Creepypasta Compilation

Comes The Test

Long gone are the days of wrestling with road maps, searching desperately for certain road signs, and sheepishly swallowing your pride to ask locals for directions. Today, in the modern world of technology and convenience, you rely on a GPS to get you where you need to be.

You trust its direction to lead you through foreign territory to your ultimate destination, and back home promptly. It tells you to go left, you go left. It tells you to go right, you go right. It tells you to exit the highway, you do. The threat of taking a wrong turn and prolonging your journey prevents you from defying the device, regardless of what your intuition tells you.

But you still question it sometimes.

Like now. Your destination is just as irrelevant as who you’re meeting or why you’re going there. All that matters is that, without your GPS, you would have no idea where you are. You’ve been driving for a couple hours now, but you’ve only covered a fraction of the total distance.

As the sun begins to fall, you watch the scenery pass with skepticism. You don’t know much about where you are going, but it certainly isn’t suburban. Regardless, the population seems to be drastically thinning with each passing mile. Turn right. Drive straight for three miles. Take another right. Skepticism slowly blooms into nervousness as the cow-town gives way to a full-fledged forest.

Night has fallen. You knew you wouldn’t reach your destination until the early morning hours, but that hadn’t troubled you. You had expected an endless highway, the path ahead marked brightly with a spattering of streetlights and the taillights. Reality brought none of that. Even the gentle moonlight that had lent a softer impact to the towns you’ve passed has been completely blocked by the withered leaves dangling from interlocking tree cover above.

The darkness is stifling, growing an almost menacing edge as you follow the gently twisting, unlit road further into the brush. The windows are closed and the heat is blasting, but goose bumps still prickle across your arms in an effort to fight an inexplicable chill. Even the comforting familiarity of the shitty pop songs playing on the radio doesn’t dampen the fear settling in the pit of your stomach.

Just keep going straight for eleven miles, your GPS says. Then you’ll be turning onto an eastward-bound highway. Then everything will be okay. Right?

Judging by your white-knuckle grip of the steering wheel, you aren’t very convinced of that. You’re considering turning back. Strongly considering it. But that would require stopping, and while it feels like a million eyes are glaring daggers at you from the brush, you like to think that you’re safe while you’re moving. Your headlights slice through the darkness blanketing the road ahead, but leave everything else draped in an impenetrable blackness. Even with your high beams on, visibility of anything beyond the immediate is minimal. With four miles to go, you are pushing your car into each turn with nerve-wracking speed, but somehow your fear of crashing seems to be less important than your need to get out.