The Copper’s Jest

The night air clung to my skin like a damp shroud as I guided my trusty 1986 Holden Commodore along the winding coastal road. The engine hummed a steady, reassuring tone, a stark contrast to the unease that had settled in my stomach since I’d left the city limits. My name is Jake, and for the past month, I’d been driving this stretch of asphalt every Friday night, partly to clear my head, partly because the car seemed to need it. It was a hand-me-down from my uncle, who’d passed away the previous winter, and I’d grown attached to its quirks—the way the heater kicked in with a cough, the faint smell of tobacco that lingered no matter how much I cleaned.

It was around midnight when the flashing blue and red lights erupted in my rearview mirror. My heart lurched. I hadn’t been speeding—I was well under the limit, savoring the cool sea breeze. I pulled over onto a gravel shoulder, my hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. The police cruiser slid to a stop behind me, its headlights casting long shadows across the dirt. An officer emerged, a hulking figure in a crisp uniform, his face obscured by the glare. He approached my window, and I rolled it down.

‘Evening, officer,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. He leaned down, squinting into the car, his eyes darting around as if searching for something. ‘You mind telling me where your friends are?’ he asked, his tone flat. ‘They’re not in the back, are they?’ I blinked, confused. ‘I’m alone, officer,’ I said. He let out a short laugh, dry and humorless. ‘Don’t play games, kid. I can feel them. They’re in the boot, aren’t they? Better get them out before this gets messy.’

My stomach twisted. ‘There’s no one in the boot. I’ve been driving alone all night.’ The officer’s smile didn’t waver. He tapped the roof of my car twice, then walked to the back. I heard the trunk pop open, and the sound of his boots crunching on gravel as he inspected the empty space. When he returned, his expression had shifted to something unreadable. ‘Alright, maybe you are alone,’ he conceded, but he didn’t look convinced. He pulled out a breathalyzer and held it up. ‘Let’s just make sure you’re not seeing things, eh?’

I blew into the device, my mouth dry. He read the result, frowned, and then let out a hearty laugh. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe I need this more than you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Sorry for the trouble. You have a good night.’ He turned and walked back to his cruiser, but as he opened the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh, and tell your friends to stop mucking around. They’re only going to make you more trouble.’ He climbed in, and the cruiser pulled away, its taillights disappearing around a bend.

I sat there, heart pounding, trying to process what had just happened. The officer’s words echoed in my mind: ‘Tell your friends to stop mucking around.’ But I had no friends. I was alone, and I knew it. As I resumed driving, a creeping sensation crawled up my spine. I glanced in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see a shape in the back seat, but there was nothing but the empty highway.

It wasn’t until I reached my destination—a small, rundown motel on the outskirts of town—that I noticed something odd. The boot had been closed when the officer left, but now it was slightly ajar, a thin beam of light escaping from within. My hands trembled as I stepped out and approached the rear of the car. I took a deep breath, lifted the lid, and stared into the dark interior. There, nestled in the spare tire well, was a single object: an old, worn leather notebook. I hadn’t put it there. I’d never seen it before.

I picked it up, the leather brittle under my fingertips. The pages were yellowed, filled with cramped handwriting that looked like it belonged to someone long gone. It was a diary, dated from 1985, written by a man who called himself ‘The Driver.’ The entries described a series of night drives along this very road, picking up hitchhikers, but never letting them out. ‘The car purrs,’ one entry read, ‘and the night swallows their screams.’

My blood turned to ice. I slammed the trunk shut, but the sound was wrong—it echoed, as if from a distance. When I turned around, the motel was gone. In its place was a dark, empty field, stretching into an unending blackness. My car, the Commodore, was still there, but it looked different—older, rusted, as if it had been abandoned for decades. And from the back seat, I heard a voice, low and amused, ‘They never listen, do they?’

I spun around, but the car was empty. Yet the voice persisted, coming from inside my head, a familiar yet alien cadence. ‘You should have told them to stop mucking around, Jake. Now you’re part of the drive.’ The headlights flickered on, illuminating a road that hadn’t been there before, stretching into an abyss. The engine revved on its own, and the doors locked. I was trapped.

I don’t know how long I drove that night—or how many nights have passed since. The motel, the town, my old life—they’ve all faded into a haze. Now, I see others on this road, their faces pale, their eyes wide, and I feel a pull to offer them a ride. The last thing I remember before the darkness closed in was the officer’s laughter, and the notebook’s final page, which ended with a single line: ‘The road never lets you go.’