I never believed in ghosts. Not until that night on the desolate highway.
It was a typical autumn evening, the kind that sends a chill down your spine as you drive through miles of dense forest and winding roads. I was returning from a business trip, tired and eager to get home. The radio played static-filled tunes, the only company on that forsaken stretch of road.
As I navigated through the twists and turns, my headlights illuminated the silhouette of a lone figure by the roadside. A hitchhiker, thumb extended, standing in the glow of the dim streetlight. Against my better judgment, I pulled over.
The hitchhiker was a young woman, her features hidden beneath tangled, dark hair. She climbed into the passenger seat without a word, and I could barely make out her face in the shadows. “Thanks for stopping,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.
As we drove in silence, I stole glances at her. There was something off about her, an unsettling energy that lingered in the air. I decided to break the silence, asking her name and where she was headed. She replied with a soft, distant voice, “Call me Lily. I’m just trying to get home.”
I felt a shiver crawl down my spine, but I dismissed it as fatigue. The road ahead seemed to stretch endlessly, and the forest on either side whispered with unseen secrets. The radio continued to emit static, drowning out my attempts at conversation.
After what felt like hours, Lily abruptly asked me to stop. We were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by towering trees. “Here will do,” she said. Confused, I pulled over to the side of the road.
As Lily stepped out, she turned to me with hollow eyes. “Thank you for the ride,” she whispered, her voice now filled with an eerie echo. I watched, paralyzed, as she faded into the darkness of the forest.
Shaken, I drove away, the image of Lily lingering in my mind. I convinced myself it was exhaustion playing tricks on me, that ghosts weren’t real. But then things took a sinister turn.
For days, I was plagued by nightmares of Lily, her face contorted in agony. I awoke to scratches on my car, etched with words that sent chills down my spine. Messages like, “You shouldn’t have stopped” and “Now we’re connected.”
Desperation set in as I researched the history of that forsaken highway. It led me to a local legend—a young woman named Lily who died in a car accident while hitchhiking home. Her spirit, they said, wandered the road, forever seeking a way back.
Every night, Lily’s ghostly presence haunted me. I could feel her cold gaze, her whispers echoing in the silence. It became too much to bear. I had to share my story, to warn others of the ghostly hitchhiker on the abandoned highway. If you find yourself on a desolate road and see a figure in the shadows, drive on. Don’t stop, for the hitchhiker you pick up might not be as human as they seem.