Speaker 1: Nights are being spent driving around in dark roads on
a taxi until a sudden encounter brings things out of
the darkness. My name is Edwin, and here's a scary story.
I've been driving nights for god, it must have been
twelve years. You lose count after a while. Most people
can't handle the shift. They say it's too quiet, too dark,
too much time to think. But for some of us
it's the only time the world makes any sense. Fewer people,
less noise, no traffic, just the hum of the engine,
the rhythm of tires on asphalt, the occasional drawing trying
to haggle over a ten dollars fare. Sally and I
started around the same time, though he's got a few
years on me. Used to be a mechanic, then ransom
bar that burned down. We never like talking about that
part anyway. We both ended up in cabs, and night
after night it was just the two of us checking
in over the radios. Nothing formal, just you out tonight
or catch anything interesting like two truckers sharing the road.
Only our road never really went anywhere. Sal was sharp
in his own way, crusty, sure, but funny, the kind
of guy who could make you laugh without trying, usually
insulting your mother or questioning your life choices. We never
saw each other much in person, sometimes at a diner
or at the taxi stops when he wanted a break,
but mostly they were just voices through static. But after
a while, you get to know someone better that way,
more than face to face. You hear when their voice
tightens when something's off. That night, it was early October.
I remember that much. The air was bringing along that
feeling of stinging in the nose, not cold enough for
frog yet, but enough to make you wish you'd brought
a thicker jacket. I was parked near a seventy eleven
on Maine, holding a lukewarm coffee and watching the neon flicker.
The street was dead quiet, not unusual for that time
of night. Sal's voice cracked over the radio. Did you
get anything yet, nah? I said, had a guy puke
out the window earlier? Matt's about it? You a couple
of college kids going nowhere fast. One of them try
to pay me with the vight pen, I laughed, Did
you take it? You bet? I did. Mango still don't
know how to use it, though we talked like that.
For a while, nothing deep, just a kind of nonsense
you toss back and forth to keep from going nuts.
After a pause, Sal said, kind of quiet. You ever
get that feeling you're the last person awake in the
world every night? I said, that's kind of the point,
isn't it. Another silence, not the good kind. Then he says,
saw someone walking out on Brute six just now. That
made me sit up a little. What like hitchhiking, no thumb,
just walking like real slow, long hair, no jacket, weird man.
Maybe he broke down, didn't see a car, just her.
She looks strange, strange, like creepy or how. He didn't
answer right away. She looked at me. Now that might
not sound like much, but the way he said it,
it wasn't about the look. It was about how long
it lingered, like she saw something in him, like she
knew something. And Sal wasn't the type to spook easily.
I said, did she flag you? Nope, just kept walking,
didn't even step out of the lane, like she wasn't
afraid of getting hit. Maybe high or something maybe, But
he didn't believe it. And if I'm being honest, neither
did I. That stretch of root six. He was talking
about nobody really uses it unless they're cutting through the
old State Road. It was windy, narrow, no shoulder. There
was a wreck out there a few years back, a
girl got hit by a car and left in the ditch.
They never found out who did it. Small town memory,
it fades fast if it ain't yours. Anyway, we didn't
talk much after that. Sal said he was going to
go loop around and head back tover Town. I didn't
think much of it, just another strange story in a
job that's full of em but I remember I kept
glancing at my rear view mirror a lot more that night.
Didn't know it yet, but that was the last normal
shift I would have in a while. A few nights
went by without much to report. Sal didn't bring her
up again, and I didn't ask. That's how we worked.
We never pushed too hard when something felt off. But
I noticed he got quieter, didn't talk as much on
the radio, didn't joke around like he used to. And
one night I asked if everything was okay, and all
he said was yeah, I was just tired. But that
was a lie still, and I let it go. It
was a Thursday night, right around two in the morning,
and I was heading down Holloway Road toward the industrial park.
Nothing but warehouses and empty parking lots out there. I
picked up a guy from the rail yard who smelled
like diesel and stale cigarettes, dropped him off and was
looping back toward town when I saw her, the same woman, long,
dark hair, white shirt, jeans, no coat, walking on the
gravel shoulder like she had nowhere to be, no street
lights out there, just the dim beam of my headlights
cutting through the dark. I slowed down without even thinking.
She didn't even turn her head, didn't wave, didn't acknowledge
me at all, and I swear, I swear it was
the same woman sound described. At first, I thought maybe
she just looked familiar, could have been someone local we
get the occasional runaway or someone drifting through. But there
was something in the way she moved, slow, deliberate, like
she wasn't walking to get anywhere, just walking to walk.
