Please note: this story was provided by the author and published as is.
It’s taking everything in me to write this right now.
My hands are shaking, shit—I can’t get them to stop. I haven’t been able to eat, or sleep, and, and I’m scared, you know? Scared because I don’t understand what happened to me that night, or what I saw out there, moving through the snow…
It’s been a month since I was found. But it doesn’t feel that long. I blink and I’m back there, cold and alone, and running for my life—If only I hadn’t been so small, so stupid, and silent, and—
Look, I shouldn’t have accepted the rideshare. And the worst part? I knew that.
I knew that even before the driver had arrived. I could feel it in my gut then just as I feel it now—My lizard brain was screaming, and shouting, and—
Still, I opened the back door and slid in…
So that’s why I’m doing this. That’s why I have to write this. Because maybe you’re like me. Maybe at some point in your life, you’ve thought standing up for yourself was inconvenient or impolite—Maybe you were too afraid to do anything.
I need you to remember my story the next time you feel something is wrong. Maybe they’re looking at you a minute too long, or maybe there’s a voice in your head telling you something is wrong (with you).
When this happens, and God forbid it does, I need you to choose better than I did. Be weird, or rude, or whatever else you need to be, but choose your instincts over everything else.
Because the night I didn’t, I climbed into the backseat of a rideshare from hell.
[/-|-\]
It happened on the last night of my stay.
I was at a tech conference pitching AI products to development teams. The conference rotates annually, and this year it was held in a small, northeastern town I’d never heard of.
On the last night of the conference, my team stayed late to help with take down, and once we were finally done, all my coworkers wanted to celebrate by going out for drinks.
I almost went with them… Almost.
But I was so exhausted and drained from networking all weekend. My back hurt, my feet ached, and I wanted nothing more but to rip off my bra and veg out in my hotel room.
So, I told my coworkers to go ahead without me, and to be safe and have fun. I waved goodbye as they all piled into their rideshare—and took off.
Then, I called one of my own…
I was immediately matched with a nearby driver.
The rideshare app on my phone showed they were just a few minutes away. So, I tied my trench coat around me, slung my purse over my shoulder, and sat on the wooden bench by the curb.
… As the minutes passed, I watched attendees jump into cars of their own and disappear down the street. Pretty soon, there were only five of us stragglers left. Then there were four of us, then three, two…
Then, it was just me…
By this point a light snow was starting to fall and the wind had picked up, cutting through my clothes and chilling me to the core. I pulled my coat tighter and wondered what was taking the driver so long?—I thought he was just a few minutes away.
I refreshed the rideshare app on my phone, checking the map which showed their location. It looked like he had stopped about a mile up the road. I waited another minute, refreshed the app again, but still, his car had not moved.
What was he doing? Did he really think I was going to trudge a mile through snow in kitten heels and walk all the way to him?
Frustrated, I opened the messaging window in the app and asked the driver if he could come over to the designated pick-up location.
… A minute went by. Then another, and another.
Fuming, I tried calling him through the app, but it went straight to voicemail. I was getting so angry I was about to cancel the ride—when he typed back a message…
As you wish 🙂
I… didn’t like that reply. I especially didn’t like the smiley face he added at the end. Whether it was altruistic or sarcastic (which is how I took it), the message just rubbed me the wrong way. But in the app, I saw that his car had started moving in my direction… so I didn’t cancel the ride.
I had waited almost half an hour by that point, and the thought of starting over and waiting even longer for another driver nearly killed me. All I wanted was to get out of that frigin’ cold and into my hotel.
At last, bright high beams pierced through the snow, and the black sedan I had been waiting so long for pulled to a stop.
I stood up… but I didn’t move towards the car…
The vehicle before me was reminiscent of a damaged, deformed creature that had, at long last, finally found a moment’s rest. Starting from the back, a huge, deep dent ran along the right side of the car, stretching from the trunk all the way to the passenger-side mirror. A poorly placed stick figure family adorned the same window, peeled in half. And the glass, though fully intact, was so tinted I couldn’t make out the slightest silhouette. A slew of smoke billowed out of the exhaust, like the car itself was breathing heavily.
I’d taken so many rideshares in my life, I knew that it was usually at this point when the driver rolled down the window and asked for your name to confirm the ride.
… That wasn’t the case.
The car just sat there. Unmoving, unbothered.
I checked the app and it showed that my driver had indeed arrived. This was the correct car; the make, model, and license plate matched everything in the app.
