The Pale Figure of Hollow Creek Road

I live in the outskirts of a sleepy town called Millbrook, where the roads are long and the night stretches thin. My girlfriend, Claire, lives about twenty-five minutes away, past the old covered bridge and through the winding paths of Hollow Creek. It’s a route I’ve traveled dozens of times, always in the dead of night when the town is fast asleep and the only light comes from the stars and my headlights.

Last Thursday, the nineteenth of October, I was driving back from Claire’s place around 11:00 PM. The air was cool, and a thin fog wove itself through the trees like a ghost. I came over a slight rise, and the headlights caught something ahead: a figure standing in the middle of the oncoming lane, right where the road bent sharply. My heart lurched. I eased my foot off the gas and squinted through the windshield.

It was a man, or at least shaped like one, standing absolutely still, facing me. He was grey, not pale but a muted, washed-out color like something that had been left in the rain too long. I slowed to a crawl, expecting him to move, but he didn’t. I glanced to the sides of the road, looking for a broken-down car or a group of teenagers walking home from a bonfire. Nothing. Just the dense, dark trees pressing in.

As I got closer, my headlights should have revealed every detail, but they didn’t. It was as if the light couldn’t cling to him. He was close enough now that I could see the outline of his shoulders, the suggestion of arms hanging loosely at his sides, but his face was a smooth, blank surface, like a mannequin’s head. No eyes, no mouth, just a subtle indentation where features should be. He stood right at the edge of my lane, almost in the center, and I thought he might be drunk or lost, just an old man who’d wandered out of his house.

I slowed to nearly a stop, rolling my window down a crack to call out. ‘Hey, you okay? Do you need help?’ No response. The figure swayed slightly, as if a wind had passed through him, but the air was still. I honked, a short tap, and he didn’t flinch. A cold dread crept up my spine. I felt a strange urge to look behind me, but I forced myself to keep my eyes on the road.

Instead, I decided to speed up and pass him, hugging the left side of my lane to give him plenty of room. As I drew level with him, his head turned, following me. It wasn’t a human movement—the neck twisted too far, the shoulders rotating after. My hands tightened on the wheel, and I floor the gas, racing away from that spot. In my rearview mirror, I saw him still standing there, now facing me, motionless, as my taillights shrank away.

That’s when I noticed something on my passenger seat: a small, grey card, like a laminated ID, but it wasn’t mine. It was blank on one side, and on the other, a single word printed in faded ink: ‘WAIT.’ I slammed the brakes, my heart hammering. I hadn’t seen anyone put it there. I’d been alone in the car the entire trip. I looked back in the mirror, and the figure was gone. The road was empty.

I drove home in a state of numb confusion, and when I got to my driveway, I sat there for a long moment, staring at the card. I didn’t show it to anyone; I thought I might have imagined it, that it was a panic-induced hallucination. But now, it sits on my nightstand, and every night, I swear it’s a little warmer in my hand. And last night, I woke to find the word had changed. It now reads: ‘FOLLOW.’ I haven’t slept since, and I keep seeing the pale figure in my peripheral vision, always at the edge of my sight, waiting for me to make a mistake.