The Highway That Wasn’t There

It started with a wrong turn.

I was driving home late at night from my cousin’s wedding. The highway was nearly empty, just me and the occasional truck passing by. My GPS had been acting up all night, glitching and rerouting me in circles. Annoyed, I switched it off and decided to trust my instincts.

Big mistake.

Somewhere past midnight, I noticed a road sign for a highway I’d never seen before—Route 23. The weird thing was, I’d taken this drive plenty of times before, and there was no Route 23. But the sign looked official, green with reflective white letters, and I was too tired to question it. I turned onto the exit.

At first, it seemed normal. A long stretch of road flanked by dense trees. No streetlights, but the moon was bright enough to illuminate the way. I figured I’d just found a shortcut.

Then I saw the first car.

It was an old sedan, parked on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking. As I slowed down, I realized the driver’s door was open. Nobody inside.

Just as I was debating whether to stop, I noticed another car further down. And another. All abandoned, doors hanging open, hazard lights flashing. My stomach tightened. It looked like people had left in a hurry.

I pressed the gas and kept moving.

That’s when my radio crackled to life.

At first, just static. Then, a voice, distorted and faint.

“Do not stop.”

Chills ran down my spine. The voice was flat, almost robotic, but there was something… off about it. Before I could react, my headlights caught something ahead—a figure standing in the middle of the road.

I slammed the brakes. My car skidded to a stop just inches from the figure. A man. His back was to me, standing perfectly still. He wore a dark hoodie and jeans, but something about his posture was unnatural, like he wasn’t really standing but… being held in place.

My pulse pounded. I honked, but he didn’t move. I debated reversing when I noticed something worse.

His shadow.

It stretched the wrong way.

The headlights were behind him, but his shadow slithered toward me, stretching unnaturally long across the pavement. My breath caught in my throat.

Then, he twitched.

Not turned, not moved—just twitched, like a puppet on strings. And then, the worst part—his head snapped to the side at an impossible angle, revealing a face I knew.

It was mine.

I don’t remember screaming. I don’t remember shifting into reverse. I only remember speeding backward so fast I nearly flipped the car. My tires screeched as I veered back onto the main highway, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.

When I finally got home, shaking and drenched in sweat, I grabbed my phone to look up Route 23.

It doesn’t exist.

I checked maps, old records, even asked locals the next day. No one had ever heard of it. But when I went outside to clear my head, I noticed something in my car’s side mirror.

A shadow, standing just behind me.

And it was smiling.