I took a deep breath… And I was just about to take a step forward—when a loud and throaty, mechanical growl threw me back!
… It took me a minute to realize: The driver was revving the engine—and hard.
I was shocked. And I remember: that was the moment when I felt things change; when my unease blossomed into apprehension. Sure, the waiting around and creepy text was annoying, but revving his engine at me? It just didn’t feel right.
And I knew that. I really, really knew that.
But before I could change my mind, before I could think about cancelling the ride again—the driver rolled down the window, half cackled or coughed, then called out my name…
And what happened next was a knee-jerk reaction, caused by a lifetime of polite conditioning:
I stepped forward. I confirmed the ride.
Then, I opened the back door and slid into the seat.
And that was it. I wish I could tell you I was brave enough to trust my gut, or strong enough to wait in the cold…
But I wasn’t…
And I didn’t…
Because even though my situation felt wrong, I didn’t want to believe it. Those are two very different things, you know? Like, you can say you believe in monsters, but the second you actually might be crossing paths with one, you try and rationalize all the reasons why it’s not real, and—
Look, it doesn’t really matter anymore, anyway. Because whether I wanted to or not, I did get into the backseat of that black sedan. And once I closed the door behind me, the drive began.
[/-|-\]
The first thing that hit me was the smell.
A combination of BO and fast-food leftovers tainted the air. Looking around, there were so many wrappers and takeout bags that my feet could hardly touch the floor. And in the seat next to me there sat a mound of crumpled clothes covered in cat hair—all of which rendered the many, many little tree air-fresheners dangling from the rearview mirror completely and utterly useless.
A lumpy pillow wrapped in a thin, stain-covered sheet was sandwiched between the driver’s seat and back seat, giving me the impression this guy was living out of his car.
And not just any car, but an old car, like pre-21st century. There was no touchscreen navigation, no screen. Instead, in the center console, there was only a basic stereo. Above that a cracked Android phone hung on a plastic grip.
My eyes traveled up the dashboard. And strangely, pinned against the window, was a purple, stuffed bunny—its black button eyes staring at nothing and me.
I was so transfixed by the rabbit that it took me a second to notice the fingers tilting it upright. But once I saw them, I saw him—all of him.
Huge, broad shoulders. Greasy, curly hair. Sitting slumped against the wheel. Even hunched over, the top of his head nearly touched the ceiling.
I’d like to say the driver was in his mid-to-late fifties, but I couldn’t be sure—because his face was covered in a blue and white Covid mask.
After coughing up seaweed, the driver reached for the stereo and ejected a physical CD—I hadn’t seen a CD in years. I watched him slip the disc into its cover. I could barely read the title, but what bits I could read like the slogan for a self-help book: “Something… Something… A Guide To You”?
Well, from the looks of his car alone, my guess is he needed more than a few affirmations to dig himself out.
But… what was it to me? I mean if anything that was the one reassuring element; the fact this guy was seeking help. He knows he has a problem. His preference of podcast shows a sense of… “self-awareness.”
… Hm—listen to me… I sound like I’m giving a Ted-Talk on social intolerance… Here I am acting like it was my “humanity” that screwed me over… When really, I am just coward…
I should have been more careful. I should have been honest with myself.
I lied—I told myself, “You’re not afraid. You’re a good person. You don’t judge people like that. So what’s there to fear?” I closed my eyes—wishing to myself. “The hotel is so close—can’t you feel the steam from that hot shower?”
And so… I started going through the motions. I clicked on my seatbelt, crossed my legs, and clutched my purse in my lap. And I told myself, “There’s nothing to fear but fear itself.”
Once I was settled in, I noticed—in the rearview mirror, the driver was staring at me.
… I shifted in my seat, dodging his eyes. I looked down at my hands, adjusted the ring on my middle finger, then looked back up again… He was still staring at me.
This time, I tried smiling and gave a thumbs up, kind of like, ‘okay! I’m ready to go!’
… But the car stayed in park…
Now that little voice in the back of my head said, “I told you…”
But before I could even reach for a handle, he broke the silence. In a voice that was somewhat feathery and soft, the diver asked: Do you want AC or windows?
Now it was my turn to stare…
The question caught me off guard, and like, was it not snowing outside?
Stammering, I told him that I was cold—actually, like really cold—and wondered if he could maybe turn up the heat?
… Another long and awkward silence stretched between us.
Then, he said: As you wish.
There it was again, that damn phrase.
