I’ve been a taxi driver for over 15 years now. It’s not the most glamorous job, but I enjoy it nonetheless. I like the variety that comes with meeting new people every day. The stories they tell, the accents, the distant homes they left behind - all part of the rich tapestry of life that unfolds before me, one fare at a time. But sometimes, well, some stories leave a lasting impression, casting long shadows on your soul that even the morning sun struggles to erase. This is one of those stories.
It was a bitter winter night in Chicago. The city was caked in a layer of frost, twinkling under the harsh glare of street lights. Snow flurries pirouetted in the biting wind, while the rest of the world seemed to hibernate. That’s when I spotted him. A lone figure at the curb, hunched over, clad in a dark coat. A neon sign flickered above him, painting a spectral glow. I pulled over.
He got in with a nod, and I was immediately struck by his pale countenance. His eyes were of a vivid blue, almost luminescent in the dim light of the cab, and his face bore an otherworldly look of calm, as if he were detached from the frozen world outside. “North Clark Street, please,” he said in a soft voice.
As we navigated the icy streets, he remained silent. Every so often, I would catch him staring out of the window, his reflection caught in the cold glass. I tried to strike up a conversation, you know, to break the monotony. But he just nodded or hummed in response, lost in his thoughts.
As I took a turn around Astor Street, my cab’s headlights momentarily illuminated a road sign, and I noticed something strange. The man’s reflection in the rear-view mirror was distorted, almost blurred around the edges, as if the light refracted strangely around him. An unsettling chill gripped me, but I shrugged it off, blaming it on the long shift and the winter’s cold.
We reached the address he had given, an old Victorian building that stood in stark contrast to the modern condos surrounding it. Its windows were dark, looking hollow against the snowfall. The man handed me a crisp hundred-dollar bill, far too much for the ride. I tried to refuse, telling him it was too much, but he insisted. “Consider it a tip for your troubles,” he said. That’s when I saw it - his smile. It was hollow, not reaching his glacial eyes, more of a grimace than a sign of gratitude.
Just as he was about to get off, he turned around and said, “You’ll see me again, soon.” It wasn’t a request or a statement; it was a promise, said with a chilling certainty that made my skin crawl.
I watched as he disappeared into the building, leaving me alone with the humming engine and my swirling thoughts. That night, I lay awake in bed, his last words echoing in my mind, his icy gaze imprinted on my retinas. Little did I know that it was just the beginning of my journey into the inexplicable.
Unbeknownst to me, the passenger who wasn’t there had left a phantom presence in my cab, and my life was about to take a surreal turn.
The following nights were a blur of faces and fares. However, none of them bore the eerie calm of my spectral passenger. Yet his presence lingered in my cab, like a whisper of cold wind that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I’d often find the rear-view mirror slightly askew, the icy gaze of those blue eyes seeming to haunt its reflection.
It was nearly a week later when he reappeared. Same spot, same frosty evening, same ethereal calm about him. “Back to North Clark Street, please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow resonating above the city’s noise.
This time, I was more observant. I noticed how the city lights seemed to pass through him, casting no shadow on his face. How his breath didn’t fog up the cold windowpane, as if he was devoid of life’s warmth. Once again, his distorted reflection in the rear-view mirror unsettled me. The man sitting in the backseat of my cab was clearly not of this world, or at least not as we know it.
We reached the same Victorian house, the silence only interrupted by the drone of the cab’s engine and the occasional distant wail of a siren. He handed me another hundred-dollar bill, his icy fingers brushing against mine, sending a shiver down my spine. This time, he didn’t say anything. He merely nodded, a silent acknowledgment of our strange companionship, before disappearing into the darkness.
For weeks, this cycle continued. The spectral passenger would hail my cab every few nights, always at the same spot, asking to be driven to the same address. His presence was a cold void, his existence an enigma. I felt an uncanny connection with him, bound by our silent nocturnal journeys.
One day, curiosity got the better of me. I decided to explore the Victorian building. In broad daylight, it didn’t seem as ominous. It was just an old building, a relic from the past. However, as I approached the front door, my heart pounded in my chest. The house bore an air of desolation, its empty windows stared back at me like hollowed-out eyes.
I rang the doorbell, half expecting no one to answer. But, to my surprise, a frail old woman opened the door. Her eyes, faded with age, looked surprised to see a visitor. I explained about the man I’d been dropping off at this address for weeks, describing his vivid blue eyes, his icy demeanor. Her reaction was not what I anticipated. Her face turned ashen, her hands trembled as she gripped the door for support. Her next words left me colder than any Chicago winter night.
“That sounds like my son, Edward. But…that can’t be,” she stammered. “Edward has been dead for five years.”
Her words hit me like a freight train. Dead? For five years? Yet, I’d been driving this ‘Edward’ around for weeks now. The old woman, Mary, invited me in, her hands still trembling. We sat in a room filled with aged furniture and framed photos. One of them caught my eye - a man with vivid blue eyes. Edward.
As Mary recounted her story, I learned that Edward had been an adventurous soul, always seeking the thrill of the unknown. Tragically, he’d lost his life in a mountaineering expedition, his body never found. In his memory, Mary had preserved his room as it was. She hadn’t stepped outside the house much since then, living with her son’s phantom in her heart.
Suddenly, the past weeks started making an eerie sense - the man with no breath, the unexplainable chill, the distorted reflection, and his strange assertion that I’d see him again. I’d been a taxi driver for the spectral passenger who wasn’t there - for Edward.
That night, as the snow began to fall again, I found myself waiting at the same spot. The neon sign buzzed overhead, the cold wind howling through the deserted streets. And just like clockwork, he appeared.
In the rear-view mirror, his ghostly figure was a blur. But his eyes shone with the same intensity. This time, I drove in silence, his destination already known. I pulled up in front of the Victorian building, its silhouette looming in the night.
As Edward handed me the hundred-dollar bill, I held onto his cold hand. Looking him in the eye, I said, “I met your mother today, Edward.”
He paused, his icy gaze meeting mine. Then, for the first time, I saw an emotion in them - surprise, followed by a profound sadness. He didn’t utter a word, just nodded, his ghostly figure fading as he walked towards the house.
That was the last time I saw Edward. His spectral presence vanished from my cab, and I was left with just the memory of those cold winter nights. I continued to drive through the city, a silent observer of life and its countless stories.
Every so often, I’d pass by the old Victorian house. Each time, I could see Mary through the window, a silent figure living in the world of memories. And in my heart, I would thank Edward for a reminder - a reminder that sometimes, we taxi drivers are more than just a ride home. We are the keepers of stories, living and beyond, conduits for those seeking a way back, even if for a fleeting moment.
We are the companions to the passengers who are, and to those who aren’t there.