The Vanishing Hitchhiker - The Word “HOME” Left Behind Where the Passenger Vanished
It was raining hard that night.
Even with the wipers on full speed, I could barely see ahead.
I was driving home after a night shift.
The road was almost empty.
An old pop song played quietly on the radio, and my phone battery was under ten percent.
As I passed the outskirts of town, I saw someone standing on the shoulder.
A woman.
She wore a white dress with a thin cardigan over it.
No umbrella.
Her hair was soaked and stuck to her face, and she hugged herself against the cold.
I almost drove past her, but I hit the brakes.
It felt wrong to ignore someone standing alone in the rain at night.
I rolled the window down slightly.
“Are you okay?”
She turned her head toward me.
Her face was pale, but she didn’t look injured.
“Could you take me home?”
Her voice was soft—
so soft I could barely hear it through the rain.
I unlocked the back door.
She got in.
Cold air rushed into the car.
She smelled of wet clothes and rain.
I turned on the heater.
“What’s your address?”
She told me the neighborhood and house number.
It was close—about ten minutes by car.
As we drove, I checked the rearview mirror.
She sat on the right side of the back seat, hands on her knees, staring out the window.
I tried making conversation.
“What