Look, I don’t know if he was on the spectrum, really tired, or just lacking serious social skills but I was nearly on the verge of saying, “You know what! I forgot my other coat in the conference room! And my wallet was inside, so I gotta go back, but don’t worry! Because I’ll still pay you the full fee—and tip! And a 5-star review!”
But then he cranked up the heat, started his GPS, and shifted into drive—The rabbit’s head flopping to one side as he made a sudden U-Turn.
And off we went…
[/-|-\]
We drove slow, and we drove in silence. Or almost silence.
The driver kept the stereo off, and so for the longest time there was nothing but the sounds of tires humming, wipers running, and my driver occasionally hacking out his lungs.
The road ahead was dark, so dark, in fact, that the white lines defining our path were little more than suggestions. The snow was bleak and bleary, and thus far not a single car had passed us… Not one.
All along the way, I kept looking at the rideshare app, checking the map as it refreshed every few handful-of-seconds. It was almost midnight and we were less than ten minutes from my hotel. Though I knew already, it was gonna be a long ten minutes.
In-between coughing fits, my driver would often sigh—almost moan. Sometimes I’d catch him mumbling (whole sentences) like he might’ve been on a phone call; except I never saw his earbuds (if he was wearing them). He kept muttering like he was trying to stay awake. And every so often I thought I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. But then he’d quickly look away. Maybe I was staring first. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe we were just two normal strangers driving in a car trying to gauge if the other one was safe.
Pretending like I was busy, I started scrolling through my messages. I saw that my brother had texted me—checking in, like always. I tried typing a reply, explaining the “awkward situation” I found myself in—but as soon as I clicked the little green button for ‘send,’ a message bounced back:
“Failed to deliver”
The status line at the top of my phone kept toggling between one bar and “No Service” … I must have sighed (I don’t remember sighing) but just then my driver turned his head and asked, “What was that?”
He was staring at me again. I looked at him, confused.
I noticed his phone still had connection—Or at least his maps were still going (thank God). The driver was staring at me, so I forced myself to look out the window, as not to give the slightest impression that I wanted to chitchat. But of course, this had the opposite effect—And in my silence the driver saw his chance to ask, “going home or going out?”
I had to physically stop myself from biting my tongue. That sounds mean, but at the time there was a strong part of me that really, really did not want to talk to some guy who whispers to his beanie-bunny.
“I’m meeting coworkers at our hotel,” I said.
I played it short, professional—A dead end to the conversation. It was a lie of course; My coworkers were at the bar, and I was alone.
Then he asked what I did for work. I told him, “AI Development.”
He asked what that’s like. I told him, “Boring.”
Then he asked where I’m from, whether I liked it there, whether I’d ever move.
Then he asked if I had family. I told him, “Yes.”
Then he stopped asking questions. And it was so quiet that I could hear his centuries old car-seat shifting with his weight.
I opened the rideshare app and had just clicked the “on-trip reporting” tool when the driver let out a heavy sigh. Then, he began apologizing profusely. Rambling, he told me, no one talks to him, that his family wants nothing to do with him, that he’s all alone out here, the driving kept him going though, paid the bills, but the medical stuff stacks up, but he would push through, that’s life, the driving kept him going, it’s all he does now, it’s all he can do, it’s what keeps him going, and on and on, pouring out all his troubles like I was his therapist.
I didn’t know what to say… So I didn’t say anything.
… Eventually, it got quiet again. This time his eyes stayed on the road. It was hard for me to tell but he might have been… crying.
I felt like such a jerk—a self-righteous, judgy prick. Yes, I felt uncomfortable. Yes, his questions were pushing on inappropriate. But he was just a loner clearly going through some stuff. And instead of being sympathetic, I was right about to report him.
I hated that I was always one wrong word or one bad look away from panic mode.
The rideshare showed we were only five minutes away from my hotel. I told myself, I could be a little less of a God-damn idiot for five minutes.
… And then, it happened.
A few minutes before we arrived, a bright, unmistakable incoming call rang throughout the car. I looked up at dash and saw three words, in all-caps, flash across the screen: “DO NOT ANSWER”.
As if on instinct, the driver reached toward the phone, then hesitated. He withdrew his hand, and the call rang and rang until it went to voicemail.
There were a few seconds of peace… then, that same high-pitched ringing—that same number. “DO NOT ANSWER” cut across the screen.
