The Hitchhiker

A man on his drive home from the mountains encounters a lone woman on the road, and finds out soon enough that there is something quite unnatural about what he invited into his truck . . .

The snow was picking up fast.

Through the windshield of his truck, Matt could barely see twenty feet in front of him. The snow had picked up heavily within the last hour, raining down upon the Colorado mountains like a blanket, it seemed, all at once. His truck had slipped on the road twice now, so he’d taken it upon himself to slow down to an excruciatingly slow pace. But it was either that, or swerve off the side of the Rockies, and crash to the ground below in a fiery blaze. He didn’t think Martha would appreciate that too much.

He was glad, in some way, that he had to make this journey every other weekend to and from work. There was a part of his brain, somewhere far back, that knew these roads by now like the back of his hand. As well as he could know that back of his own hand, he thought. It greatly helped him right now, while the skies and the ground were all blending into the same white mass of nothingness; all he had was the muscle memory of driving these roads multiple times a week. He knew where just about all the turns were, where the cliffs sat, where the inclines and dips in the road were placed. He even knew where the rock sticking up out of the ground was—and he knew to avoid it just as it had bled into his view now. It would require a lot more than a few inches of snow to take him down today.

He flicked on the radio, keeping a keen eye before him. Luckily he seemed to be the only person on the roads—at least these roads—today. A Fleetwood Mac song came on first, something that he wasn’t too in the mood for. He turned the knob. This time it was a song by Tears for Fears, another band that he hadn’t liked too much—but Jonathan liked a great deal. He was struck by a stab of missing the little guy, and flicked off that song too. With another turn of the knob, The Police came on. He didn’t touch the knob.

Matt nodded along to the song as he kept a hand on the wheel, his fingers tapping with the beat. He thought he should have been more nervous, under these circumstances, but he truly felt no sense of anxiety, even with the snow hailing down on him from above, the grounds slick with ice below. There was perhaps a discomposed part of him, deep down someplace, that told him he should be afraid; if not for himself, then for his family. Fear would keep him alive, were something to happen; he knew this quite well. But he simply did not feel any dread in his body.

That was until something appeared in the road. Something that shouldn’t have been there—not just tonight, but any night.

And it almost looked like a person.

A rush of adrenaline flooded his body, a shot of lightning directly into his heart, spreading at once throughout his nervous system. It shocked him alert as he gently swerved the wheel, towards the inner direction of the road, and away from the cliff’s edge—just enough to avoid whatever stood in the road before him. He wasn’t even sure it’d been enough—the figure in the road disappeared as his truck passed over where it’d stood. He attempted to bring his truck to a subtle stop, applying little pressure in small bursts against the brakes. The truck slid a few feet, but he managed to stop.

Matt remained in his seat for a few moments, listening to his own heavy breathing. He didn’t see what happened to the person in the road. Had he run them over? Had he forced them off the side of the mountain? Now, that feeling of lightning turned into a rotten gut, as if he was hungover. It rested deep in his stomach, sloshing around, sickening and wretched.

If he’d hit them, they could still be on the road. They could be in pain, broken bones, concussion. All because of him. He would need to get out of the truck, he would need to help them. If he’d run them off the cliff . . .

Or he could leave. He could floor it right now, be miles away in fifteen minutes. There wasn’t a body around for miles who would know.

He shook the thought away and unhooked his seatbelt, opening the door. Snow began to flood into his car in aggressive flurries. He hopped out and slammed the door shut; he wouldn’t get his car soaked to hell for this.

Matt’s boots sank into the snow. He trudged through, slower than he’d have liked, while it rained down upon his face, blinding him. His hands rose in a shield, though they offered little help. He rounded the truck, the snow blocking most of his sight.

He was relieved to see he hadn’t run the person off the cliff.

She was simply standing there, a woman about his height, in only a long dress. Her dark hair caught the snow, bespeckled with white flecks. She didn’t even seem to be shivering.

