The clock on the dashboard blinked 2:14 am. And the highway stretched ahead in a straight silver line, vanishing into the dark. The world felt stripped of sound except for the hum of the tires and the soft rattle of the air vents.

Fog rolled in from the cornfields. It gathered around the car like smoke, swallowing the moonlight. The headlights caught something up ahead. A road sign, half tilted, its letters swallowed by rust. Then, a shape flickered behind it. 

You slow down. The fog thickens until the beams reach only a few feet ahead. The rearview mirror glints with something you can’t place, like light flashing. You check again, and it’s gone.

Then the radio clicks on by itself. Static hisses through the speakers, and a voice breaks the noise, like someone whispering through cotton. It says your name once. Then again, drawn out this time.

You press your foot to the gas. The needle climbs, but the road doesn’t change. Same fog. Same road sign passing again moments later. Same whisper repeating in rhythm with your heartbeat.

By the time the clock blinks 2:15, you realize you haven't moved at all.