This time, the driver pressed decline. But right as he hung up, the same call appeared. He hung up—again, and again. Whoever it was called like TEN times. Clearly, it was someone he knew; DO NOT ANSWER was in his contacts, a name he must have added. Was it his landlord? An ex-girlfriend?
Meanwhile, I was sitting in the back holding onto my seatbelt because the calls kept coming and the car was speeding up. The driver was muttering under his breath now—Shut Up! Shut Up!—and wiping his eyes, and half-punching the steering wheel. At least once, I felt the car drift as he fought with his phone.
I thought about asking if we should pull over, so he could take a minute, compose himself—but… I ended up saying nothing… And I remember that very clearly. I chose to say nothing, because I was too nervous, too afraid, too much of an asshole. The phone calls were embarrassing enough, and I didn’t want to make him feel worse.
I wish I had though. I wish now, more than ever, that I had spoken up. Because it only got worse from there.
The next time the phone rang, the driver didn’t even bother hanging up. He simply squeezed the phone like he wanted to strangle it, holding down the power button until it shut off. And as my hotel directions disappeared… the driver started sobbing.
He was more than unwell. He was grinding the steering wheel with his grip, cursing himself through gritted teeth. And I just sat there, watching this man dissolve in his self-hatred.
You don’t know yourself until you hear the gunshots. Some people run for cover. Some people offer help. And in that moment, I just froze, like a useless waste of life.
My driver shot a look at me. In the rearview mirror his eyes were red, his face mask stained from all the crying: “What did you just say???”
I didn’t say anything… I don’t think I said anything—Did I?
Words were caught in my throat. “Don’t be a threat,” I thought to myself, “Don’t piss him off.” But the way he looked at me, it was the way I looked at him, anxious and confused… We were in a silent staring match, neither of us saying anything…
Then, he blinked…
I can’t say how or what, but just then I saw something shift behind his eyes—like he woke up from a coma to hear his own heart flatlining…
He apologized and turned forward…
There was nothing in his voice that was threatening—or even pleading. It was not asking for forgiveness. It was just two words. A regret. A quiet, “I’m sorry.”
His eyes stared dead ahead. Once again, we were consumed by absolute silence…
… My heart was pounding out of my chest—I could very well damn feel it. I needed to get out of that car, I didn’t know how much more I could take.
I checked my phone. Still no service.
Then I went into the rideshare app.
… I almost screamed out loud.
According to the map, the driver had just missed our left turn. The arrival time had increased by seven whole minutes.
I thought, “You HAVE to say something.”
The longer I stayed in that car, the longer my life was at risk.
In a shaky voice, I brought up that it looked like he had missed a few turns, and that I still had the map open in the app and could help navigate, if he wanted me to.
I remember the driver shaking his head. And I remember what he said next, because it felt like someone took a knife and cut my stomach open.
In a small, unassuming voice he said: We’re taking a shortcut.
I checked the map—I triple checked the map. It clearly showed we were going the wrong way. Like, painstakingly, crystal clear, no-doubt-about-it, going the wrong way. The hotel was miles behind us now and there was no way this road led to—
Right then, the driver shifted the car into another gear, stepped on the gas, and accelerated forward. My head swung back, my seatbelt tightening over my chest—I remember the little toy rabbit falling on its side. And it was at that moment exactly when I knew, it was all over… In spite of all the red flags, I chose to stay in this metal deathtrap steered by a madman.
He took off his mask now, still muttering to himself. I couldn’t tell what he was saying—but the way his lips were moving, it looked like he was reciting a prayer or song, because he was repeating the same phrase over and over again. Both his hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard, the whites of his knuckles looked like they were seconds from splitting open.
I had no cell service, still—I couldn’t call for help.
“I could offer him a tip,” I thought. “How truly fucking stupid are you?”—Like he cares about ‘customer satisfaction’.
“I could fight.”—You have to fight.
I pulled out my phone and started recording. And I thought to myself, “God, if this is my last message, please don’t let anyone see it—don’t let anyone see how scared and pathetic I am.”
Instead of fighting him, jumping out of the car, or searching for a weapon, I held the camera close to my chest and told him I was scared. I wanted him to drop me off—Now please. I told him I don’t want anyone to get in trouble. I told him, if you don’t stop the car or—slow down! …
“Stop the car— please!”
“I’m RECORDING this!!!”
I was almost ready to beg. I was holding my phone up to his face—He kept swatting it away, scratching at his ear and shouting, “Shut Up!”
