Chapter 2: She Waits in the Rearview

My legs were bouncing under the dash. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror—wild-eyed, sweaty, a man with everything to lose. I tried to steady my breathing.

Counting to four with each inhale.

"Your name’s Carter Hensley? That rings a bell. You a writer or something?" He held onto my license, not giving it back.

The question caught me off guard. I forced a weak smile, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it felt.

A hollow ache settled in my chest.

"Not really. Just written a few books, that’s all."

He nodded, not surprised. "You write horror, right? Pretty sure I’ve read one."

Relief flickered in my chest—a tiny ember in the darkness. I grabbed onto it with both hands, hoping it might save me.

Maybe, just maybe, being a minor celebrity would get me out of this mess.

So he was a fan. No wonder he didn’t grill me about the trunk. A faint hope flickered in my chest. Maybe, since he liked my books, he’d let me go. Hey, that’s an honor. Give me your address, I’ll send you a copy of my next book when it’s out.

I forced a friendly chuckle, but my voice cracked. I could feel sweat trickling down my back. It pooled at the base of my spine. I gripped the pen so tightly my fingers hurt.

There was a pen in the car, but no paper. The only thing on the passenger seat was the diagnosis I’d gotten that day at the therapist’s office. In a panic, I opened the folder, tore off a strip of white paper with shaking hands, and handed it over with the pen. He didn’t take it, but glanced at the diagnosis.

"What’s that?"

My heart skipped. I wanted to hide the paper, to pretend it was nothing. But the officer’s eyes were sharp. He didn’t miss a thing.

I hesitated. "It’s from my psychiatrist. I went today."

My cheeks burned. I hated how small my voice sounded. I never wanted anyone to know about the diagnosis, least of all a cop who might already be judging me.

I hated the idea of broadcasting my mental health issues, especially to a cop who knew my name. But he reached out his hand. "Let me see."

His tone brooked no argument. I handed it over, my fingers trembling.

It felt like I was handing over the last shred of my privacy.

The officer looked down, unreadable, and muttered, "...bipolar disorder, panic attacks...tremors, palpitations...daily valproate..."

He read the words quietly, but I heard every syllable. Each one felt like a nail in the coffin of my dignity. I looked away, staring at the glowing numbers on the dashboard.

By the end, I could tell he thought he’d figured it out. I guessed he’d found the "reason" for my freaked-out behavior. That made me feel a little relieved. Sure enough, he handed the diagnosis back and said, "Looks like you really aren’t feeling well. Why didn’t you just say so? I almost brought you in."

He almost sounded sympathetic.

It was the first kindness I’d been shown all night, and I nearly broke down right there.

"The way you acted just now, you looked guilty as hell."

I managed a weak laugh, hoping it sounded normal.

My hands were still shaking. I tried to hide them in my lap.

"Sorry, Mr. Writer, for wasting your time."

"You’re good to go. Drive safe!"

He stepped back and waved me on.

I started the car and pulled away as fast as I dared. In the rearview, the trooper watched my black Audi disappear and muttered under his breath, "All that creepy stuff, guy’s lost his mind."

I watched the flashing lights fade in the mirror. My breath finally coming out in ragged gasps. My fingers left sweaty prints on the steering wheel. I felt like I’d aged a decade in the space of five minutes.

The car sped through the night. The headlights cut a blurry path through the darkness, only lighting up a narrow stretch ahead.

Suddenly, something in the rearview mirror made my skin crawl.

My wife’s face stretched up from the back seat. Her skin was deathly pale and stiff, like plaster. Her black pupils huge and strange, staring right at me.

The smell of blood and gasoline filled the car. I blinked, hoping it was just a trick of the light—a leftover hallucination.

But she was there—impossible, grinning, her lips splitting wider and wider. The night outside the windows seemed to press in, suffocating.

Terror shot through me. The car swerved toward the shoulder. At the last second, I snapped out of it and slammed on the brakes. The tires screamed. The car crashed straight into a streetlight pole. My head slammed into the steering wheel. Warm, sticky blood trickled down my temple. Ignoring the pain, I looked back. My wife was gone; the trunk had popped open from the crash, as if she’d been thrown out.

The world spun. I tasted copper in my mouth, and for a second, I thought I might pass out.

The dashboard lights flickered.

That thought had barely formed when I saw her in the side mirror. She’d been thrown from the trunk and was now climbing up from the pavement—using both hands and feet. She pushed herself up, arched her back, standing in a twisted, unnatural way. Like something out of a horror movie. Her neck rotated slowly, turning her face toward me at an impossible angle. Her deathly pale face stared at me, blank and hollow. Suddenly, she grinned, the corners of her mouth stretching all the way to her ears, revealing two rows of teeth—a smile straight from hell.

The streetlight flickered overhead, casting her shadow long and warped across the cracked asphalt. I pressed myself back in the seat, the leather squeaking under my weight. My breath came in short, panicked gasps.

My heart stopped.

She could see me!

My wife’s corpse suddenly lunged, crawling toward me on all fours. In a blink, she was at the door.

"Bang!"