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| The Last Ride on Riverdale Road |
A new original tale every week—twisted, terrifying, and inspired by the darkest legends you thought you knew.
Evan Jack Calder had always hated his middle name.
Growing up, whenever someone asked about it, his mother would get that distant look in her eyes and say, "You were named after someone special." She never elaborated, and Evan learned not to push. Some memories were too heavy to carry in conversation.
Now, at twenty-nine, driving Riverdale Road at half past midnight because his GPS had routed him this way to avoid construction, Evan finally understood why his mother never talked about Uncle Jack. The road itself felt like a wound that had never quite healed.
Riverdale Road cut through the kind of darkness that seemed deliberate, as if the trees had been planted specifically to block out the moon. No streetlights. No houses with welcoming porch lights. Just an endless ribbon of cracked asphalt disappearing into the void ahead, bordered by dense forest that pressed close on both sides like spectators at a boxing match.
Evan checked the dashboard clock: 12:14 a.m. Still plenty of time to get home, shower, and grab a few hours of sleep before his morning shift. The late-night sales call had run longer than expected, and he'd turned down his coworker's offer to crash on her couch. A decision he was starting to regret.
The engine coughed.
Evan's foot lifted reflexively off the gas pedal, but the car was already losing power. The headlights dimmed as if someone was slowly turning down a dimmer switch. The radio crackled and died mid-song. Even the GPS screen went dark, its cheerful blue glow vanishing like a candle being snuffed out.
The Mustang coasted to a stop on the narrow shoulder, and Evan sat in sudden, oppressive silence.
He tried the ignition. Nothing. Not even the clicking sound of a dead battery—just complete, absolute silence. His phone showed one bar of service that flickered and disappeared as he watched. The time still advanced: 12:17 a.m.
"Perfect," Evan muttered, popping the hood latch and stepping out into the night.
The air felt wrong. Too still, too heavy, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. No wind rustled the trees. No insects chirped their night songs. Even his footsteps on the gravel seemed muted, absorbed by the darkness.
Evan lifted the hood and stared at the engine, knowing he wouldn't spot anything obviously broken. He wasn't a mechanic, and in the faint moonlight filtering through the trees, he could barely see anything at all. He was reaching for his phone's flashlight when headlights appeared in his rearview mirror.
A car was approaching from behind, moving slowly, deliberately. As it drew closer, Evan recognized the silhouette: a black Camaro, late '80s or early '90s model, the kind of muscle car that belonged in classic car shows or drag racing competitions. It pulled in behind his Mustang with the smooth precision of a predator cornering prey.
The driver's window rolled down.
"Need some help?" The voice was calm, confident, with the easy friendliness of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
Evan approached the Camaro, leaning down to see the driver. The man looked to be in his thirties, with dark hair and sharp features. He wore a leather jacket over a plain white t-shirt—casual clothes that somehow felt slightly out of time, like costumes from a period piece where the details were almost right but not quite.
"Car died on me," Evan said. "Won't even turn over."
The driver glanced at Evan's Mustang, and something flickered across his face—appreciation, maybe nostalgia. "Nice ride. What year?"
"'98."
"SN-95 body style. Good choice." The driver's eyes lingered on the car for a moment longer before returning to Evan. "Yeah, that happens here. Road doesn't like strangers stopping." He said it like a joke, but his eyes were serious. "I can give you a lift. There's a gas station about ten miles up. They've got a tow truck."
Evan hesitated. Every childhood warning about accepting rides from strangers flickered through his mind. But the alternative was standing alone on this dark road, waiting for another car that might never come, or for his own to mysteriously start working again.
He checked his phone one more time: 12:23 a.m. Still no signal.
"Alright," Evan said, opening the passenger door. "Thanks."
The interior of the Camaro was immaculate—black leather seats, chrome accents, a dashboard that looked factory new despite the car's age. The engine idled with a deep, throaty rumble that Evan could feel in his chest. As he clicked the seatbelt into place, he noticed the driver watching him with an odd expression.
"I'm Jack," the driver said, pulling back onto the road.
Evan's stomach dropped. The name hit him like a punch. "I'm Evan," he replied, keeping his voice steady.
"Good to meet you, Evan." Jack accelerated smoothly. "We're meeting some friends up ahead. Friday night racing tradition. You mind if we make a quick stop first?"
"Racing?" Evan glanced at the speedometer. The needle sat firmly at zero, even though trees were whipping past the windows at what had to be sixty or seventy miles per hour.
"Yeah, nothing serious. Just a few runs to kill time." Jack's smile was easy, practiced. "The night's still young."
That's when Evan noticed the other cars.
They appeared without warning—a cherry-red Mustang pulling alongside them, engine roaring, then vanishing ahead without brake lights or the red glow of taillights. A blue Charger materialized in the oncoming lane, crossed impossibly close in front of them, and disappeared into darkness.
None of them made sound except their engines. None of them seemed to actually go anywhere.
"Who are they?" Evan asked, his mouth dry.
"The usual crowd. Been racing this road for years." Jack took a curve without slowing, the Camaro handling it like the road was flat. "Some guys never leave. Can't, really. Road gets in your blood."
Evan checked his phone again: 1:37 a.m. The time was advancing normally, but something felt stretched about the night, like taffy pulled too thin.
Then he noticed they'd passed the same fence three times. The same reflector post. The same curve with the oak tree that leaned over the road like an arthritic finger.
"We're going in circles," Evan said.