Then, what happened next happened so fast, I wasn’t ready for it…
I wasn’t ready for him to reach back—and grab my phone…
I wasn’t ready for him to roll down the window—and unleash a wave of snow…
And I wasn’t ready for my phone to be thrown—and swallowed whole by the night itself.
. . .
… I never saw where it landed, we were moving too fast. But I remember the blast of ice-cold air on my skin—before the window rolled back up… I remember sheer panic coursing through me. And I remember thinking—I was going to die.
I was going to die because—he just threw my phone out of the car he just threw my phone out of the car he just threw my phone out of the car…
Once again, we were sitting in silence. The stuffed rabbit on the dashboard was rocking its head back and forth in measure with the road.
I forced myself to take a breath in…
… and to take a breath out…
I needed to keep breathing, keep thinking, and stay calm.
I remembered one of my teachers talking about the five senses exercise, and I’d used that all my life to ground me and bring me back from panic attacks.
I closed my eyes and started with:
What did I hear?
I heard tires crunching over gravel, sharp and abrasive; I heard the driver’s heavy breathing, harsh and inconsistent; And I could hear the windshield wipers beating against the window in rhythm with my pounding heart.
What did I feel?
I felt the seat beneath me, scratchy and rough, and I absentmindedly dug my fingernails into it; I felt my heels pierce a coffee cup, spilling its contents all over my feet; And I could feel my seatbelt restricting my breathing, as it dug into my chest.
Now: What did I see?
After forcing another breath, I opened my eyes and looked out the window.
Then my heart sank to my stomach.
It was obvious we were someplace new, someplace remote, because the landscape was turning higher and the road bent tight. A thick snowfall hung over the one lane highway, straight ahead—a highway that ascended a jagged mountainside.
We were driving so fast I almost missed it—but I did see it, a glimpse of it—lodged there into the ground: A wooden exit-sign, worn by weather and time… the name “Mount Adeth” etched across in big, blocky, faded letters…
Created by: Danny Ingrassia
The sign was there. Then the sign was gone.
… Because once again, the driver shifted gears and accelerated forward.
And I don’t know how to explain it—I don’t even know if this will make sense…
… but I could feel the mountain watching us…
… like it was hungry.
I sucked in another breath and made myself think, goddammit, THINK!—What could I realistically do right now?
I-I could try to take over the steering wheel. The driver was big, but he wouldn’t expect me to do that. I’d have the element of surprise on my side.
But then what? At the speed we were going we’d likely crash right into the mountain wall, killing us both—Pulling the wheel was a no go.
Maybe, I could jump out of the car? I’d seen it in movies—it could be done, right? I’d likely break a few bones and get a nasty road rash, but I should be able to survive…
… Peering out my window, I noticed, for the first time, the flimsy, silver guardrail… and on the other side of that: the nether of the mountain—a deathly drop into a night that submerged the very tips of spruce trees a hundred feet tall.
… Jumping out of the car was definitely out of the question.
As we climbed even higher, the thin painted lines of the road started to disappear, and at every turn we made I was filled with a fresh pang of panic—A few times, the car jolted! in one direction as the driver swerved, skating a patch of ice or deadly pothole.
I was running out of time and knew it. The driver had just made another sharp turn when out of nowhere, he spun around and shouted: “SHUT UP!”
His words hit me like a slap in the face.
I was still reaching for an escape plan. A few seconds passed, then a few seconds more, then the driver said again: “I said SHUT UP!!”
Then, he reached forward and turned on the radio.
At first, there was only a white-hot screech—static, a sound like a wild boar pierced by a spear. Then there was the faintest flicker of stations, the notes between songs. And after that, after the mad Homados finished his reveille, there was a soft whisper, a blanket noise that sat tucked behind your ear like the lightest feather…
… then the driver started talking to it.
He was shaking his head, then nodding, then shaking his head again. He got angry and was pointing his finger at something in the passenger seat. I looked over but saw nothing—and I mean it; there was absolutely nothing there. There was the sound of sleet and wind whipping against the windows, and that horrible static from the radio, but other than that, there was nothing.
And I remember thinking so clearly: It found us. I still don’t know why that thought trickled into my head but, it did. Clear and consistent:
It found us.
I have no idea what It was, but the driver was… Disagreeing… Negotiating (?) … Arguing with it. I remember the driver saying that it knew nothing about him, nothing at all. And that he was a good father—or he wasn’t?—No, no, no, he was. He really was! Prove it? He absolutely could prove it. He’d prove it right now. One chance was all he needed to show that—
I stopped listening, because there, about fifty feet in front of us, at the edge of our headlights, was a bright, yellow turn-sign—and beyond that: The end of the road...