“Hello!” Matt called. “Are you alright?”

The woman didn’t seem to respond, at least as far as he could tell. She was staring out over the cliff, at the white clouds raining white nothingness.

Matt approached her, boots sinking into the snow; his shins were soaked. “I’m so sorry,” Matt said, “I swear, I didn’t see you there. Are you alright? Do you need help?”

Again, she didn’t seem to notice. He wasn’t even sure she had heard him; she made no sign of acknowledging his words.

Matt drew closer. He put a hand against her bare arm—frigid against his touch. He pulled back immediately, his fingers still holding that coldness that encompassed the woman.

She looked at him then, her eyes dark and big. Wide as the moon.

“Do you need help?” Matt asked.

She stared at him, but this time she seemed to register what he had said. The woman nodded, saying nothing.

“Alright,” Matt said. “Alright—here, take this.”

He slipped his coat off of his shoulders, thankful he wore a thick flannel underneath. The snow bit into his skin through his shirt, but he didn’t need it half as much as she did. He was surprised she was still standing. “Come on,” he said, and opened the passenger side door for her. She climbed in gently.

Matt shut the door, fighting against him in the raging, relentless wind. Then he jogged around the truck, nearly slipping in the snow, and hopped into the driver’s seat. He started the engine. Warm air flooded into the car, livening his nerves, tingling the tips of his fingers. The radio began to blast music, much louder than he remembered it being. He turned it down frantically, keeping his arms crossed over his chest, shivering.

“What’re you doing all the way out here?” Matt asked, looking over at her. She held her arms over her chest, in the same manner as he, but she still didn’t seem to be shivering, not even a little. “Do you . . . live around here?”

The woman looked up at him, but she just shook her head.

“Did you . . . you just get lost, or . . . fuck—” His hands tingled, almost stinging in the slowly defrosting warmth of his truck, so he shoved them into his pockets. “How’d you get out here?”

She looked out the window, rubbing her hands over her arms, as if trying to warm herself. She only shrugged.

Matt stared at her. Then he looked out the window too. The snow was still coming down hard, and he didn’t see any sign of it stopping soon.

“We should get moving,” he said, almost like a sigh. “We’ll make it back to town, and then we’ll find your way home. That sound fine?”

After a brief moment, she nodded.

Matt nodded too, then sighed again as he put the truck in DRIVE, starting again down the snow-covered road.

They drove in silence for a long time, all except for the radio that continued to play songs Matt didn’t care to listen to. He went on turning the knob, switching to different channels, until he had run out of channels to switch to. He felt the radio very nearly seemed to be mocking him.

It took them a great while to get out of the mountains. There had been a number of times where his truck had stopped not so smoothly, where his tires groaned dreadfully across the slick roads. But eventually, they were out of the mountains, gliding along a road with trees on either side, and the mountains looming over him like giants. It had been a long while of silence, and a long time until Matt tried any form of communication again.

“You know,” he said at last, “They’re going to ask what you were doing up there. Your family, the police—whoever we need to talk to. If you don’t tell me anything, I don’t know how to help you.”

The woman was silent, even hearing this. She just continued to look out the window, gazing into the abyss of white all around them.

Matt glanced at her, then back at the road. He breathed in.

That was fine. If she didn’t want to talk, he couldn’t make her, but how was he supposed to help her if he didn’t know what had happened to her? Or, at the very least, what town she lived in? Matt kept his eyes forward, a steady hand on the wheel. He supposed the best way to help her, if she didn’t want to let herself be helped, was to just get them to the nearest town in one piece.

But he nearly flinched when she said, beside him, “I don’t remember.”

Matt snatched another look at her. Then he continued looking out at the road. “You don’t . . . you don’t remember.”

He glanced at her, deeply hoping for a response. And she had. With a gentle shake of her head.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “What . . . what do you remember?”

She seemed to think about it. And he supposed she was thinking quite hard, because she fell silent for a while, her hands fiddling with one another in her lap, as if they didn’t know what else to do.

