Amara pressed herself into the corner of the seat, her body trembling, her breath shallow and ragged.
The loop wouldn't end. No matter how many turns the driver took, no matter how far they drove, the crooked lamppost always returned—mocking her, trapping her.
The faceless passenger sat perfectly still. The driver hummed tunelessly under his breath. And in the trunk space, the thing with too-long limbs twitched as though it might unfold itself into the car at any second.
Amara squeezed her eyes shut. This isn't real. This isn't real.
But when she opened them again, it was worse.
The windows had changed.
The city had vanished completely. No streets, no lampposts, no buildings. Only an endless black plain stretched on either side of the car, as though they were driving across nothingness.
And in that blackness, shadows moved.
Shapes pressed against the glass from outside—human figures, thousands of them, their features blurred. They clawed with pale hands, mouths opening and closing in silent screams. Their eyes bulged white in the darkness, as if desperate to be seen, desperate to be let in.
Amara's breath hitched. "No… no, no, no!" She recoiled, trying to pull away from the window.
The first face slammed against the glass.
Her own.
It was her face, pale and gaunt, hair plastered to her cheeks as though she'd drowned. The reflection's lips moved, mouthing words she couldn't hear.
Another face joined it. Then another. Dozens. All of them hers. Each one more twisted than the last—eyes gouged out, mouths sewn shut, skin rotting in patches.
The glass rattled under the weight of them pressing closer.
Amara screamed, clutching her head. "STOP! STOP LOOKING AT ME!"
The driver chuckled. His voice was rasping, brittle. "They want in. They always want in."
The faceless passenger finally moved. Its head turned sharply toward her, like a puppet jerked by invisible strings. Its voice was a hollow hiss.
"They're what's left of you."
Amara shook her head violently. "That's not me! That's not me!"
But one of the faces outside mouthed louder now, the words slow and deliberate.
"LET. US. IN."
The glass spiderwebbed with cracks.
Amara shrieked and scrambled away from the window. Her hand brushed against her fallen phone on the floor. Against all reason, the screen flickered back to life again—weak, trembling light in the dark.
One new message.
Sender: Unknown.
"Don't let them in. Or you'll never leave."
The glass shuddered as a hand—her own hand, or something like it—pushed through the cracks, fingers clawing toward her face.