Jack didn't answer. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"How long have you been driving this road?" Evan asked.
"Long enough."
"How long, Jack?"
The driver glanced at him, and for the first time, Evan saw something crack in that confident facade. Confusion. Maybe fear.
"I don't... I don't know," Jack admitted. "I drive. I race. That's what we do here. That's what I've always done."
Evan studied him more carefully now. The jawline was familiar—sharp and angular, like his mother's. The eyes, too. Dark brown with flecks of green that caught the dashboard lights.
His mother had kept exactly one photo of her brother in the house, tucked away in a drawer like something too painful to display. Evan had found it once as a teenager: a young man with dark hair and a cocky smile, leaning against a black Camaro, barely older than Evan was now.
"You look like her," Jack said suddenly, his voice rough. "Like... someone I used to know."
Evan's throat constricted. "What was her name?"
Jack's hands tightened on the wheel. "I... Sarah. Sarah Calder."
"That's my mom," Evan said quietly. "I'm Evan Jack Calder. She named me after her brother."
The Camaro swerved slightly, correcting immediately. Jack's face went pale in the dashboard glow.
"No," he said, but it sounded like a question. "No, I'm just... I'm just driving. That's all. I don't..."
"Mom said you died racing on Riverdale Road," Evan continued, the words tumbling out now. "1994. You were twenty-six. Wrapped your car around a tree doing ninety in a straightaway."
Jack shook his head, but his hands were trembling on the wheel. "I don't remember that. I don't remember... When did you say?"
"Thirty-one years ago."
The number seemed to hit Jack like a physical blow. He stared at the road ahead, at the cars that appeared and vanished, at the same curve they'd passed countless times.
"I don't stop," he whispered. "I don't stop driving because... because if I stop..."
"You remember," Evan finished.
Jack's jaw clenched. "I race until morning. Every night. And then it starts over. The sun never comes up. Dawn never breaks. It's always midnight to three, over and over, and I just... I just keep driving."
"What happens at three?" Evan asked, though part of him already knew the answer.
Jack's expression darkened. "Nothing good happens after three. If you're still on this road at three a.m., you don't leave. You don't die. You just... stay."
Evan checked his phone with shaking hands: 2:41 a.m.
"You have to let me out," he said.
"I know." Jack's voice was thick with something that might have been regret. "I know, I just... I didn't mean to stop for you. I never stop for people. I don't know why I stopped tonight."
Other racers crowded closer now, as if sensing Jack's hesitation. The red Mustang appeared on their left, keeping pace. A white Trans Am materialized on their right. Both drivers turned to look at Evan, their faces blank and hollow.
Jack pressed harder on the accelerator, but the Camaro resisted, as if the road itself was holding them back.
"There's a curve up ahead," Jack said, his voice strained. "Where I... where it happened. I can stop there. Just there. But you have to get out fast."
"Why are you doing this?" Evan asked.
Jack finally looked at him directly, and Evan saw his mother's eyes looking back—the same eyes that got distant whenever anyone mentioned her brother.
"Because you were named after me," Jack said quietly. "Because someone remembered. Because maybe if I do this one thing right, it'll mean something."
The curve appeared ahead, more pronounced than the others, with a massive oak tree standing sentinel at the apex. Jack began to slow, fighting the engine, fighting the road, fighting whatever force kept him trapped in this endless loop.
The other racers closed in, their engines roaring in protest. The speedometer finally moved, dropping toward zero for the first time since Evan had gotten in the car.
Evan glanced at his phone: 2:59 a.m.
"Get out," Jack said. "Now."
The Camaro was still rolling when Evan threw open the door and stumbled onto the shoulder. He heard Jack's voice one last time, strained and desperate: "Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her—"
The clock on Evan's phone flipped to 3:00 a.m.
The Camaro's engine screamed as Jack floored the accelerator, and the black muscle car shot forward into the curve. Other cars materialized around it—the Mustang, the Charger, the Trans Am, dozens of others—all racing toward the same oak tree, all vanishing just before impact.
Then silence fell like a curtain, absolute and complete.
Evan stood alone on the shoulder of Riverdale Road. Birds were beginning to chirp in the trees. The first gray light of pre-dawn was creeping into the eastern sky.
He turned back toward where he'd left his Mustang.
It was still there, exactly where it had been, hood still propped open. Evan approached it slowly, half-expecting it to vanish like everything else. He slid into the driver's seat and turned the key.
The engine started immediately, purring like nothing had ever been wrong.
Evan drove home as the sun rose behind him, turning Riverdale Road into just another stretch of unremarkable asphalt. He'd tell his mother what happened, he decided. She deserved to know that Jack had remembered her, even if only for a moment. That he'd tried, in his own broken way, to do something good.
But Evan Jack Calder would never drive Riverdale Road again. Not at night. Not ever. Because now he understood what his mother had never been able to explain: some roads don't let go of the people they claim.
And if the black Camaro ever pulled up behind him again, his uncle might not remember why he let him leave the first time.
Some rescues only happen once.
© 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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Further Reading
If this story stayed with you, you might also enjoy these past Free Story Friday tales:
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Free Story Friday: The Road to Nowhere — A cursed highway where turning back is impossible
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Free Story Friday: The Ones Who Watch — Something notices you when no one else is around
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Free Story Friday: The Gap in Room 14 — A classroom with a space that shouldn’t exist—and something waiting inside it
For more on the legend that inspired tonight’s story:
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