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| Free Story Friday: The Road to Nowhere |
A new original tale every week—twisted, terrifying, and inspired by the darkest legends you thought you knew.
David was driving home after a long late shift. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, making the edges of the world feel soft and dreamlike. The rural highway stretched ahead, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through farmland and forest. Empty. Silent. His headlights carved tunnels through the darkness, illuminating nothing but painted lines and reflective road signs.
That's when he saw it.
A green road sign emerged from the fog like a ghost materializing from smoke:
County Road 0
Scenic Route — 7 Miles
David blinked hard, certain his tired brain was playing tricks. County Road 0? He'd driven this stretch for five years—same commute, same exits, same landmarks. He knew every mile marker, every gas station, every bar that dotted this lonely highway. There was no County Road 0.
But the sign was real. Solid. The white letters gleamed in his headlights, and beneath them, an arrow pointed right into the darkness.
Seven miles. If it really was a shortcut, he could shave fifteen minutes off the drive. Be home before midnight. David's hands moved on the steering wheel before his brain fully registered the decision.
He turned right.
The Wrong Road
The moment David's tires crossed onto County Road 0, the atmosphere changed. It was subtle at first—just a slight thickening of the fog, a dimming of his headlight beams. But as the main highway disappeared behind him, swallowed by mist and darkness, David felt his chest tighten.
Something about this road felt wrong.
The pavement was too smooth, almost glassy-black, as if it had been paved yesterday. No potholes, no cracks, no painted center line. Trees pressed close on both sides, their branches forming a tunnel overhead that blocked out even the faint moonlight. The world narrowed to what his headlights could reach—maybe thirty feet ahead—and beyond that, absolute darkness.
David reached for the radio, needing something to fill the oppressive silence. His favorite station dissolved into static the moment he turned the dial. He tried another station, then another. Nothing but white noise and the occasional burst of what might have been voices—too distorted to make out words, but definitely human. Or something pretending to be.
He switched it off. The silence that rushed in was worse.
The shoulder was too narrow to turn around—barely wide enough for a bicycle. The trees crowded so close that turning would mean scraping his paint or worse, getting stuck in the drainage ditch that ran along the roadside. David told himself to keep going. Seven miles. That's what the sign had said. Just seven miles and he'd be back on familiar roads.
Behind him, the fog grew thicker, more solid, as if the road was sealing itself shut.
David pressed the accelerator. The engine's hum seemed muted, swallowed by the fog.
The Loops
Ten minutes into the drive, David passed a mile marker leaning at an odd angle: Mile 3. Its white paint was chipped and weathered, as if it had stood there for decades. Thirty yards later, he passed a dead cottonwood tree, its bare branches reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. Then an old metal mailbox, hanging crooked from a rotting wooden post.
David noted them absently, his mind focused on getting through this godforsaken road and back to civilization.
Five minutes later, he passed the same mile marker.
Mile 3.
Then the same dead cottonwood tree.
Then the same crooked mailbox.
David's hands tightened on the steering wheel. That wasn't possible. He'd been driving straight, hadn't turned, hadn't looped back. The road had been arrow-straight the entire time.
He checked his odometer. It read the same number it had five minutes ago, as if the car hadn't moved at all despite the engine running and the wheels turning.
A nervous laugh escaped his throat. Fatigue. He was more tired than he'd thought. Maybe he'd dozed off for a second, circled back without realizing it. That had to be it.
David drove on, forcing himself to focus. But five minutes later, there it was again: Mile 3. The dead tree. The mailbox.
Except this time, the mailbox door hung open. He was certain it had been closed before.
David slammed on the brakes, the car skidding slightly on the too-smooth pavement. His breath came in short gasps as he stared at the mailbox in his side mirror. The door swung gently in a breeze he couldn't feel, revealing only darkness inside.
On the fourth loop—because that's what this was, he realized with growing horror, he was trapped in some kind of loop—the tree had shifted. It leaned in the opposite direction now, as if it had been transplanted and replanted backward. The mailbox had moved ten feet closer to the road.
Things were repeating, but not exactly the same. Each iteration brought subtle changes, like a photocopy of a photocopy, degrading with each cycle.
And with each loop, the fog grew thicker. The darkness pressed closer.
The Tall Man
On the fifth loop, David saw the figure.
It stood on the shoulder ahead, just at the edge of his headlight's reach. Tall—impossibly tall—and perfectly still. David's first thought was that someone else had gotten lost on this nightmare road, but as his car drew closer, every instinct in his body screamed that this was not human.
The figure's proportions were wrong. Its limbs hung too long, arms reaching nearly to its knees. Its torso stretched unnaturally, as if someone had taken a human form and pulled it like taffy. And its head—David's stomach turned—its head was a smooth, featureless oval. No face. No eyes. Just a long, blank shape that somehow tracked his car as he passed.
As David's headlights swept across it, the thing's head turned. Slowly. Deliberately. Following his movement.
David floored the accelerator. The speedometer climbed—fifty, sixty, seventy—but the world outside his windows remained the same. The fog. The trees. The darkness. As if speed meant nothing here, as if distance was a lie.
In his rearview mirror, the figure stood motionless on the shoulder, growing smaller as David drove away. But on the next loop, it was there again. Closer to the road this time. Facing his direction.
Waiting.
The Warning
The radio crackled to life on its own. David jerked in his seat, hand flying to the power button, but the radio wasn't on—the display was dark, the knob in the off position. Yet sound poured from the speakers. Static at first, then something underneath it. A voice. Faint. Distorted.
Three words, repeated over and over:
"Don't check the mirror."
David's eyes were already moving toward the rearview before his brain processed the warning. He couldn't help it—the words created the compulsion, made him look even as terror screamed at him to keep his eyes forward.
