There's a road on the outskirts of town called Black Hollow Lane. People rarely drive down it, especially at night. The road is long, winding, and lined with ancient trees whose branches twist together, forming a canopy that blocks out the moonlight. The few who've dared to travel that path after dark speak of strange sounds, shadows that move unnaturally, and a presence that follows cars as they pass.
One night, a man named Jack was driving home after visiting a friend in a neighboring town. It was late, and the quickest route back was Black Hollow Lane. Jack had heard the stories, but he wasn't superstitious. He was tired, eager to get home, and figured the eerie tales were nothing more than local myths.
As he turned onto the road, the trees immediately swallowed the light from his headlights. The thick branches overhead blocked the sky, plunging the lane into almost total darkness. The only sound was the low hum of his engine and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.
About halfway down the road, Jack's car sputtered and then stalled. The dashboard flickered before the engine cut out completely. Cursing under his breath, Jack tried to start the car again, but it wouldn't respond. He popped the hood, got out, and began checking the engine with the dim light of his phone.
As he worked, he heard a faint sound—like someone whispering his name. He stopped, listening intently, but heard nothing more. Shaking his head, he returned to the car, figuring his tired mind was playing tricks on him.
But as he tried the ignition once more, the whisper came again, louder this time. "Jack..."
He froze, glancing around. There was no one in sight, just the dark trees looming on either side of the road. The whisper came again, closer now. "Jack..."
His heart pounded as he locked the doors and checked the mirrors. Nothing. He pulled out his phone to call for help, but the screen was dead. No signal.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the passenger-side window. Jack jumped, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he turned to look. A woman stood outside his car. Her face was pale, her eyes dark and hollow. She wore a thin, white dress, drenched in what looked like rainwater, though the night was dry.
Jack hesitated. Against every instinct, he rolled down the window a crack.
"Are you lost?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Jack tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. The woman leaned closer, her face inches from the window. "You shouldn't be here," she whispered. "They don't like visitors."
Before Jack could react, the woman disappeared into the darkness, as if she had never been there. He felt a chill creep down his spine. Desperation overtook him as he tried the car one last time. The engine sputtered to life, and Jack wasted no time. He floored the gas, speeding down the lane, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror.
As he neared the end of the road, a figure appeared in the mirror—a pale face, grinning at him from the back seat.
The next morning, Jack's car was found at the edge of Black Hollow Lane, the engine still running, but Jack was gone. No trace of him was ever found, except for the faint, wet handprints on the inside of his car windows. And now, whenever someone drives down Black Hollow Lane at night, they say they sometimes see a face in their rearview mirror, smiling back at them...
