I never thought my life would unravel on such an ordinary night. The plan was simple: drive from Kansas to Colorado, crash with my buddy for the weekend, and decompress from the grind. I’d packed a cooler, loaded my favorite playlist, and hit the road under the ink-black sky. The world was quiet, except for the hum of my tires on the asphalt, and I felt at peace. The drive was supposed to be uneventful. That’s the thing about plans, though—they’re fragile, and one twist of fate can shatter them into a million pieces.
It was around 11 p.m. when I first saw him. The hitchhiker stood alone on the side of the road, illuminated by my headlights like some ghostly apparition. His thumb was extended, his body framed by the nothingness of the plains. Something about him didn’t sit right with me. Maybe it was the way he stood—too stiff, too still—or maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t seen another car in nearly half an hour. I shook off the unease. I wasn’t the type to pick up hitchhikers, but something gnawed at me. A lone figure in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by endless darkness? I couldn’t just leave him there.
As I pulled over, I watched him approach in the rearview mirror. His walk was slow, deliberate, like he wasn’t in any rush despite the late hour. He wore a tattered military jacket, its colors faded with age, and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His face was obscured by shadow, and he carried a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. When he finally reached the car, I noticed the dirt caked on his boots, the kind of dirt that spoke of long, lonely walks.
“Where you headed?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“West,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, like someone who hadn’t spoken in a long time.
I nodded and gestured for him to get in. “I’m going that way. Hop in.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t say thank you. He just opened the door, threw his bag into the backseat, and slid in beside it. The smell of sweat and earth filled the car, mixing with the scent of the stale fast food wrappers on the floor. I tried to make small talk, asked him where he was coming from, but he only gave one-word answers. His eyes, hidden beneath the brim of his cap, were always looking straight ahead, never meeting mine. I should have turned back then. I should have trusted my gut. But instead, I just turned up the radio and focused on the road, trying to shake the chill that had crept into my bones.
For the next thirty miles, the hitchhiker barely moved. He sat stiff as a board, his hands resting on his knees, his gaze locked on the darkness beyond the windshield. I tried to ignore the growing sense of unease, but it was hard when every instinct I had was screaming at me to kick this guy out. Something about him just felt… wrong.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to relax. This was just a tired vet, probably down on his luck, trying to get somewhere safe for the night. I was doing a good thing. That’s what I kept telling myself, even as I noticed the faint tremor in my hands.
The road stretched out ahead of us, a long, unbroken ribbon cutting through the vast emptiness of the plains. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale, ghostly light over the landscape. It should have been peaceful, almost serene, but with each passing mile, the atmosphere in the car grew heavier, more oppressive. The hitchhiker’s silence was suffocating, and the darkness outside seemed to press in on us from all sides.
It wasn’t until we passed a sign for a small town that the hitchhiker finally spoke again. “Take the next exit,” he said, his voice like gravel grinding underfoot.
I blinked, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. “You sure? There’s not much out here. I can take you closer to—”
“Take the exit,” he repeated, more forceful this time.
There was no emotion in his voice, just a cold, dead finality. I felt my stomach twist. The town he wanted me to turn into wasn’t even on the map—just a collection of old, crumbling buildings that had been abandoned years ago. I’d driven this road before, and I knew there wasn’t anything there, no gas station, no motel, nothing.
“Look, man,” I started, trying to keep my voice steady, “I don’t think there’s much out there. Why don’t I just drop you off at the next—”
“Take. The. Exit.”
The way he said it sent a chill down my spine, and my hands instinctively tightened on the steering wheel. Every part of me wanted to keep driving, to put as much distance between myself and this guy as possible. But there was something in his tone that brooked no argument, something that told me if I didn’t do what he said, things could get very bad, very quickly.
I swallowed hard and took the exit. The road was narrow and cracked, barely wide enough for two cars, and as I turned onto it, my headlights revealed only more darkness stretching out ahead. The hitchhiker didn’t say another word, but I could feel his eyes on me, could feel the tension in the air thickening with every mile. The farther we went, the more certain I became that I’d made a terrible mistake.
After what felt like an eternity, I saw it—a faint light in the distance, flickering like a dying candle. It grew brighter as we approached, revealing a single, decrepit gas station, its windows boarded up and its sign hanging by a single rusty chain. The place looked like it hadn’t seen a customer in years, and yet, there was a single car parked out front, a black sedan with its lights off.
“Stop here,” the hitchhiker said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
I hesitated, my foot hovering over the brake. “What are we doing here?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“Just stop the car.”
