Dylan had driven that road a hundred times before—same twisting turns, same endless fog that clung to the windshield. But this time, the fog felt alive. When he flicked on his high beams, faint outlines appeared—faces pressing against the glass, silent mouths open in agony. He slammed on the brakes, jumped out, heart pounding. The fog swirled around him, whispering in tones that sounded eerily familiar.
When he wiped the condensation from his side mirror, he froze. Each face in the mist was his own—same crooked nose, same scar on the chin—but their expressions were warped with horror, as if warning him. One face mouthed the words, “You shouldn’t have stopped.” The fog thickened, curling around him like hands. When it cleared, his car was still running, door open, headlights cutting through nothing. Later that morning, police found his phone on the road, recording. The final seconds showed his reflection in the rearview mirror—grinning, but with eyes that weren’t his.