“I’m not sure,” she said finally.

“Well, can you try?”

The tires of the truck grumbled underneath, vibrating against the ice and snow. The radio played gently, turned way down.

Snow howled outside.

“I don’t know,” she said at last.

Matt sighed, hands tight on the wheel.

“Okay,” Matt murmured dully, a hand scratching through his hair. He had really hoped he would be able to make a straight shot home, but the longer this went on, the more he began to figure that wouldn’t be the case. “Just wait until we get into town,” he said. “We’ll find someone to help you.”

“No.”

He glanced at her again. “What?”

She only stared out the window—as if she were looking at something in particular. To this, she didn’t respond. Not even with a shake of her head, or a flicker of her dark, wide eyes. Nothing.

“Hello?” Matt said, hearing that ember of irritation in his voice. “You can’t just say no. What does that mean?”

The woman still didn’t respond. Now her leg began to bounce, her hands still working against one another in her lap. She was looking down at them hard, as if studying them.

Matt scoffed, staring out into the abyss of snow. He could barely see ten feet in front of him. “Look, if I’m helping you, you’re going to have to give me something,” he said, keeping his gaze on her now. “Anything. So . . . what the hell is going on? Are you in trouble?”

Finally, she looked up at him. Her pupils, he noticed, looked abnormally large, like empty voids of darkness.

She only said, “Look out.”

Matt opened his mouth to reply, but he lost it and snapped his gaze back to the road—something was in the road.

He had only the briefest of seconds to swerve out of the way—and in passing he’d seen, only through a glimpse, that it had been a deer.

The tires groaned and screeched against the snow, gliding along the ice. Matt’s fingers turned white around the wheel. He kept the wheel straightened, restraining the urge, from deep within himself, to slam his foot down against the brakes, as if to suffocate it. The car continued to glide.

But he eventually regained control, slowly yet surely. He was thankful to any God there was that there were no other cars on the road with them, and even more so that he hadn’t driven them both off the road, into the snowy woods. He promised Martha he’d get home in one solid piece.

To the best of his ability.

He let the car roll across the blanketed road, allowing it to stop naturally. He waited for his heart to calm.

In the dull silence, he asked, without looking at her, “How’d you know that was there?”

He saw her shrug in the corner of his eye.

“Thank you,” he said. He hadn’t known how she did, but he was glad. His heart still felt pumped with adrenaline, even after a few minutes passed.

They continued down the road together in quiet. Soon, trees turned into occasional buildings, older than himself. They passed through a couple small towns, of which he was certain little to no one inhabited any longer. The radio continued to play, only now it was a selection of songs he enjoyed plenty. Some of these songs were by bands he hadn’t heard in a long time, and he wondered if Jonathan would be into them, given the chance.

Soon, his grip on the wheel eased. His fingers returned from their white color, and his adrenaline was no longer in the clouds; and he was grateful. If it spent any more time up there, it would soon rain down with the snow.

Matt thought for a moment, then said, “I won’t make you talk if you don’t want to. I just want to understand . . . so I can help.”

Out there, in the snowy expanse, he kept his eye keen for anything that shouldn’t be there. Twice this had happened now, there had been things in his way that shouldn’t have; and one of them was sitting in his car.

“You’re worried your wife will be upset.”

Matt snatched a glance at her, but now he was afraid to take his eyes off the road for too long. “What did you say?” he asked abruptly. “How did you . . .” He glanced at her again, his gaze sharp.

She stared at him, then glanced at his hand.

He looked down at his ring.

“Oh,” Matt said. Of course. “We’ll . . . we’ll just have to wait and see, I suppose,” he added. “I was supposed to be home at a reasonable hour tonight. I guess I look a little worried, don’t I?”

