https://www.facebook.com/share/16KT9E3Wfa/ “Midnight Passenger” The party had been wild—the kind that roars until your throat is raw and your shoes are soaked in mystery liquids you don’t dare question. By 2:37 a.m., Talia stumbled out of the house, mascara smudged, heels dangling from one hand, phone dead in the other. She’d lost her friends hours ago. The Uber app had crashed, and she couldn’t remember anyone’s number by heart. The night was thick with mist, the kind that turned every shadow into a threat. The streets were dead silent. Until headlights cut through the fog behind her. A sleek, black '67 Chevy Impala glided to a stop beside her, engine purring like a satisfied predator. The driver leaned over and popped the passenger door. “You lost, pretty thing?” he asked, voice smooth as honey laced with arsenic. Talia hesitated. He was hot—in a gothic, devil-might-care kind of way. Tall, angular, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He wore a black button-up, sleeves rolled, revealing veined forearms. But his eyes... they were wrong. Too dark. Too still. Still, her tired legs won the argument. “Yeah,” she sighed, sliding in. “Westfield Heights.” The man gave a slow nod. The door shut with a hiss. They drove in silence. No radio. No GPS. He seemed to know the roads like they were burned into his skin. "You party often?" he asked, not looking at her. "Sometimes. Why?" "Just... wondering what makes people chase noise so hard when the real screams are always silent." Talia turned, brows furrowed. "What?" But he wasn’t looking at her. He was smiling faintly, eyes locked on the road. Then everything changed. The streetlights vanished. The road twisted into something older, cracked and overgrown. Fog slithered in through the air vents. Talia's breath turned to vapor. "This isn’t the way," she whispered, reaching for the door. The lock clicked down. All the doors did. The man’s head turned too slowly, bones cracking. “You don’t remember me, do you?” Talia’s blood iced. “What the hell are you talking about?” “You left me on the road. Halloween, two years ago. You and your friends hit me and kept driving. Drunk. Laughing.” “No,” she stammered. “That wasn’t—no, I wasn’t driving—” “Doesn’t matter,” he hissed. His face began to change. Skin pale as candle wax. Eyes bleeding black. His teeth sharpened into jagged glass. “You were there.” The car jerked hard. Trees twisted unnaturally outside the windows. Talia screamed, yanking the handle—but the door wouldn’t budge. The seatbelt constricted, choking her. He leaned in. “I’ve been giving rides to each of you. One by one. You’re the last.” The car filled with cold, the smell of wet soil and rotting leaves thick in her nostrils. She clawed at the window, nails breaking, throat raw. And then—nothing. — They found the Impala a week later, idling on the side of Old Briar Road. No driver. No passenger. Just a single stiletto heel in the front seat, soaked in blood. And carved into the dashboard, scorched deep: > “SHE HAD HER CHANCE TO WALK.” Some say the car still shows up on foggy nights, offering rides to lone girls stumbling home. But if you get in... You never make it home. .......... Written by Iron Butterfly... Guess who's back with a different name , different style and approach...your own Stormy iyeye wamaiziva darlings but this time totambira kuface book ,so huya hande ku page tinoita follow and read more and more short stories💃💃💃