, and the steady hum of tires beneath me. But somewhere along that empty, unlit stretch of highway, the world shifted.

No lights. No other cars. Just an overwhelming darkness that swallowed everything, even my headlights. And then I saw her—standing by the road, thumb out, alone where no one should be.

Something in me hesitated. But I stopped.

She climbed in quietly, almost too quietly. Her voice was low when she finally spoke, sharing a chilling story about a man who picked up a hitchhiker… and vanished. Her face, just for a second, flickered in the dim light—off, wrong, not quite human.

As we drove, the air grew colder, sharper. When we reached the faint light of a gas station, she got out wordlessly. I looked back—she was still there, staring at me through the mirror. Her eyes, pitch-black and unblinking, locked onto mine.

That look has never left me.

I still don’t know what she was—a ghost, a warning, or something worse. But that night changed me. If you’re ever alone on a dark road, remember this: some rides aren’t meant to be given.