He returned his gaze to the road. He kept his eyes alert, his hands ready to react. She hadn’t responded to what he’d said, though a part of him hadn’t expected her to. Or, rather, hadn’t truly wanted her to. But through the corner of his eye, of which he saw most things by now, he saw her staring at him. It wasn’t dead-on—her head was cocked a bit, as if in a way of trying to hide it but not truly trying. Like she didn’t care if he knew. Her gaze was hard and cold, unbreaking on him.

“You alright?” Matt asked.

She didn’t answer. She turned to the snow outside, her leg still bouncing rhythmically.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just looked out too, up at the skies, at the world around them. He wanted to believe that, for a moment, the snow was finally letting up, even just a little bit. Enough to lighten the load until they reached their destination. But he supposed he had just been imagining things, because as time went by, however much, the snow continued to fall and fall, piling upon the ground on either side of the road. It wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon, he told himself. Perhaps not even until tomorrow.

“I bet your family is wondering where you are,” Matt said. He didn’t even know what had compelled him to say it; it had simply just slipped out of his thoughts, into the world. “You think?”

The woman didn’t respond.

Matt nodded. “Martha wanted me home at a good time,” he went on. He supposed it was the quiet making him say all this, because even though he was in someone else’s company, he still felt alone in the car. “Christmas is coming soon, so she . . . she just wanted us to spend more time together—you know, as a family. Make more memories, just the three of us. Things to remember once our kid’s a little bit older.” He sighed, running his hands along the smooth leather of the wheel, now warm with his body heat. “Things have been—well, a little rough for a while now. I was hoping this would work towards fixing it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said beside him.

Matt peeked at her; it was odd hearing her speak. “Don’t be,” he said. “Not your fault, just how it goes, I suppose. I’ll still be there, eventually. We just have to keep going . . . if not for us, then for the little one.”

“I’m sure he misses you.”

“He sure does,” Matt said. “I miss him too, and it’s only been a few . . .” He stopped then, letting the silence fill the truck. “What did you say?”

She was quiet now.

He turned to her, keeping an eye on the road, but staring at her now. He felt sweat coat the wheel underneath his hands, asking her quite clearly: “How did you know I have a son?” He turned the radio all the way down. Silence truly made its home between them. “How?”

The woman swallowed. “I guessed,” she answered.

“You guessed,” Matt repeated.

She nodded.

“That’s a damn lucky guess,” Matt said. Then he asked once again, “What were you doing out in the mountains?”

And her reply was so disappointingly unsurprising, it angered him: “I don’t remember.”

“Right, you don’t remember,” he said, feeling annoyance rise in his chest. “I don’t know if I believe that, if I may be frank.”

“I don’t,” she said again.

“And that’s the truth?”

Silence.

“Yes,” she answered.

Matt’s fingers tapped against the wheel now, almost uncontrollably. He kept his eyes on the road, but through the corner of his eye, he could see her looking at him. Her eyes were sharp and inquisitive, her gaze unbreakable, like she was searching for something inside him. He didn’t know how much longer they had to go, but a part of him almost shamefully wished he’d just driven off. He’d be home on time, like he promised.

He couldn’t take the silence anymore. He was itching for something to be said, something to fill the dreadful silence—but even more, he was starved of an answer. There was something going on here. Something he did not like.

He finally asked, “Do you know who I am?”

She turned to him, only slightly. She didn’t answer, but this time, she didn’t look confused in any way.

“I asked you a question,” he said. “Have we met before?”

She seemed to think about what he’d said, and almost seemed like she was going to say something. He saw the words form in her throat. Saw them bubble up into her mouth like a yawn, forcing its way out.

But she simply remained quiet.

“Fucking hell,” Matt whispered.

“Matt.”

He snapped to look at her now. Matt felt a cloud of confusion and, he realized now, fear, filling him to the brim as if he were an overfilled water glass. It was filling his chest, stealing his thoughts and his words. He could only shake his head and finally manage to squeeze out one word:

“What?”

It wasn’t a question; at least he didn’t think it was. It was simply the only thing he could say. The only word left in his mind.