… the edge of a cliff.
Even from that far back, I could see a guard rail that had been rammed right through—with a gap the size of our vehicle.
We were headed straight for it…
What happened next is still a blur—but I know that I was screaming. I was screaming, and shouting, and yelling, and it hurt to scream that much. It hurt my throat and it hurt my ears. I can still hear myself screaming if I close my eyes. I can hear my voice produce a sound that I had never heard before, and I can hear that scorching, never ending, radio static.
I started begging the driver to stop, to please stop, to look at the road, just look at the goddamn road and—stop! Stop! STOP!
In those final few seconds of unflinching horror, I remember watching the stuffed rabbit hit the windshield hard. Then, there was the loudest screeching, my purse flying to the floor, my seatbelt cutting into my chest. As the car attempted to stop, it skidded forward, yard after yard, the tires licking over ice-kissed gravel.
Through the windshield, I watched the open guard rail inch closer and closer and—!
… We stopped right at the edge of the railing.
… I was visibly shaking—and quite aware that I was alive. That we were still alive, and that we almost just–
And then, I couldn’t stop the tears from coming. It was like all the anxiety and all the fear I had bottled up during the entire drive came spilling out. I was hyperventilating and had to force myself to breathe.
I looked at the driver and saw his head against the steering wheel… tears running down his face…
… We stayed like that for a long time, breathing, listening to the engine tick as it cooled—while the world outside spun itself into spirals of snow…
Then, without lifting his head, the driver spoke. A chasm full of tension separated us, yet somehow, across all that distance, I heard him whisper: “Can you forgive me?”
I don’t think he was asking me…
With tears still streaming, he nodded twice, then said: “You’re right.”
He paused, swiped at his nose, and said: “I know.”
And with that, the driver took the keys out of the ignition, grabbed the toy rabbit, opened his door, and stepped out into the snowfall. Without ever looking back, he slammed the door shut behind him, and began limping down the road…
… I watched him walk away—until his shadow disappeared.
For a time, all that was left were his footprints—but their indentations were soon smothered by snow…
And then there was silence…
My mind was toppling down a cliff: What the hell just happened? Where did he go? Why did he leave? Was he coming back? Did I want him to come back? What should I do?! What can I do?! Really, what can I possibly do without my—
Something on the dashboard caught my eye:
The phone. His phone, still mounted to the holder.
I unclicked my seatbelt and lunged forward and grabbed the phone. I held down the side button, waiting in agony for it to turn on. Finally, mercifully, the screen lit up.
And there, in the top corner, was a single bar of service. And that single, glorious, sliver of hope was all I needed.
I didn’t know his password, but that didn’t matter. I simply swiped up, and when the ten-digit lock-screen appeared, I clicked on “Emergency” in the bottom left corner.
Then, I dialed 911.
… The phone only rang once before the operator picked up.
“911, where’s your emergency?”
Tears of relief squeezed out of the corners of my eyes, and I knew I would be alright.
I told the operator everything that happened with the rideshare driver. I told her about the wooden sign that I think read “Mount Adeth(?)” and that I was pretty sure I was stuck somewhere on the mountain. I described the car and the yellow turn sign. When I mentioned the broken guard rail, I remember, the operator chuckled—and she told me I was lucky, because quite a few folks had gone straight over that cliff.
She told me, in fact, the police gave up trying to repair that road because the accidents never stop.
“I guess folks are just dying to drive right off!”
Calling me “lucky” didn’t make the situation any easier.
But I pushed my feelings aside.
“Now, I’m gonna need you to be brave…
Can you muster up a little more courage?”
“… What do you mean by that?”
“The worst is almost over…
… You only need to go a tiny bit up the road.
There’s an evac site up ahead. It looks like a large flat rock, big enough for a helicopter. We use it whenever we need to fly out an injured hiker. You get there and we’ll get you out.”
“. . .”
“…You still there?”
“Yes- Yes, I’m still here… Can’t I just wait in the car? I- I don’t know if the man’s going to come ba-”
“If you don’t get out of the car and up that road you’ll be spending the weekend on that mountain… You’re going up there—even if it kills ya…”
I waited for her to laugh again, but when she didn’t, I knew she wasn’t joking. And again, I felt in my gut that this wasn’t right; that I should stay in the car.