I eased up next to her and rolled down the
window and said you all right. She didn't stop, didn't
even flinch, just kept walking. I drove maybe another of
thirty yards and then pulled over, watched her in the
mirror still coming, still no reaction, and I waited. I
let her pass me by, and when she did, I
got a good look at her face. It was blank,
not tired or sad, just hollow, like her expression had
been turned off. And that was enough for me. I
didn't radio Seal right away. I'm not sure why. I
think I was just trying to rationalize it. Maybe she
was sleep walking, maybe on something, maybe she was just
someone who didn't want help. But later, back near town,
I finally keyed the mic and said, heysel, I think
I saw your ghost. Static for a second, and then
where Holloway, just outside the park, but there was a
long pause, be sure, pretty sure, same description, and he
was quiet again, and then he said I saw her
last night. I grip on the mic, tiened where out
near the lake? Just standing there? This time that was
ten miles in the other direction. Neither of us said
what we were thinking. We're not superstitious guys, not really,
but we both know what our eyes saw. And when
you're out there enough nights, you start to learn the
difference between a feeling and a fear. And this wasn't fear,
this was something else. I didn't sleep much that week,
I kept telling myself it was just a weird coincidence,
same woman, different nights. Whatever. Maybe someone was messing with us.
Maybe it was just two tired old guys seeing things.
Night shifts do that to your head. If you're not careful,
time slips, roads blend together, you start filling in blanks
with stuff you don't even realize you remember. But Sal
wasn't letting it go. He started tracking it, writing down
the times, places, weather conditions. I stopped by the dispatch
garage one evening and saw the inside of his cab
legal pads full of scribbles, little lines drawn between map points,
circles around certain roads. It wasn't like him. Sal's whole
life philosophy was don't dig too deep. You might not
like what's buried. He learned that after asking too many
questions from some of the writers, he learned things you
don't want to know or can land you in jail. Now.
He was straight up begging for that information. So I
asked him, flat out, you think this is the same person.
Every time he didn't look at me. He just said,
I don't think she's a person. And that stuck with
me because he wasn't saying it like some weirdo looking
for ghosts. He said it, like someone who had convinced
himself of something he wished he hadn't. Over the radio,
Sal got twitchier. He would cut in and out at
weird times, ask if he had seen her that night,
even when I was downtown and she had never been
spotted anywhere near there. One night I told him no,
I hadn't seen a thing. Then he got real quiet
and said, she's standing behind you. Now I knew he
was joking. He had to be, but I checked the
mirror anyway. Thankfully, there was nothing, but I didn't laugh.
Things got worse after that. Not with her. She didn't
appear again for a while, but with Sal he stopped responding.
Sometimes he would just vanish off the grid for hours.
When I would ask him about it, he would make
something up. Bathroom break flat, tire customer, wanted to go
out of town all lies. I knew it, but I
didn't push it until that night. He showed up at
the diner. He looked gruff, eyes were red, skin pale,
like he hadn't seen daylight in weeks. He's had a
cross from me, ordered coffee, but didn't touch it, just
kept looking out the window, like he was waiting for
something to come out of the dark. Do you remember
that wreck out by the lake, he asked, I nodded.
I think it was me now. That hit me like
a cold slap. He went on, voice low, almost like
he was talking to himself more than to me. He said.
There was a night a long time ago, when he'd
been drinking. He got behind the wheel. Dumb, selfish, he
admitted it. He remembers coming around a bend headlights, catching
something someone, but it was too late. Everything after that
was a blur, he swore. He didn't remember where he
went or what he did. Woke up the next morning
with no idea how he got home. When he got
to the cab, he noticed a crack, Bumper said. He
convinced himself it was just a dream, bad luck, something
he had imagined, But now now he wasn't so sure.
I sat there trying to process it. I mean, what
do you say if it's true, that means the girl
from all those years ago, the one we all felt
sorry for but forgot, might have been his doing. Might
never realized something else. That same night, I picked them
up out by the garage where he kept the car,
he said he needed a lit I remember he was shaken,
reaked of gooze. I didn't ask any questions, didn't want
to get involved, and maybe deep down I knew something
was wrong, but I didn't want to know. Neither of
us said anything for a long time, and then Saul
leaned in and whispered, I think she's coming for me.
I wanted to say that was crazy, that he needed
to sleep, needed a break, but I couldn't because the
way he said it, it wasn't fear. It was certainty,
like a man who hears a knock on his door
at three am and already knows who's on the other side.
I didn't hear froim Sal for two nights. At first,
I thought maybe he had taken a break, God knows
he needed one. I figured he finally scared himself enough
to get off the road, maybe even checked into one
of those motels out by the lake. Took clear his head.
But when I called a cell, it rang once and
then it went to voicemail. The next day, the garage
said his cab was signed out, but he hadn't come back.
That's when I knew something was wrong. The dispatcher didn't
seem worried. He probably just went off the clock. Happens
all the time. She said, that was in sal You
never missed checking, never just disappeared, not without a word
to me. Then came the radio transmission. I was heading
back into town, empty cab, early morning, gray bleeding into
the sky, a kind of hour where the world feels
like it's waiting for you to do something before it continues.
Static popped upon the radio, and then his voice, raspy, broken,
full of panic. She was there, she was in the car.
I looked in the rear view, and my goodness, I
saw her face. She was just staring. I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop. The signal crackled, cut out, and then
came one more word, quiet, barely audible, remember, remember, And
that was it. I pulled over on the shoulder, hands
locked tight around the wheel. My heart was hammering, my
breath fogged up the glass. I tried calling again, but nothing,
radio dispatch, no response. It was like I was the
only one left on the road. So I did what
I hadn't done in years. I went back to the lake.
