My Passenger Keeps Staring at Me

r/NoSleep version

A frustrated writer, I find driving along empty streets and artificial lightings hanging above me soothing, and meeting new people thought-provoking. Staring at a computer screen—not to mention creative writing in general—sucks the life out of me, figuratively and quite literally. What I do isn’t exactly lucrative, either, especially since I’m just starting. The tranquility provided by night driving is most welcome and has been helpful in terms of coming up with fresh ideas for my pieces-in-progress.

I mostly pick up passengers at night up until the witching hour. On a personal standpoint, being an Uber driver is a win-win situation. Profit. Novelty. Inspiration. Although, occasionally, that isn’t the case.

I once drove for two men who were trying to prove to each other who the better lover was. A group of drunk people once made a disgusting mess in the car’s backseat, and the extra pay didn’t change the fact that I had to spend some of my writing time washing the car’s interior the next day. Then there were the occasional storytellers, ones that were apparently so lonely that they had to displace their troubles and failures on a stranger.

That being said, there are pleasant passengers who could effectively cancel out the unpleasant ones.

It is around 2 AM. I’m driving around **** City after I’ve just dropped off a passenger, impatiently waiting for that familiar beep that tells me that I have a new pick-up. It isn’t until twenty minutes later that my phone has received a notification.

The passenger’s name doesn’t show. Instead, it is replaced with “Unknown Contact.” System bugs aren’t an uncommon occurrence, and I’m not about to reject a passenger especially since they’re scarce at this time of the day.

What the passenger had put on the “Notes” section is bizarre: “Don’t look at me.”

She situates herself at the backseat, leaning towards the right window. I thought I wouldn’t have a difficult time fulfilling her odd request, but her captivatingly overpowering fragrance makes me curious as to what she looks like; she smells beautiful.

So I glance fleetingly at the rearview mirror. Her small hand rests on her chin, swaying parts of her blonde hair that is tied in princess-like braids. Her dreamy eyes are fixated outside, but it isn’t difficult to admire her looks even though she isn’t facing in my direction. If anything, I realize how perfectly-shaped her nose is.

That’s enough. I know full well why she has requested for me not to look at her; it isn’t implausible to assume that perverted drivers frequently stare at her and make her uncomfortable every time she takes a ride.

The moment I take my eyes off her, I feel butterflies in my stomach. I’m having goosebumps, but it’s not because I find the woman behind me attractive.

It’s because I sense that every fiber of my being is being watched by someone with killing intent.

I look around the streets for the source of this chilling feeling, but I needn’t look far; I can see through my peripheral vision that my passenger is looking at me. Is she the one giving off this unsettling feeling?

I grow more aware of the dead silence, with only the humming of the car’s engine fighting it off. Her hatred towards perverts must be stronger than I initially thought.

“What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” I ask without looking.

My words didn’t have any effect. Growing more restless, I look back at her. To say that she’s staring at me would perhaps be an understatement; her eyes are exaggeratingly wide open, never blinking, filled with palpable bloodthirst that makes me all the more uncomfortable. She’s still beautiful, but it is noticeable that she looks different from how I saw her just a minute ago.

She looks… empty.

I clear my throat. “You’re safe here, ma’am. I apologize if I offended you in any way.”

When I set my eyes on the road once again, I notice that she’s grinning, with her eyes still set on mine. If she’s attempting to be friendly, she’s failing.

Every strand of hair in my body rises as I glance at her again. Her eyes grow even bigger that I’m scared that they will pop out any moment, and her cartoonish, physics-defying smile sends shivers in my spine. There are traces of blood on the gaps of her decaying teeth.  

I also can’t smell her enchanting perfume anymore. I have to open up the windows, resisting the urge to throw up as a decaying smell slowly fills the interior.

Just what the fuck is happening? Maybe I’m just too exhausted to the point where my mind has decided to play tricks at me. But the more I rationalize, the more I find it hard to convince myself that none of this is real.

No, that’s impossible. Thinking that I’m just hallucinating for some goddamned reason, I look at her for the fourth time.

I regret doing so.

Her twisted face occupies the entire rearview mirror, just inches away from me. I didn’t even hear her make a move. Not a single trace of the beautiful woman I saw earlier remains; behind me is a horrendous hag who seems to send a terrifying message to me through her dead eyes. I can feel her warm, putrid, grunting breath on my neck, and I piss myself in the realization that I just picked up someone whose sole purpose is to might as well kill me.

My survival instincts kick in. Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. That was this monster’s request. If I do just that, everything will be fine.

It takes a lot of effort to focus on the road and to not look at the rearview mirror. It’s like she’s tempting me to look one more time. It’s so fucking fortunate that, despite the paralyzed state I’m in, I’ve still managed to reach our destination.

Slowly, her breath becomes distant. I hear a clicking sound as she opens the door, tears flowing out of my closed eyes.

As soon as the doors close, I hit the gas with all the strength I can muster, constantly reminding myself not to look behind until she’s out of reach. I pull over in front of a convenience store and start to vomit all over the steering wheel out of fear and disgust. The portion of the backseat where she sat moments ago is soaking wet, and it is this fact and the lingering rotting smell that reminds me that all of this is not a nightmare.

What happened—no matter how irrational it might seem—truly happened.

“You’re going to pick up weird people at some point,” my friend Kurt had been telling me ad nauseam. And yes, I, indeed, have picked up several passengers that are, to say the least, irritating. I believe that it’s the kind of life that other Uber drivers must be accustomed to.

But a bothersome passenger is one thing; a passenger that isn’t even a person is another.

“What would have happened if I looked for the fifth time?” That is a question that I can’t help but get curious as to what the answer might be, even though I know deep down that every answer would be horrifying.