The Last Tollbooth

The sun had bled out over the horizon an hour ago, leaving the sky a bruised purple. I was at the wheel of a rented Peugeot, my brother Tomas asleep in the passenger seat, our friend Henrik dozing in the back. We’d spent the day in a medieval town in Bavaria, and now we were racing back to our hotel in Munich, taking the A9 autobahn to shave off the minutes. The speedometer hovered at 160 km/h, the engine a low hum, the headlights carving a tunnel through the encroaching dark.

It was late November, and the landscape had turned into a black void punctuated by the occasional sodium glow of a distant farmhouse. I was tired, but the hum of the road kept me alert. That’s when I saw them: a pair of headlights in the rearview mirror, growing rapidly. I eased into the middle lane to let them pass, but they didn’t come around. Instead, they stayed behind, matching my speed, their beams casting my car’s shadow onto the asphalt ahead.

I glanced in the mirror again. The car was close now, too close. I could make out a shape behind the wheel, but the light was blinding. It felt like an eternity, that silent pursuit. I nudged Tomas, but he swatted my hand away, murmuring something in his sleep. The headlights flared, and I squinted, pressing the accelerator. The speedometer climbed to 180, then 200. But the lights kept pace, then started to creep closer.

I don’t know why I didn’t wake them. Maybe I thought it was just a German driver with a lead foot. But then, the lights began to change. They flickered, not like a faulty bulb, but like a signal. And then they turned a sickly orange, like a fire seen through smoke. I felt a cold draft snake through the car, even though the heater was on full. Henrik stirred in the back, muttering about the cold.

The highway stretched ahead, empty and straight. A sign appeared: NEXT EXIT 12 KM. I felt an irrational urge to take it, but we were making good time. Then, without warning, the car behind me swerved into the left lane. I expected it to zoom past, but instead it pulled alongside me, matching my speed. The window of the other car was black, impenetrable. I couldn’t see the driver, just a silhouette. But then, a hand pressed against the glass from inside the other car. It was pale, almost translucent, and the fingers were too long, bending at unnatural angles.

My heart hammered. I yanked the wheel to the right, crossing two lanes and taking the exit ramp at nearly 150 km/h. The car bottomed out, and I fought for control. Tomas was jolted awake, shouting, and Henrik cried out from the back. The headlights of the other car followed me down the ramp, then disappeared.

I pulled over on the empty service road, my hands shaking. Tomas was swearing, asking what the hell I was doing. I tried to explain, but the words came out jumbled. I pointed back toward the autobahn, but there was nothing there. Just darkness.

We sat there for a while, catching our breath. I thought about taking the side roads, but the autobahn was faster. We had to get back. So, with reluctance, we got back on the highway. The next thirty minutes were uneventful. I chalked it up to fatigue, to a strange optical illusion. But then, just as we approached the next exit, I saw the orange glow again, far ahead. It was a single sodium lamp, but it pulsed like a heartbeat.

We passed under it, and the car’s interior flooded with orange light. Then, from the radio, which had been silent, came a voice. It was a woman’s voice, clear and calm, speaking in perfect English: ‘You have reached the last tollbooth. No toll for those who remember.’ The radio crackled and died. Tomas and Henrik stared at the dashboard, their faces gone pale.

The highway began to twist, and the lanes narrowed. The sign for Munich appeared, but the distance kept increasing. 50 KM, then 60, then 80. I looked at the clock: it was 8:30 PM. I knew we should have arrived by now. The car’s interior grew cold, and my breath began to fog.

Then, the headlights reappeared in my mirror. This time, they were accompanied by others. A flickering parade of them, stretching back as far as I could see. They were all driving in the same direction, but they were silent. No engines, no sounds. Just the hum of my own car.

Henrik whispered from the back: ‘Are they there?’ I nodded, not daring to look again. Tomas began to recite a prayer, something I hadn’t heard since we were kids. The headlights closed in, and I floored the accelerator. The speedometer maxed out at 240, but the lights kept pace.

I saw an exit ahead, unmarked. It was a gravel road, leading into a dark forest. I took it, the car bouncing over the ruts. The branches scraped the sides, and the headlights of the other cars followed, but they seemed to slow. I drove until the road ended at a gate. I stopped, and the engine died. The lights behind us went out, one by one.

We sat in the pitch black, the only sound our ragged breathing. Then, a knock on the driver’s window. I turned. There was a face pressed against the glass, but it was my own face, gaunt and staring, with a smile that didn’t reach the eyes. It mouthed the words: ‘This is where you get out.’

I slammed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, we were parked in the hotel parking lot. The sky was lightening with dawn. The clock on the dashboard read 3:00 AM. Tomas was asleep again, and Henrik was snoring. The car was covered in frost, and there was a fine layer of dust inside, as if it had been sitting for years.

We never drove the autobahn again. But sometimes, at night, I see those orange lights in my rearview mirror, and I hear that woman’s voice: ‘No toll for those who remember.’ And I wonder, what is it I’m supposed to remember? And why do I feel like I’m still driving toward that last tollbooth, even now?