I did as he asked, my heart pounding in my chest. The hitchhiker reached into his jacket, and for one horrifying moment, I thought he was going to pull out a weapon. Instead, he produced a small, battered notebook, the kind you might find at a dollar store. He flipped it open, running his finger down the page as if checking something off a list.
When he finished, he looked up at me, and for the first time since he’d gotten in the car, I saw his eyes. They were dark, sunken, and completely devoid of life, like two black holes that sucked in all the light around them. He held my gaze for what felt like an eternity before he spoke again, his voice low and almost… apologetic.
“You shouldn’t have stopped,” he said.
Before I could respond, he grabbed the duffel bag from the backseat and climbed out of the car. He didn’t slam the door, didn’t make any sudden moves—he just walked calmly toward the gas station, disappearing into the shadows like he’d never existed in the first place.
For a long time, I just sat there, staring at the spot where he’d vanished. My mind was racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just dodged a bullet
I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually, I forced myself to put the car in drive and get the hell out of there. As I pulled back onto the highway, I glanced in the rearview mirror one last time, half-expecting to see the hitchhiker standing there, watching me. But there was nothing—just the empty road stretching out behind me.
I never found out what he was doing at that gas station, never heard about any crimes in the area, nothing. It was like he’d just vanished into thin air. But sometimes, late at night, when I’m alone on a dark stretch of highway, I’ll think about that hitchhiker. I’ll wonder who he was, what he was running from, and most of all, what he was planning to do if I hadn’t taken that exit.
All I know is this: I’ll never pick up another hitchhiker again.
It had been two weeks since that night, and I was still shaken by the encounter. The memory of those dark, hollow eyes haunted me, replaying in my mind whenever I closed my eyes. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had narrowly escaped something terrible, something far beyond my understanding.
In the days following the encounter, I tried to put it behind me, but the feeling of dread lingered. I scoured the internet for any news about the area, hoping to find something—anything—that could explain what I’d experienced. But there was nothing. No reports of a strange man, no crimes, no disappearances. It was as if that night had never happened.
I told a few close friends about it, hoping that sharing the story would help me process it, but their reactions were the same—disbelief mixed with a hint of concern. “You’re lucky you got out of there,” one of them said, shaking his head. “You never know who you’re picking up out on the road.”
I knew he was right, but that didn’t make it any easier to shake the feeling that something was still unfinished. There was something about the hitchhiker’s eyes, something that had been lost in that brief, unsettling moment of contact. It was like staring into an abyss, one that stared back with an unfathomable emptiness.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I hadn’t just picked up a man that night—I had picked up a mystery. The kind of mystery that gnaws at you, that refuses to let go until you uncover its truth. But as much as I wanted answers, I wasn’t sure I was ready to dig any deeper. Sometimes, the truth is better left buried.
Yet, the compulsion grew stronger. Maybe it was my own need for closure, or maybe it was something darker—something that had been set in motion the moment I picked up that hitchhiker. I didn’t know, and the uncertainty gnawed at me like a splinter in my mind.
One night, after another bout of restless sleep, I decided to retrace my steps. I told myself it was just to prove that there was nothing to worry about, that it had all been a product of my imagination. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. I needed to see the place again, to confront whatever it was that had left such an indelible mark on my psyche.
I waited until the weekend, when I had time to make the drive without any obligations. The road felt different this time, colder, more oppressive. I could feel the weight of the night pressing down on me as I drove, the darkness outside seeming to creep closer with every mile. It was as if the road itself was trying to warn me, to turn back before I reached the gas station again.
But I couldn’t. I was driven by a need I didn’t fully understand, a need to face whatever it was that had happened that night. As I approached the exit, my heart began to race. The closer I got, the more my nerves frayed. And then, there it was—the same flickering light in the distance, the same decrepit gas station standing like a monument to some forgotten time.
I pulled into the lot, my headlights casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The black sedan was still there, parked in the same spot as before, its windows dark and lifeless. But there was no sign of the hitchhiker. The place was just as abandoned as it had been that night, as if time had frozen in place.
I got out of the car, my breath visible in the cool night air. The silence was thick, almost suffocating, and every instinct I had screamed at me to leave. But I couldn’t. I had come this far, and I needed to see it through. I approached the gas station, the boards on the windows rattling slightly in the wind. The door was ajar, hanging crookedly on its hinges.
I hesitated for a moment before pushing it open, the creak of the door echoing in the stillness. Inside, the air was thick with dust and decay. Shelves lay overturned, their contents scattered across the floor. It was clear that no one had been here in years.
