After staying late at work one day, I was driving home on the highway in the middle of winter. Rain was falling, and darkness had set in, making the dimly lit road even harder to see. I had my radio on, turned to one of the three stations I rotated between, volume low, half listening, as I focused on the cadence of the windshield wipers — a means of meditation. I was barely attentive, attempting to decompress from a long day.

Suddenly, I saw something out of the corner of my eye, as if something was in the car with me. I looked over to my side, and a dark figure sat beside me. I turned back to the road, fluttering my eyelids in disbelief, as if I was seeing something that was not there — my tiredness must be getting to me, I thought. I looked over again, expecting nothing, but the figure remained, sitting, watching the road. When I looked forward again, it hit me: it wasn’t my imagination. Something was really in the car with me.

I was then filled with fear — I couldn’t think properly and struggled to move my hands to occasionally turn the steering wheel. I couldn’t pull over either as there were no shoulders on the road and I was surrounded by speeding cars — everyone eager to get home. My only choice was to keep driving until the next exit. I kept glancing at it with a subtle turn of my head, and every time, I was surprised it was still there. The more I looked, the more it felt unreal. It was a dark silhouette of a person, and, as visibility was low, I couldn’t tell its gender or any other features. Just darkness.

It wasn’t making noise or moving either, just sitting straight, staring at the road ahead. As I was panicking about what to do, a memory suddenly flashed into my head, a memory I hadn’t thought about in a very long time. It was about my late grandfather, an interaction we had when I was just a kid. I remember him explaining spirits and ghosts, telling me they were people who struggled to pass over to another life. He would say they would visit the living, for help, guidance, or comfort. He told me if this ever happened to me, to stay calm, show them compassion, and help them. But he also warned me to always speak through the Lord’s name, as sometimes evil tries to trick us, to manipulate us, to harm us. He told me God would keep them away — God would protect me.

My body began to loosen slightly as I gathered enough courage to speak with it. I looked over once more, stared briefly at the dark shadow of that figure and said: “In the name of Jesus Christ, who are you and what do you want?” The moment I was finished, it snapped its head instantly in my direction, light glistening from its dark, yellow eyes, and it yelled with a high-pitched yet booming voice, ordering me to never say that name again. Its head jerked back, staring at the road once again. I’ve never felt terror like I did that night. I turned back to face the road, tears pouring out of my eyes, holding back the sounds of my sobs to not upset it.

I was unsettled by the unnatural movement of its body and its abnormal voice. But now, it wasn’t staying still — it was vibrating in a way that didn’t feel real. It was also muttering something quietly and disturbingly, but I couldn’t make out what it was saying. Trembling, I tried to focus on the road, convinced I was swerving. I thought I heard other cars honking at me, though I couldn’t be sure. I knew I had angered this thing, and I had no choice but to keep driving and let it sit beside me. My hands were shaking so badly as I tried to grip the steering wheel, but I knew my hold was weak, as I was losing strength. I kept looking beside me, hoping it would disappear, but it remained, twitching and shaking.

It was getting worse and worse, so I felt I had to do something. My mouth trembled as I tried to speak once again, staying true to my grandfather’s words: “Please, in the name of the Lord, what do you want?” Once again, it snapped its head towards me, now twitching uncontrollably, but this time, there was no yell. Instead, a deep, whispering voice emerged. As I clutched the steering wheel with all my might, trying to stay straight between the lines, its voice slowly rose, growing louder, deeper, more terrifying. I felt goosebumps all over my body, and every strand of hair stood on end. As it continued to say things, I realized it was speaking English, and I began to understand what it was saying. It was speaking about my family, my friends, about me. It was saying awful things about everyone I cared about. It made me want to puke. I’ve never heard such evil things in my life.

I felt so much hatred as that thing talked to me. The voice was getting louder and louder, until it became unbearable. I started to shake with panic as my vision began to blur from the steady stream of tears flooding from my eyes. I knew I couldn’t bear it any longer, so I began to yell. But it did nothing. I looked at it and screamed for it to stop, but it continued as if I didn’t matter. I pounded the steering wheel in anger and smashed buttons on my radio as a means to channel my rage. Then, for some reason, I thought to turn on all the lights in the car, and when I did, I yelled once more, eyes momentarily closed, for it to leave me alone. When I opened them again and looked over at the now-lit seat — it was empty. The car was quiet.

A car horn snapped me out of it, as I turned back to face the road and realigned myself. The cabin light stayed on as I drove, occasionally looking over, reassured that the seat was still empty. I drove on in what seemed like utter silence. Then the static of the radio grabbed my attention, and once again, I noticed the cadence of the windshield wipers. However, I was still shaking and crying uncontrollably.

I finally made it home, after what seemed like a lifetime being in that car, checking the passenger seat, backseats, and all around me, making sure that thing was gone. But it never came back. I went into my home, turned on all the lights, and lay in the fetal position in my bed, sobbing the night away. I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn’t. I was too disturbed by that drive. I was not only frightened by the possibility it might return, but also by what it said. The words it spoke were so awful, I couldn’t get them out of my head. But what made it worse was the doubt — what if what it said was true? What if it was telling me the truth that I struggled to see? What if my relationships with the people around me were false? What if I was too blind to see what it told me? What if it was right, that I was living a facade and I was too nice to everyone to see? And now I find myself waiting for its return, as I now have so many questions, and want to ask it for help, to ask it what I should do now.