Damn it—You’re always such a coward. I wasn’t only arguing with myself but a 911 operator. They were trying to help me, but here I am being difficult and useless…
The storm was getting worse. The snow was laying sheets over the windshield.
Still pressing the phone to my face, I opened the back door.
A rush of cold air fought against me, and I could barely swing my legs out of the car.
Looking down at my feet, I knew it would be too hard to walk through sleet uphill in my heels, so I kicked off my shoes.
The first few steps in the snow were jarring, but after taking a few strides, my feet became numb. The bottom of my jeans quickly soaked and sagged at my feet, and the wind did its best to knock me over.
But I hunkered lower to the ground and took step after step. The operator was encouraging—and promised me I was almost there.
I trudged through snow for what felt like hours… I-I couldn’t feel my hands or face anymore, yet still somehow managed to grip the phone.
I started to feel dizzy and wanted to take a break, but the operator urged me:
Just a little bit further!
I remember looking back over my shoulder—I no longer saw the car. I don’t remember which way I turned—IF I turned—the road was blindingly white—with snow that stabbed my eyes and made each breath feel like I was swallowing ice.
Through chattering teeth, I asked the operator how much further I had to go.
. . .
“Hello? Am I almost there?
. . .
“HELLO!! … HELLO!? HELLO-HELLO-HELLO!!”
“HA-Ha-hA-HA-Ha-hA”
The phone kept vomiting so much static—a loud, grating, crescendo—I started to panic and was screaming “hello!” into the phone, over and over again until my voice ran raw—and I couldn’t listen to that static anymore, I couldn’t take any more of that GOD-awful noise, and I was so frustrated, so confused and scared and USELESS—YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING RIGHT. LOOK AT THE MESS YOU GOT YOURSELF INTO? ALL BECAUSE YOU COULDN’T TELL A MAN ‘NO’. YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF. YOU’RE GOING TO DIE UP HERE AND—IT’S. ALL. YOUR. FAULT—HA—
—HaHa-Hah—ha-h . . .
I THREW the phone right over the mountain!
… I watched the glowing screen arch high into the air… then drop slowly, down, down, down into nothing. And then it was gone, and I was finally, completely alone.
… It took me a few seconds to realize what I had done.
I was breathing heavily, the wind whipping my hair into my face, and I collapsed to the ground, unable to move any further.
I gave up. I’m not proud to admit that, but it’s true. I thought I had no fight left in me, and I was ready for everything to be over…
… until I saw it… scuttling down the mountainside—like an avalanche…
What I thought I saw was a patch of trees, coming closer. As if the trees had legs to walk on—Long legs.
Then I thought it might have been a water tower. It made even less sense but was somehow closer to the truth—It had long legs and a wide body.
Water—It moved more like water. Rushing. Swirling. Alive.
I don’t think I saw its face (God, I hope that’s not it’s face), but I saw enough to say: I believe in Monsters...
Maybe you believe God made everything perfect, but I’m just telling you what I saw… Mother Nature had an abortion—and it lives on that mountain…
… I was running before I even knew I was being chased. I was running stupidly and blind, running through a raging snowstorm, on and off the road, running right over rocks and sticks on torn-up, bloody feet.
It was all I could do—I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, until I saw the guard rail, the neon yellow turn-sign. Relief overwhelmed me as the shadow of the car came into view.
I reached and yanked so hard on the driver’s side door. But it wouldn’t open.
I tried the back passenger door, pulling on the latch—Scurrying around the car, I tried the other doors, the handles, but none of them would open, none of them would GODDAMN open!
And then, it finally sank in… the car was locked…
I started slamming my elbow against the window, again and again, but the glass wouldn’t break. By the fifth hit, the skin split open. I stopped when I felt bone.
Then—the car started blasting music…
I don’t know how… I stared through the bloody window—The car was on, but there was no one inside.
I turned back up the road and saw the shadow getting closer—I was out of options.
I wasn’t strong enough to run.
I wasn’t brave enough to jump.
I sank to the ground and wrapped my arms around myself.
Its eyes drew down me, and I waited for the end…
Then blinding, bright Headlights broke through the storm—slowing down, the isolation melting, as the driver lowered her window.
[/-|-\]
It’s hard to explain that ride back…
The driver (out of respect—I won’t share her name) didn’t say much—they asked if anyone was injured. She asked me to shake my head, yes or no—But I was shaking all over.