As I stepped further inside, the beam of my flashlight caught something glinting on the floor. I crouched down, brushing away the dust to reveal a small, rusted metal object. It was a key, old and worn, with a faded tag attached to it. The tag read “Room 3.”
I glanced around, my heart pounding in my chest. There was no sign of any rooms, no sign of any place that could be connected to the key. But the tag felt heavy in my hand, as if it held some kind of dark significance.
That’s when I heard it—a faint rustling, coming from deeper within the building. My heart leapt into my throat as I swung the flashlight in the direction of the sound, the beam catching on something that moved just out of sight. I took a step back, my mind racing. Maybe it was just an animal, maybe it was the wind. But then I heard it again, this time closer.
I turned and bolted for the door, the key clutched tightly in my hand. I didn’t stop until I was back in my car, the engine roaring to life as I sped away from that place. My mind was a blur, trying to make sense of what I had seen, what I had found. But the more I thought about it, the more it felt like I had disturbed something that was better left undisturbed.
Back on the highway, the tension slowly began to ease, but the unease lingered. The key sat on the passenger seat, a silent reminder of the night’s events. I didn’t know what it unlocked, didn’t know if I even wanted to find out. But I couldn’t just leave it behind. Not yet.
Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about the key. I carried it with me everywhere, turning it over in my hand as I tried to piece together its significance. I searched online for any reference to the gas station, to the room it might belong to, but I found nothing. It was as if the place didn’t exist, as if it had been erased from history.
But the mystery wouldn’t let me go. It haunted my dreams, pulling me deeper into its grip. And finally, I knew what I had to do. I had to go back. I had to find out what the key unlocked, no matter the cost.
It took me another week to muster the courage, but eventually, I found myself back on that dark highway, the key in my pocket, the memory of that night fresh in my mind. This time, I wasn’t just retracing my steps—I was going to uncover the truth.
When I reached the gas station again, the place felt even more desolate than before. The air was thick with tension, as if the very ground was waiting for something to happen. I parked the car and took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I was about to do.
As I walked up to the building, the door creaked open on its own, as if inviting me inside. The darkness was thick, almost tangible, but I pressed on, my flashlight cutting through the gloom. I followed the same path as before, retracing my steps to where I had found the key.
But this time, I noticed something different. There was a door, hidden in the shadows at the back of the building. It was small, almost unnoticeable, and if I hadn’t been looking for it, I might have missed it altogether. My heart raced as I approached it, the key heavy in my hand.
With trembling fingers, I slid the key into the lock. For a moment, nothing happened, and I feared the key wouldn’t work. But then, with a soft click, the door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into the darkness.
I hesitated, my mind screaming at me to turn back. But something compelled me forward, something I couldn’t explain. I took the first step, then another, the darkness swallowing me whole as I descended into the unknown.
The air grew colder as I went deeper, the walls closing in around me. The only sound was the soft echo of my footsteps, and I felt a growing sense of dread with each step. Finally, I reached the bottom of the stairs, my flashlight flickering as it illuminated a small, concrete room.
The room was empty, save for a single object in the center—a chair, old and worn, with straps hanging from its arms and legs. My breath caught in my throat as I realized what it was. This wasn’t just a chair—it was a restraint, designed to hold someone in place.
As I stood there, frozen in shock, I heard it again—the faint rustling, coming from somewhere behind me. I spun around, my flashlight beam dancing across the walls, but there was nothing there. Just the darkness, closing in around me.
Panic set in, and I bolted back up the stairs, the key clattering to the floor as I ran. I didn’t stop until I was outside, gasping for air, my heart racing in my chest. I fumbled for my car keys, my hands shaking, and drove away from that place as fast as I could.
I don’t know what that room was for, don’t know who or what was waiting in the darkness. But I do know this: some mysteries are better left unsolved.
I never went back to that gas station. The key, the hitchhiker, the dark room beneath the earth—they’re all part of a puzzle that I’m not sure I want to complete. Whatever truth lies at the heart of it, I’m content to leave it buried, far away from the light of day.
But sometimes, in the dead of night, when the world is quiet and my thoughts begin to wander, I think about that night. I think about the man I picked up on the side of the road, the one who never said thank you, the one who vanished into the shadows. I think about the key, and the room, and the darkness that still lingers in the corners of my mind.
And I wonder if he’s still out there, waiting for someone else to stop, someone else to pick him up, someone else to lead to that gas station on the edge of nowhere.
Because one thing is certain: whatever that man was, whatever he was running from, he wasn’t just a hitchhiker. He was something much darker, much older, and far more dangerous. And I’ll never forget the warning in his eyes, the silent message that haunts me to this day:
You shouldn’t have stopped.
Hayden Coombs 