The mirror showed the road behind him. Fog. Darkness. Nothing unusual.
But in the reflection of his rear passenger window—just for a flash, less than a heartbeat—David saw something tall and hunched in his back seat. A shape that shouldn't be there. A presence that filled the space with wrongness.
David's hands jerked on the wheel. The car swerved violently, tires squealing. He overcorrected, and the vehicle fishtailed across the road. For a terrifying moment, he was certain he'd spin out, crash into the trees, and whatever that thing was would have him.
The car straightened. David's breath came in ragged gasps as he forced himself to keep his eyes on the road ahead.
Don't look back. Don't look at the mirror. Just drive.
But he could feel it. Something in the back seat. Watching him. Waiting.
The World Closing In
On the next loop, the mile marker had changed.
Mile 1
Beneath the official number, something had been scratched into the white paint. Dark streaks that might have been dirt or rust or something worse. David slowed despite himself, squinting at the words:
GET OUT.
The road was narrowing. David was certain it had been wider before—a normal two-lane rural road. But now the pavement seemed to shrink with each passing mile, the trees crowding closer, branches scraping against his windows. The fog pressed against the glass like living hands, and ahead, the world constricted into a tunnel barely wide enough for his car.
It felt like the road was a throat, and he was being swallowed.
David saw the figure again. This time it wasn't standing on the shoulder. It was walking down the center line behind his car, moving with an effortless, gliding stride that covered ground impossibly fast without seeming to hurry.
Not running. Not rushing. Just moving with the patient certainty of something that knew its prey couldn't escape.
David's foot slammed the accelerator to the floor. The speedometer needle climbed past eighty, past ninety, the engine screaming. But when he checked the mirror again—he couldn't stop himself from checking—the figure was the same distance behind. Neither gaining nor falling back. Just there. Always there.
Following.
The Final Sign
Eventually, inevitably, David passed another mile marker.
Mile 0
Beneath it, carved deep into the metal:
ONLY ONE WAY OUT.
David's hands shook so badly that he could barely hold the wheel. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. Every rational part of his mind screamed that this was impossible—roads didn't loop, reality didn't break, things like the tall figure didn't exist. But he was here. This was happening. And he had to make a choice.
Keep driving in circles until he ran out of gas? Until exhaustion forced him to stop? Until whatever that thing was decided to stop following and start taking?
Or stop. Face whatever waited. Accept the only way out.
David pulled onto the shoulder—the first safe place he'd seen for miles. The moment his tires left the pavement, the world outside went silent. No wind. No rustling leaves. No distant sounds of civilization. Just pure, absolute absence of sound.
Even his engine seemed to die, though the dashboard lights still glowed. The fog pressed against every window, thick as cotton, blocking out everything beyond his car.
David's hand trembled on the door handle. He had to get out. Had to see. Had to know.
Leaving the Car
The air outside was freezing, far colder than any October night should be. David's breath fogged in white clouds as he stood beside his car, gravel crunching under his shoes. The fog was so thick he could barely see his own hands.
He turned back toward his car, intending to grab his phone and try one more time to call for help.
Something tall was sitting in the driver's seat.
David's heart stopped. The figure sat perfectly upright, hands folded in its lap, head bent at an unnatural angle. Studying him. Its faceless head tracked his movement as he stumbled backward, and though it had no eyes, David felt its attention like a physical weight pressing against his chest.
The headlights flickered once. Twice. Then died completely, plunging the world into absolute darkness.
David backed away, feet sliding on gravel, arms outstretched in front of him. The fog was so thick now that he couldn't see his own hands. Couldn't see anything except darkness and the suggestion of shapes moving within it.
Behind him, he heard movement. The soft crunch of footsteps on gravel. Getting closer.
The Dark Ending
David turned and ran into the darkness.
The tall man rose from the driver's seat in one long, fluid motion. Its movements were wrong—joints bending in ways that human anatomy shouldn't allow, limbs extending and contracting as if its bones were suggestions rather than structures. It stepped out of the car without opening the door, passing through metal and glass as if they were made of smoke.
David crashed through underbrush, branches tearing at his face and clothes. He didn't know where he was going—there was no path, no direction, just the primal need to run. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. But behind him, always behind him, he could hear it following.
Not running. Just walking. Patient. Inevitable.
David's foot caught on a root and he fell hard, tasting dirt and blood. He scrambled to his feet, but the fog had become a solid wall. He couldn't see where he'd come from or where he was going. Couldn't see anything except darkness and the suggestion of something tall moving closer.
A whisper cut through the silence—close enough that David felt breath on the back of his neck, though nothing touched him:
"You shouldn't have come here."
The fog rushed toward him like a closing hand. David opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The darkness pressed against his face, filling his nose and mouth and lungs, cold and absolute.
The last thing David saw was the tall man's featureless face, inches from his own. Then nothing.
Three days later, a state trooper found David's car on the shoulder of County Road 47—an old logging road that dead-ended five miles into the woods. The engine was running, tank still half-full. The driver's side door hung open. David's wallet, phone, and keys sat undisturbed on the passenger seat.
David himself was never found.
But late-night drivers on rural highways sometimes report seeing an abandoned car on the shoulder, fog pressing thick against its windows. And if they look closely—if they're unfortunate enough to look closely—they can see something tall sitting in the driver's seat.
Perfectly still.
Waiting.
And smiling.
Further Reading:
- The Tall Man: Appalachia's Most Terrifying Death Omen
- Free Story Friday: Haint Blue
- Free Story Friday: The House That Skips Halloween
- Browse the Full Free Story Friday Archive
© 2025 Karen Cody. All rights reserved.
This original story was written exclusively for the Urban Legends, Mystery, and Myth blog.
Do not copy, repost, or reproduce without permission.
This tale may appear in a future special collection.
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