Emptiness

The road was empty—too empty. A pale ribbon of asphalt stretched through the fog like it had been forgotten by time itself. The signboard, rusted and crooked, read Hollow Lane. The name should’ve been warning enough.

But Ryan just laughed when his wife, Mia, pointed it out. “Come on,” he said. “It’s just fog. Stop being dramatic.”

They’d taken a wrong turn after midnight, trying to shortcut through the countryside. The GPS flickered, then died. Only the faint beam of their headlights cut through the mist.

That’s when they saw her.

A woman standing by the side of the road, her white dress fluttering slightly in the windless air. She was barefoot. Her hair, long and dark, clung to her face like seaweed. And she was holding out her thumb.

Ryan slowed the car.

“Don’t,” Mia whispered. “Please, Ryan. Don’t stop.”

But he already had.

The woman moved closer, her steps soundless on the gravel. She leaned toward the window. “My husband,” she murmured. “He left me here. I need to go home.”

Her voice was soft—too soft, like air slipping through broken glass.

Ryan hesitated, then unlocked the door.

The woman slid into the back seat. The air turned cold. The windshield fogged instantly, even though the heater was on full blast. Ryan tried to make small talk, but she said nothing—just stared at them through the mirror, her eyes two black hollows reflecting no light.

When they passed the old cemetery, she suddenly whispered, “Stop here.”

Mia turned around—
But the back seat was empty.

Only the faint imprint of wet feet remained on the floor mat.

Ryan slammed the brakes, heart hammering. He looked out the window. The fog thickened until the world vanished. Somewhere in the distance, a woman laughed—a sound so fragile it barely existed, yet it filled the air like a scream.

They drove until dawn. When they finally reached the next town, the sheriff listened to their story with a grim face.

“You’re not the first,” he said quietly. “Every year, a couple passes through Hollow Lane. Every year, they see her—the widow of Thomas Hale. He died in a crash there in ’83. She stood by that road for years, begging rides from strangers. Until one night, she vanished.”

He paused. “But her body was never found.”

That night, Ryan couldn’t sleep. He kept hearing that laugh, the whisper: He left me here.

Weeks later, they met other couples—four of them—each claiming to have seen the same woman, in the same place, saying the same words. Their lives had all twisted since that night: accidents, illnesses, nightmares. One man even swore he woke up to find muddy footprints beside his bed.

When they compared details, one thing stood out. The night each of them saw her was their wedding anniversary.

It wasn’t coincidence. It was invitation.

On the fifth year, Mia woke alone. Ryan was gone. His shoes were wet, his car missing. The police found it hours later—on Hollow Lane. The driver’s side door open. The seat soaked in rain.

Only one thing remained on the dashboard:
A wedding ring, and a note written in trembling letters—

She just wanted a ride home.

And outside, through the thick morning fog, someone waited by the road.
Thumb raised.
Smiling.