She looked at him, and her eyes were like stone. Her pupils were large, like a bottomless pit that went on for miles; like a ledge at the bottom of the ocean, giving into an abyss of nothingness.

“Matt Stephens,” she began, turning to the snowy outside, her hands still working against one another in her lap. “You’re thirty-seven. Martha is your wife, Jonathan is your son, and you cheated on her three years ago. She forgave you, but she never forgot—and you never forgave yourself. You agreed to never tell Johnny because he would never see you the same—”

“How the fuck—”

“Your father died when you were twelve, and he was only forty. Johnny is nine now, and you’re terrified—every single day—that you’re going to leave him just like Albert Stephens did.” She began to smile now, a grin that wasn’t pleasant, but curious. “You love your son, you do . . . and you love your wife . . . but not enough to love her only. At least, the thought keeps you awake in the still of the night, because if you don’t love her enough, then . . . maybe you don’t love him enough.”

“You shut the fuck up,” Matt snapped. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Only she did—he knew it very well, but he didn’t know how she knew it. The steering wheel was slick with his sweat, and he could no longer grip the wheel any tighter. He had cheated on Martha. His father had died of a heart attack when he was twelve. But what she hadn’t mentioned, and what she hadn’t needed to, because somehow he could tell she already knew, was that Matt himself had been diagnosed with high blood pressure, just last summer. Just as his late father had been.

And Jonathan was, indeed, nine years old.

“He gave it to you.”

Matt felt the urge to strike her then, right across the face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your father,” she went on. “He gave it to you—your condition. He gave you that weak, frail, bullshit heart.” Her smile deepened, stretching into a long white grin, as she turned to him. “And it’s going to give out one day.”

Matt’s hand itched along the wheel but seemed glued to it. “I don’t know how in the hell you know that,” he said, “but this—this game—is over, and I’m leaving you right the hell here. I don’t care if it’s hailing enough snow to freeze the devil himself. You’re fucking crazy.”

Her smile relaxed. She almost looked like she would laugh.

“Is that funny to you?” Matt demanded. Fine, he thought, he was going to pull over right there, in the middle of the snow-covered highway.

But he couldn’t.

His hands remained on the wheel, guiding them along the endless snow-covered highway. Any thought to remove them had no impact, no real power; it was almost as if he were struck in a fit of sleep paralysis. His thoughts fought to move his hand. To move any part of his body, any part that belonged to him. But the muscles simply did not respond. He couldn’t even let go.

His body was not his own.

“What the hell,” Matt breathed. Now he felt as though he were watching not through his eyes, but a screen. Only spectating from the back of his mind.

“What killed your father will kill you,” she said, plain and simple, as if she were telling him his total at a restaurant. “And you know it, too. You’ve always known. You’ll leave your boy once he turns twelve, in three years, and he will never move on . . . he’ll never get over the fact that you left him behind, like you promised you never would.” Her hands were still moving in her lap, her smile was still sharp and cunning, knowing.

Matt looked at her, and her pupils had become larger, filling her irises until her eyes were devoid of all white, nothing but black darkness. Her smile was wicked, stretched back too far. “Your wife will remarry,” she said. “A man much greater than you ever were, and your son will never love him. He will never accept him. But Martha,” she said, her eyes softening. “Martha will love him dearly. She’ll love him far more than she ever loved you. Perhaps, she’ll be glad your stupid, weak heart gave out.” Her smile tightened, pulling back to her each of her ears. “She might even wish it happened sooner.”

Matt felt tears spill down his cheeks. He’d felt them rising up in the despair that was filling his chest, but he hadn’t noticed them fall. “What the fuck are you talking about,” he mumbled. “Please, just shut the hell up . . . please—”

“I can’t,” she said sweetly. “Didn’t you want me to talk, Matthew? Didn’t you want me to tell you?”

“Not this,” Matt whispered. “Not this. Please, not this . . .”

“Because you know it’s true.”