The place hadn't changed, dirt roded, old fencing falling apart,
no trespassing signs, sun faded and ignored. It looked the
same as the night I picked him up years ago,
mud on his jeans, busted knuckle, wild eyes that never asked,
not once, and now I wish I had. I found
a cab pulled off on the side, half hidden by brush,
lights off, driver's store open inside, Everything was in place,
keys still in the ignition, wallet on the dash. The
heater was still running, ticking quietly like a heartbeat. I
touched the hood. It was still warm, but he wasn't
There no footprints in the dirt, no trail, just the
quiet hum of the engine and the soft buzz of
the radio, still tuned to our usual channel. I climbed in,
sat behind the wheel. I felt like I was trespassing
in someone else's memory. Then the radio came alive, not
so this time, just a soft hiss, like breathing. And
then her voice was flat, unemotional, not spooky or ghostly,
just calm. You left him there. I don't know how
long I sat there. I didn't answer. I couldn't. My
hands were shaking and my mouth was dry. You left
me there, and that's when it hit me, this wasn't
about Sal's guilt not just his, it was mine too,
because I remember that night. I remember the call, the
one I ignored because my shift was ending to go
pick up someone by the lake. I remember seeing the
busted bumper the next day and saying nothing. I remember
watching Sal unravel and telling myself it was in my problem.
All the news reports of that girl we all felt
sorry for. Deep down, part of me thought it had
been my fault, but I somehow pushed those thoughts away
long enough to vanish. But it was. It was my fault,
it always was. And now, sitting in his cab, but
the sun rising and cold streaks across the gravel, I
finally let myself feel it, just the weight of everything
I had it done. I stayed in Sale's cab until
the sun was fully up, just watching the light creep
across the dash like it might burn something away. The
radio had gone quiet again, nothing but a low hum
in the background. I waited, half hoping she would speak again,
and half praying that she wouldn't. She didn't. Eventually, I
drove the cab back to town and asked a buddy
to help me bring back mine. I knew he wasn't
gonna ask any questions. I didn't even think about it anymore.
I didn't call dispatch, didn't follow a report, just parked
it behind the garage where it would blend in with
the others. I wiped down the wheel, the gear shift,
the door handle, out of habit, not fear, and then
I just walked home. No one asked where Sal was,
or maybe they did and wasn't listening. The thing about
this town is people disappear, sometimes, not often, but when
they do, we smooth it over. I whisper here a
rumor there. Folks say someone moved or cracked, or ran
off chasing something better. No one ever says what they
really think. I went back to work the next night
like nothing had happened. And that's the part that scares
me the most. How easy it was to slip back
into the routine. I kept the same route, the same
radio channel, same empty roads, but the silence felt heavier,
now darker, like the cab had picked something up and
brought it back with me. I would catch myself looking
in the mirror for too long, flinching when the radio crackled,
watching the shoulders of the road like she might step
out from the trees at any second. She never did,
but sal didn't come back either. Weeks past, then months,
no calls, no signs. His place stayed locked up, his
things untouched. It was like he had been peeled out
of the world and no one noticed the gap. You know,
sometimes I wonder if I imagined all of it, the sightings,
the voice, the confession. Maybe Sala just snapped and drove
until the road ran out. I don't know what car,
but maybe I built the rest out of guilt and
bad memory. But then sometimes late, when the streets are
dead quiet and the only sound is my engine and
the buzz of the radio, I hear it, a click,
the kind you get when someone keys their mic, someone
on the other end pressing the button, holding it listening.
I always answer, I don't know why. Maybe it's a habit,
or maybe hope Sal. I say you out there, No reply,
just a long, stretching hum of dead air. I could stop,
I should stop, but I don't, because part of me
thinks one night I'll hear his voice again, tired, scratched up,
laughing at me for being dramatic, saying he just needed
to get away, that none of it meant anything, and
the other part of me. The other part knows that
if I do hear him, it won't be sal On
the other end, it'll be her. Scary Story podcast is
written and then produced by me Edwin Kovarro gues a
huge shout out for those who left your reviews on
Apple podcasts. Broblast eleven says they listened to go to
Sleep gaming God asks about the automatic ads and I
know they get annoying, but we're working to get brand
deals so I can make it less annoying. Loller Eclipse
says they like creepy technology stories, which is pretty cool
actually because I like those two and stell Girl one
likes to voice and added some encouragement on there for me,
So thank you so much for that, by the way,
very much appreciated, and thank you all for your reviews
on Apple podcasts. Also remember we're taking true stories. If
you want to write them out and send them in
so I can share them on my new podcast, Paranormal Club.
You can send me a DM email me your stories.
That's Edwin at Scarystory dot com or over on Paranormal
club dot com and that might make it to our
next listener Stories episode. But we have other stuff available
on there too, not just listener stories, but that's Paranormal Club,
available everywhere, including YouTube. I'll link to everything in the
description of this episode anyway, Thank you very much for listening,
keep it scary everyone, See us soon.