It was a chilly autumn evening in rural Pennsylvania, the kind where the roads are blanketed with a faint mist, and the skeletal trees seem to whisper secrets to the wind. Logan Harris, a software engineer, had just finished a grueling day of meetings and coding marathons in Pittsburgh. Eager to get back to his small town two hours away, he took a shortcut he barely had in his childhood memory.

The road, shadowed by the overhang of trees, seemed endless. His car’s headlights struggled to pierce through the dense fog, and his playlist, once comforting, now felt oppressive in the suffocating silence of the backwoods. When his gas tank’s low fuel indicator blinked, Logan muttered a curse under his breath. The nearest station was miles away, and his phone had no signal.

As the engine sputtered its warning, a pair of headlights emerged from the mist behind him. Logan glanced at his rearview mirror and saw an old-fashioned yellow taxi, its chrome edges gleaming unnaturally in the faint moonlight. Relieved, he pulled over, signaling for help. The cab stopped beside him, and the passenger window rolled down. The driver, an older man in a neatly pressed uniform and a cap that looked straight out of the 1950s, gave Logan a wide smile.

“Need a ride?” the driver asked. His voice was gravelly but kind, like someone who had spent years listening rather than talking.

Logan hesitated for a moment. Something about the cab felt… off. Maybe it was the unnervingly pristine condition of such an old vehicle. But the cold was creeping into his bones, and the looming darkness of the forest felt suffocating. Against his better judgment, he nodded.

Climbing into the backseat, Logan immediately noticed the faint smell of smoke—an odd mix of burnt wood and something acrid he couldn’t place. The seats, though clean, felt stiff and cold, as if the car hadn’t been used in years. The driver adjusted his rearview mirror, locking eyes with Logan for a moment, and smiled again.

“Where to?”

“Uh, Greendale. It’s about 50 miles from here,” Logan replied, shifting uncomfortably.

The driver nodded, and the cab smoothly pulled back onto the road. Logan tried to relax, gazing out the window as the fog thickened, swallowing the world outside. The car radio crackled softly, playing an old jazz tune that Logan couldn’t quite place.

“You don’t see many cabs around here,” Logan said, trying to make small talk.

The driver chuckled. “Not many people need rides out in these parts anymore. But I always find someone who does.”

The response was strange but not enough to raise alarm. Logan chalked it up to small-town eccentricity. They drove in silence for a while, the only sounds being the hum of the engine and the soft melody on the radio. But as Logan glanced at the meter, he noticed it wasn’t running. Instead, it displayed a strange sequence of numbers: 1959. He frowned.

“Hey, your meter isn’t—” he began, but the driver interrupted.

“Don’t worry about the fare. I only ask for something small in return.”

Logan’s unease deepened. “Like what?”

The driver didn’t answer immediately, his face illuminated eerily by the dashboard lights. “Your time,” he finally said, his voice low and heavy.

Before Logan could press further, the car took a sharp turn onto a dirt path. Panic surged in his chest. “Wait, this isn’t the way to Greendale. Where are you taking me?”

The driver glanced back, his eyes hollow and dark, the earlier kindness replaced by something colder. “We’ll get there. Eventually.”

Logan’s heart raced. He reached for his phone, but there was still no signal. The trees outside seemed to close in, their twisted branches clawing at the night sky. The headlights cast long, distorted shadows that danced like specters.

Then he noticed something even stranger. The road signs they passed were old—faded and rusted, bearing names he didn’t recognize. The landscape outside the cab window seemed trapped in time, the houses dilapidated but untouched by modernity, their porches sagging under the weight of years.

Logan’s breath quickened. “Let me out!” he demanded, gripping the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The driver didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

As the cab continued its relentless journey, Logan’s surroundings became more surreal. He saw figures standing by the roadside—motionless, their faces obscured by shadows. Some held out their hands as if hailing the cab, but the driver ignored them. Logan’s stomach churned when he realized their eyes glowed faintly, like embers in the dark.

“What is this?” Logan shouted. “Who are you?”

The driver finally spoke, his voice devoid of emotion. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

The driver sighed, as if disappointed. “This isn’t your first ride, Logan.”

Confusion turned to terror. The radio crackled, and a distorted voice emerged, repeating a name: Logan Harris. His own voice followed, fragmented and pleading: “Please, don’t do this! I didn’t mean to!”

The cab slowed as they approached a bridge. It was old and rickety, its planks groaning under the weight of the car. Below, the river gleamed like liquid mercury in the moonlight. Logan’s reflection in the window distorted, his face pale and ghostly.

And then he remembered.

A year ago, on this very bridge, he had struck a man while driving home drunk. Panic-stricken, he had fled the scene, leaving the man to die. The memory, buried under layers of guilt, came rushing back like a flood.

The driver turned to him, his face now gaunt, his eyes sunken and lifeless. “You left me here, Logan. Now it’s your turn.”

The cab came to a stop in the middle of the bridge. Logan tried to open the door again, but it remained locked. The driver stepped out, his movements slow and deliberate, and walked to Logan’s side. The door swung open, though Logan hadn’t touched it.

“No!” Logan screamed, scrambling to the other side of the car, but the driver grabbed him with icy hands and yanked him out.

The river roared below, louder than it should have been. Logan struggled, but the driver’s grip was unyielding. “You owe me,” the driver whispered, his breath cold as winter.

With one final push, Logan was thrown off the bridge. As he plummeted, he saw the cab drive away, its taillights fading into the fog.

Logan’s body hit the water, but he didn’t sink. Instead, he stood on the riverbank moments later, soaking wet and shivering. The bridge was gone. The cab was gone. But he wasn’t alone.

The figures he had seen earlier on the roadside surrounded him now, their glowing eyes fixed on him. One stepped forward, a mirror image of Logan, pale and lifeless.

“You’re one of us now,” the doppelgänger said, a cruel smile spreading across its face.

As the night swallowed him, Logan realized his fate: he would haunt these roads forever, waiting for the next lost traveler to hail his cab.