It was a hot, summer day - the type of day when the heat radiates off the asphalt, and you could fry an egg on the hood of a car.
I received a call from a new client, a lady called Mrs. Turner. There was something eerily calm about her voice as she asked me to come clean her car, located on the outskirts of town. I loaded my gear and set off. Her place was tucked away in a seclusion I never knew existed, surrounded by a thicket of dense forest that made the afternoon light slant and dappled. As I pulled up, I noticed her car, a pristine, midnight black 1968 Mustang, sitting in the driveway. The sight of the car made my heart skip a beat - not from fear, but from the sheer beauty of it.
“BE CAREFUL WITH IT!” Mrs. Turner’s shrill voice echoed from the porch, jolting me from my trance. She was a frail woman, her white hair framing a sunken face.
“I certainly will, Mrs. Turner,” I replied, setting up my gear.
As I started my work, I realized the car was already impeccably clean. No dust, no smudges, not a speck out of place. The thought of this unnerved me, but I shrugged it off as the eccentricity of a rich old woman.
But as I leaned into the dark interior, a CHILL raced down my spine. It was icy cold inside, a stark contrast to the sweltering summer day. I shook off the unease and started cleaning. That’s when I found the first note. It was tucked beneath the driver’s seat, a simple piece of paper with three words, written in neat cursive: “Beware the Passenger”.
I stared at the note in my hand. “Beware the Passenger”. I brushed it off as some strange joke, not uncommon in my line of work. I decided to ask Mrs. Turner, but as I looked up, I saw her watching me from her house, her frail silhouette framed in the doorway. The way she looked at me… it was as if she was afraid. Of what, I didn’t know. With a growing sense of dread, I decided to continue cleaning.
As I moved to the backseat, a strange, metallic smell filled the air. The car’s interior was spotless, not a stain in sight. Yet, the sickly-sweet scent of decay clung to the leather seats. I started to feel dizzy, my hands trembling, my heart pounding in my chest.
In my fear, I dropped my cloth onto the floor of the car. Bending down to pick it up, I found the second note. It was stuck to the underside of the seat. “He’s WATCHING YOU,” it read.
My mind raced. Who was watching me? Was it a joke? Or something far more sinister? My hands were shaking now, my pulse echoing loudly in my ears. I shot a glance at Mrs. Turner. She was still in the doorway, her hollow gaze fixed on me. For a moment, I thought I saw fear in her eyes.
I considered packing up and leaving right there and then, but a strange determination took hold of me. There was one last part of the car to clean - the trunk. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my pounding heart. Ignoring the sinking feeling in my gut, I opened the trunk.
It was empty, but the metallic smell was stronger now, mingling with the scent of old leather and rust. And there, stuck to the roof of the trunk was the third note. It read, “YOU’RE NEXT”. The words were scrawled hastily, as if the writer was in a rush… or in fear.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain at the back of my head and then… blackness.
When I came to, the world was shrouded in DARKNESS. I tried to move, but my hands and feet were bound. I was in the trunk of the Mustang. Panic surged through me like a tidal wave, adrenaline kicking in as I struggled against my bonds. But they were tight, cutting into my skin.
My mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion. Who had knocked me out? Mrs. Turner? Or the mysterious ‘Passenger’? As I lay there, cramped and terrified, the car’s engine roared to life, the vibrations shaking my already frail body.
I was petrified, the fear a heavy stone in my stomach. I could barely think, let alone find a way out. But I had to, I had to survive. Despite the terror flooding my senses, I wriggled and squirmed, finally managing to free my hands.
Then, as I was about to make a move, the car came to an abrupt halt, and the engine went silent. I froze, listening. Footsteps approached the car, growing louder, then stopping. I held my breath, waiting. A deafening silence fell over everything, and then… the trunk opened.
I was met with the disturbing sight of Mrs. Turner, her frail figure bathed in the moonlight. Her face was devoid of emotion, her eyes hollow. I felt a chill run down my spine. This old, seemingly fragile woman had managed to bind me and put me in the trunk of a car.
“Time to meet the Passenger,” she said, her voice ice-cold. Her words echoed in my head, sending a fresh wave of fear through me. What did she mean by that?
She stepped aside, and that’s when I saw him. A man, shrouded in shadows, stepping forward from the darkness of the forest. It was the first time I felt a real, tangible presence. And let me tell you, it was far from comforting.