The next thing I remember, I was in her truck.
She handed me a blanket she had stowed in the back… and then she offered me coffee from a Thermos. She had the heat on at full blast.
“The Thermus Aquaticus is like any other sacred protein—except it has one superpower—(it can withstand the pressures of enlightenment)”
It was warm. Though my thoughts still felt numb.
“It allows us to propagate the holy Truth—”
“—A Blind Shepherd, leading the way for—”
“You are vertebrates stacked into the mind of God!”
“—[and they sawed off his head]”
I remember her watching me, out of the corner of her eye—And I got the sense she did not want me in her truck. Like she didn’t trust me.
“—and now she talks to herself like a crazy lady”
I remember staring at her center console—and seeing the gaping hole where her stereo should have been.
“—total liquefaction of the host.
“—[and dissolved the body]”
…And then I saw something dangling from the rearview mirror. A little token, a trinket; A spider web adorned with beads and feathers. A dreamcatcher.
We didn’t speak for most of that ride. For my part, I was too tired, too at a loss for words. But once we were off the mountain, the driver gave me this advice: “Don’t tell them what you saw.” She said,” It’s better if you forget it.”
Then the line I can’t let go:
“It wasn’t you—Whatever… it made you do—It wasn’t you.”
[/-|-\]
To this day, I have no idea what really happened on that road.
The trucker dropped me off at the nearest police station, passing me off like I was one of her “trouble students”.
I wish we had more time to speak, I wish I could ask her all the questions I’ve hoarded in the days and weeks since. But she hasn’t been easy to find—and I suspect that’s intentional.
… The police never found the rideshare driver.
They found his car, dead, where we had parked. But according to first responders, the doors were unlocked and the keys still in the car.
Did the driver come back? Were the keys always there?
Was anything real?
I asked about the 911 operator—the one I spoke to over the phone. But the interviewing officer told me that they had no record of the call…
She said “the stress of the moment” can sometimes affect your memory—and what you hear. She said the storm had been pretty bad—and that the mountain elevation catches odd signals. She said hypothermia can play with your senses. She said all this before saying she’s heard “stranger things before.”
I don’t know—Maybe it was just a way to comfort me. I don’t think she was lying, but her words felt… watered-down…
… I learned more about the driver in the weeks following. I knew his name from my rideshare receipt—Police confirmed it by looking up the vehicle records. I found his old Facebook account. And there, I learned he had a daughter.
In one picture she’s passed out in a car seat, asleep, holding that tiny stuffed rabbit close to her heart… The last post on that account was 5 years ago. I see in some of his pictures that at one point he was married. He wasn’t wearing a ring when he drove me.
… Despite everything, I think the driver was a victim too. And it doesn’t feel right sharing his name. Maybe that’s just Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe I’m just chained to my trauma—locked-in with the seatbelt tight.
… Miraculously I recovered my phone. I used the “Find-My” app and tracked it to an old road where it was sitting there it off the shoulder. The screen was cracked in a hundred different ways, but it still worked… I still have the video, the recording with what I thought would be my last living moments.
When I rewatch it, I feel my fingers gripping the phone like I did then, thumbscrews tightening on the screen. I feel my voice scratching like a broken record, caught between the fear-of-death and the fear-of-fighting-back.
We were both so scared—I can see that now—It wasn’t just me. We were passengers, the both of us, driven down that that road by something we couldn’t see.
But we could hear it—whispering, hissing, teething at the mind like static noise.
… This last week, I’ve had nightmares that are so real I’m not sure if they’re not memories.
I’ve had dreams of a car falling off a cliff—and hearing it… crunch… from the inside…
I’ve had dreams of being buried in snow—and feeling like I can’t breathe…
And at least once, I’ve dreamt of It—The thing on the mountain…
There are… some dreams I won’t share… some dreams I try to forget…
But I realize now that, sometimes, it’s the least-worst thing you can do, to be brave. When there are no good options left, listen to your gut.
… Otherwise, the voice in your head will feel out every mistake you’ve made… it’ll link a chain from all your shame and secrets and forge it together from your own self-Scorn. And it will drag at your neck until you’re content with your suffering and feed the garden of violence…
… I guess… what I’m saying is, don’t let it get in your head.
Because you can’t tell the difference.
Don’t listen to it.
It’s YOUR voice.
Just tell it shut up—SHUT UP
HAHAHA— Just SHUT UP!
… The Devil has a voice.
… And it sounds like you.
