This story was sent in by roadnight73 from Rural Vermont.
I was driving home late one night after visiting a friend who lives on the other side of the county. It was close to 1 a.m., that dead stretch of time where even the radio feels quieter and the air outside the windows gets colder than it should be. I’ve taken the same back road for years—it’s narrow, lined with trees on both sides, and usually so empty that I can go ten minutes without seeing another pair of headlights. I like it because it gets me home faster, but at that hour it always has a way of feeling a little too still, like the whole world is holding its breath.
I remember being tired but not exhausted, just that fuzzy kind of fatigue you get after spending an evening talking and not realizing how long you’ve been sitting. I had a half-finished coffee in the cup holder, and I kept one hand loosely around it to stay warm. The temperature had dropped fast, and the windows were starting to fog slightly around the edges.
A few minutes down that back road, something caught my eye. At first it looked like a shadow across the pavement, but as I got closer I realized it was a car—a dark sedan—parked directly in the middle of the lane. No headlights, no hazards, not even the glow of brake lights. Just a shape blocking the road with its engine running quietly, like someone had left it idling and stepped away.
That alone was odd enough for a place where you can go months without seeing a broken-down vehicle, but what really unsettled me was how it seemed perfectly centered in the lane, almost deliberate. I slowed down to a crawl until I was idling about thirty feet behind it. From that distance I could make out a driver’s silhouette, but they weren’t moving at all. No shift of posture, no glance in the mirror, nothing.
Then I noticed the passenger door. It was cracked open maybe an inch or two, just enough to catch the beam of my headlights. It looked like someone had opened it recently but never closed it again. I remember thinking it could’ve been someone dealing with a flat tire or maybe adjusting something inside, but there was no sign of movement anywhere.
I flashed my brights once—just a quick flick. No response.
The trees around me were completely silent. Not even a breeze.
I tapped my horn, not aggressively, just a short warning to let whoever was inside know someone was behind them.
That’s when the passenger door creaked open wider on its own. Not fast—more like it was being nudged gently, or maybe it had been sitting on a slope I couldn’t see. But the way it opened felt too slow, too controlled. It stopped halfway, hanging open as if waiting for something.
That was enough for me. I didn’t want to get out and check. I didn’t want to pull closer. Instinct kicked in, and every part of me was saying to put distance between myself and that car. I eased into reverse, checking the rearview mirror every two seconds, and backed up until I could angle myself into a gravel pull-off belonging to some house set way back behind the trees.
As soon as my tires hit the gravel, I swung the wheel around and started heading back the way I came. My heart was pounding harder than the situation probably deserved, but something about that unmoving silhouette and that slowly opening door just felt wrong in a way I still can’t fully explain.
I’d barely gone a hundred yards when the whole forest lit up behind me. The sedan’s headlights blasted on at full brightness, so sudden and intense that the trees threw huge, sharp shadows across the road. Even through my rearview mirror the light was blinding.
For a split second I thought the driver was about to come after me. I gripped the wheel tighter and waited for the sound of an engine revving behind me. But nothing happened. The headlights stayed on, and the car didn’t move.
As I crested a small bend, I stole one last look in the mirror. The light had softened just enough that I could make out a shape next to the sedan. Someone was standing beside the car, motionless, facing the direction I had gone. I couldn’t make out any details—just a human shape against the glare.
I didn’t slow down again until I reached the main road. Even then I kept checking my mirrors, half expecting to see those headlights chasing me up the hill. But the road stayed empty all the way home.
I never found out what was going on that night. I thought about calling someone, but I didn’t have a plate number or even a good description of the car beyond “dark sedan.” And technically, nobody had done anything to me. It might have been someone dealing with their own weird situation, or it might have been something else entirely.
Either way, that one moment—the slow creak of that door swinging open on a deserted one-lane road—burrowed deeper into me than I expected. I haven’t taken that route after sunset since. Even during the day, I get a strange tight feeling in my chest when I pass the spot where I first saw the car.
Sometimes, when I drive home late, I still picture those headlights snapping on behind me and that figure standing beside the car, barely visible, like they were waiting for me to leave.