The man was huge, easily over six feet tall, his broad shoulders towering over Mrs. Turner. As he stepped into the moonlight, I could see his face – or what was left of it. It was distorted, like melted wax, with deep, dark pits for eyes. My heart pounded against my ribcage like a wild drum. Fear coursed through my veins, chilling me to the bone.
“Meet Mr. Turner,” she said, her voice cracking a little, “the eternal passenger of this car.” A flash of sorrow passed over her face as she spoke, replaced quickly by the same cold, emotionless expression.
Panic surged through me. This couldn’t be real. It felt like a nightmare. I was stuck in a car trunk, tied up, with a monstrous man looming over me.
In that moment, I knew I had to escape. I squirmed around, trying to reach into my pocket where I kept a small pocket knife. The bonds cut into my wrists, blood trickling down my hands, but I didn’t care. I could feel the cold metal of the knife against my fingertips, my only hope in this horrifying situation.
Just as my fingers closed around the knife, Mr. Turner lunged at me. “I’LL TAKE YOU TO HELL WITH ME!” he roared, his voice a horrifying cacophony. His hands reached out, his fingers gnarled and twisted, ready to wrap around my throat.
In a desperate move, I swung the knife, cutting through the ropes around my feet. I kicked out, my foot connecting with Mr. Turner’s distorted face. He stumbled back, giving me just enough time to scramble out of the trunk.
My heart pounded in my chest as I ran, the blood rushing in my ears drowning out the sound of Mr. Turner’s enraged screams. I ran for what felt like an eternity, not daring to look back, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
Finally, I saw lights. Houses. People. I was back in town. But even as relief washed over me, I knew one thing for certain - this nightmare was far from over.
I reached the police station, panting, shaking, my clothes soaked in sweat and blood. They listened, their faces growing paler as I recounted my horrifying experience. A team was dispatched immediately, and I was taken to the hospital.
As I lay in the hospital bed, my body aching and my mind in turmoil, a terrifying thought crept into my mind. What if they didn’t find them? What if Mr. and Mrs. Turner disappeared back into the shadows? I shuddered at the thought, my heart hammering in my chest.
Days turned into weeks. My physical wounds healed, but the mental scars remained. Every night was a battle against sleep, fear gripping me at the thought of nightmares that awaited in the darkness. Every sound, every shadow would set my heart racing. My once ordinary life was now consumed by fear and paranoia.
One day, a detective came to see me. His face was ashen, his eyes weary. They had found Mrs. Turner. She was dead, her frail body found in the same spot where I had left her. But of Mr. Turner, or the ominous Mustang, there was no sign.
This news did nothing to alleviate my fears. It only confirmed them. Mr. Turner was out there, somewhere, his threat still hanging over me like a dark cloud. A fear I could not escape.
It has been a year since that day. My life has changed. I no longer run a mobile car wash. I have moved to a different town, started a new life. But I am still haunted by that fear, that Mr. Turner, the horrifying Passenger, might find me again.
So here I am, sharing my tale, a warning to everyone. If you ever come across a black 1968 Mustang on the outskirts of town, do not approach it. DO NOT clean it. Because you might just become the next passenger. And trust me, it is a journey you do not want to embark on.
And if you think that was the end of my story, then you’re mistaken. Because the real horror is what haunts me now, in my day-to-day life.
Every time I see a black car, I freeze. Every time I hear an engine roar, my heart skips a beat. I can’t escape the fear, the paranoia that he’s still out there, waiting for me. Waiting for his chance to take me as his next passenger.
And then came the day I received a letter in the mail. No return address, no indication of who sent it. Inside was a single piece of paper, and written on it, in the same neat cursive that had haunted me for over a year, were three words: “I’M STILL WAITING.”
The world seemed to stop spinning. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, feel my heartbeat quicken. The message was clear, and it was for me. Mr. Turner was still out there, and he hadn’t forgotten about me.
I moved again, changed my name, did everything I could to disappear from his radar. But the fear, the anxiety, never left me. Every shadow became a hiding place, every stranger a potential enemy.
And every night, I can’t help but look out the window, half expecting to see a black Mustang parked outside, waiting.
If you’re listening to this, know that what happened to me was real. The Passenger is real, and he’s out there, WAITING. So, stay safe, and remember my warning. Because fear isn’t always about the monsters under your bed or the ghosts in your closet. Sometimes, it’s about the monstrous humans who can turn a seemingly normal day into your worst nightmare.