What Happened on the Empty Road
Under the dark night sky, a salaryman gripped the steering wheel.
He wore a crumpled suit from working late, his briefcase stuffed with papers tossed carelessly to the side, dark shadows under his eyes.
The worn tires of his old car rattled over the road, vibrating roughly.
He yawned, rubbing his eyes, forcing back exhaustion as he sped down the endless stretch.
Inside, he wrestled with conflicting thoughts—one urging him to get home and crash as soon as possible, the other dreading an early arrival because sleep would only hasten tomorrow's dawn.
His mind so full of these notions, perhaps that's why it took so long to notice.
This road wasn't his usual route.
By the time he realized it, a good while had passed.
“Ah, damn it...”
Already bone-tired, he muttered irritably under his breath about why this had to happen now.
He reached for the navigation to find a spot to turn around.
Stopped in place.
Furious, he saw the screen showed him stationary despite driving.
“Fuck! It's not responding—what the hell!”
He flipped on the hazard lights and pulled onto the shoulder under a streetlamp.
Poking buttons and swiping the screen yielded nothing.
Cursing, he pulled out his phone to open the app.
Only then did a voice prompt him to enter a destination.
He sighed heavily.
Irritably tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, he searched for home and tapped it.
Shortest route. Proceed straight.
At least no need to backtrack, he grumbled, gripping the wheel again.
He passed the streetlamps scattering light through the thick fog.
700 meters straight ahead...
“Luckily close.”
Mindlessly pedaling down the empty road—empty of anyone but him—he followed the navigation voice.
Then, unease crept in.
He glanced around.
“Was there a road near home this straight and endless?”
500 meters ahead...
“Not even a highway—no turns.”
400 meters to destination...
Something felt off.
Suddenly, the voice announced it was almost there.
Assuming he'd set the wrong destination, he eased onto the shoulder and stopped.
Rubbing his bleary eyes, he reached for the buttons to reset.
300 meters to destination.
Still stopped, yet the distance shrank.
Definitely broken, he thought, stretching for the phone on the passenger seat.
250 meters to destination.
A chill raced up his spine.
He straightened, eyes drawn to the foggy road.
Headlights and streetlamps pierced the haze, but the late hour didn't explain the eerie emptiness—no cars, just silence.
“Of all times to glitch...”
Then, through the fog, something approached.
200 meters to destination.
Whatever it was, gut instinct screamed it wasn't good.
He veered off the shoulder, skipping a U-turn spot.
Instead, he reversed direction—risky, but no other cars meant safety, and he just wanted off this road fast.
250 meters to destination.
“Haa... that was really scary...”
Relief washed over him with the increasing distance.
He let out a long sigh.
250 meters to destination.
“Huh...?”
He swallowed dryly.
200 meters to destination.
“What!?”
Panic surged; he floored the accelerator.
Yet the distance dwindled.
Cold sweat beaded as he glanced in the rearview.
Something lurked in the fog.
Indistinct, formless—but that vagueness fueled horrifying imagination.
And it sharpened as it neared.
150 meters to destination.
“Shut up, you fucking thing!!”
Terror mounted with the closing gap.
The speedometer refused to climb higher.
He couldn't resist a quick glance back.
Bad luck? Neglected maintenance? Or the thing's prank?
A balloon-pop burst—steering wheel wrenched sideways.
Too late to correct; the skid worsened.
Tires screeched long black marks on asphalt.
The old car slammed into the concrete barrier.
Hood crumpled in half before halting.
“Ugh...”
Dazed from impact, he came to with the deflating airbag against his chest.
Shaking his head to clear the fog, before he could assess—
Destination reached.
The announcement jolted him alert.
Peering through the cracked windshield, impenetrable fog enveloped everything.
That thing from the fog—where was it watching from?
Breath held in dread, then—a drop from above.
“Gasp!”
More sounds followed, shifting forward.
Something climbed atop the car.
Remembering the phone on the passenger seat, he reached desperately.
Trembling hands flailed in the dimness.
Impact must've knocked it under the seat—nothing.
Damn, where is it...!
He froze.
Pressure on his wrist.
The arm stretched toward the passenger side—gripped by something.
The squeeze transmitted through skin, unmistakable.
Gasping, he squeezed his eyes shut, slowly lowering his head.
When he opened them: red handprint on his wrist.
No intruding hand inside, no lurking figure outside.
Yet he couldn't move.
He still felt its grasp.
By morning, reports came of a wrecked car abandoned mid-road.
No one found the owner.
Why the crash?
Whose were the countless handprints scarring the vehicle?
Under the dark night sky, a schoolgirl perched on her bike saddle.
Her uniform neatly ironed yet always somehow shapeless, pink bunny backpack crammed impossibly full—strapped tight.
A strangely relieved expression on her face.
One hand released the decent-quality handlebars—not expensive, but solid.
She fished out her phone from her pocket.
With deft fingers, opened the navigation app, set "home" as destination.
No real home, just her current haunt—but she tapped the lagging "home" button repeatedly until it responded.
Arrow stretched straight on the map.
She pedaled off.
“Ah~ I can drive too, you know~”
Arin rolled her bike down the endless road, cold night air whipping.
Wind sneaking up her skirt brought an indescribable sensation—and self-loathing she ignored.
She recited the intel.
Specific spots: set nav to "home," and it drags you into an unlocatable weird road.
Just checking accident hotspots via CCTV—cars vanishing, survivors none.
Restored dashcam data revealed this.
Naturally, the anomaly’s rules unknown.
No countermeasures.
“Making that rulebook’s my job, right~”
Empty road—no cars anyway.
She cruised the center leisurely, humming to kill boredom.
Fog thickened; she brightened the bike lantern.
“If the bike fit the bag mouth, I'd cram it in and keep using it—such a shame.”
Recalling a researcher-type saying if it fit the opening, force it in.
She'd skeptically tested with a steel pipe.
Wondered if this bag—always with her through deaths and revivals—was the dangerous anomaly.
Or maybe the creature posing as a bag was the real entity, not her.
Silly thoughts trailed as her phone chimed.
800 meters to destination.
“Ah~ so damn far!”
She complained at the phone.
Distance shrank faster than her biking speed.
Fingers splayed on brakes.
Screech—bike halted.
Foot off pedal, she waited.
500 meters to destination.
“Definitely something here.”
Detaching phone from handlebar mount, tried closing app.
It minimized but wouldn't quit.
Shrugging helplessly, she hit camera.
300 meters to destination.
Far off, shadow in the smoke-thick fog.
Zoomed, snapped photos burst-mode.
Switched to video, tucked phone in chest pocket—camera protruding.
“Ugh... kinda scary? If it's a ghost, punching won't cut it.”
Her hard-earned training useless—she sighed softly.
Phone voice: it neared 100 meters, then 50.
Destination reached.
Fog swallowed her like a horror movie village—zero visibility.
Sounds approached.
From one side at first, then everywhere—front, sides, behind.
Something entered view.
Handprints...
Streetlight on asphalt: one dark handprint, then two, ten—uncountable.
Encircling her in a ring.
They reached her feet.
Her body tore apart—like paper yanked from all sides, shredded to rags.
“Hm, yeah—this one's beyond brute force.”
Arin opened her eyes at the road entrance.
Bike gone; she clicked her tongue, pulling the phone from her pocket.
Unbroken, photos and video intact.
She smirked, emailing the files.