“It can’t be true!” Matt screamed. He wanted to slam his hands against the wheel, to slap her, to strangle her—but they wouldn’t release themselves from their suffocating grip on the wheel. “It can’t be! How would you know that? How would you know any of it? You’re a fucking liar! You’re a liar!”

She began to laugh. It was a quiet noise. A little fluttering that slithered through the truck, filling him with boiling rage.

“It doesn’t matter if you believe me, Matthew,” she said, grinning. She looked like a blood lusted shark, the wicked smile, her black eyes. “You need to believe yourself. Because if you don’t—it will become truth.”

Her smile melted then, as if swept off her face by the breeze.

“Eyes on the road, Matthew,” she said.

Matt hadn’t realized he wasn’t looking anymore. But by the time his eyes returned to the road, he was out of time.

He was on the wrong side of the road. Another truck was barreling his way, the horn blaring, wailing into the night. The headlights blasted his vision with the fury of the sun’s gaze, everything swallowed by whiteness. He made to swerve—but too late.

He waited for the crash. His eyes clamped shut.

It never came.

When he finally pried his eyes open, he was sitting in his truck. And he was parked at a gas station. The snow was still coming down; it seemed to be a bit lighter now, the thick downpour reduced to a light flurry, sprinkling down like dandruff. There were a couple other cars and trucks in the lot, filling their tanks. Customers were inside, buying snacks and drinks, conversing with one another. Matt looked around, searching for damage—upon the car, as well as himself. But he was perfectly, completely fine. Had he driven all the way here without remembering? What were the odds of that?

Was he dead?

Then he looked beside him.

She was there.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said, and her voice was sweet. “I really appreciate it. I don’t know what I would have done.”

Matt felt his face flush with heat. “What the hell are you talking about?” he seethed. “What happened?”

“You helped me,” she replied, her voice at a loss for any confusion.

Matt stared at her.

“You’re very kind,” she said. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

She gave him a smile, one kind and soft, then she unbuckled herself and reached for the door. Her eyes were a pale blue, glimmering in the light of the buzzing fluorescents outside.

But before she opened the door, she said, very gently, “Don’t let the man in the black hat in. He’s going to kill you.”

Then she stepped out of the truck, shutting the door.

Matt sank into his seat, his hands still resting on the wheel. He stared at them and swallowed down a dry throat. Nearly shaking, he removed his hands from the wheel. He didn’t know what to do with them. It felt wrong for them to not be wrapped around the faux leather. So, they simply went down into his lap, working against one another in an attempt to warm up.

A knocking on his window startled him.

He turned to his window, where a large, stubble-bearded face was staring at him, grinning wide.

Matt rolled his window down slowly and asked, “Can I help you?”

“You mind if I get a ride?” the grinning man asked, lowering his face to be level with the window, coming into Matt’s view. “You see, my car battery died, and I just gotta get home as soon as I can. I live way down in the Springs. The farthest you could take me would be greatly appreciated.”

“Oh, I don’t . . .” Matt began, but his words failed him. He hadn’t known why at first; the reason had escaped him. Then he found it.

His eyes fixed on the black cap, sitting atop the grinning man’s head.

Matt shook his head. It was all he felt he could do; all he could think of to do. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Sorry.”

The man stared at him. But the grin faded.

“No worries,” he said, jolly as ever. “Happy holidays, pal.”

“Sure,” Matt said, and rolled up his window frantically, without saying anything more than that. He watched the man stroll away, eventually rounding the side of the building, disappearing into the dark behind it.

Matt’s hands still remained numbly in his lap, working incessantly against one another. So, he put them to work. He put the car in DRIVE and cautiously pulled out of the gas station parking lot, letting the truck roll along the light coat of snow, and turned back out onto the road. Matt kept his eyes alert before him, his hands wrapped tight around the wheel. He careened through the flurrying snow as he turned onto I-25, the endless way that would take him all the way home. Fleetwood Mac once again came onto the radio minutes later, a song his wife loved, though he never much cared for it.

Plowing through the snow, he left it on.