Haunted Gas Station Horror on a Desert Highway

Trapped in a haunted gas-station bathroom on a deserted highway, a trucker discovers some reflections don’t want to let you leave.

Jake thought he’d seen it all on the road—lonely highways, empty diners, midnight storms—but nothing prepared him for the bathroom behind the gas station at Mile 93. A flickering light. A cracked mirror. A voice that hummed from the walls, whispering his name. When the air turns cold and your reflection starts moving on its own, you don’t stop to ask questions—you just run. But on the dark stretches of highway, some things follow.

This story was submitted by a listener. There is no reddit or creepypasta link.



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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The stall at mile ninety three by Rogue Flea. The
gas station bathroom smelled of bleach and stale piss, the
kind of sharp mix that burned Jake's nose. As he
pushed through the door, the fluorescent light buzzed, flickering like
it was on its last legs, casting jagged shadows on
the chipped tiles. He locked the door behind him, the

(00:23):
click too loud in the quiet. His phone, low on battery,
glowed in his hand, his only company at two a m.
On a dead stretch of highway. Jake wasn't one for fear.
Growing up. He'd binged horror flicks, slasher gore, paranormal hauntings,
the works, hoping for a shiver that never came. The

(00:45):
Ring Texas chainsaw, even paranormal activity left him yawning, more
bored than spooked. But bathrooms, especially ones like this, isolated, grimy,
with no one around for miles, made him uneasy, not scared,
just cautious. Sitting there, pants down, phone in hand, he

(01:06):
felt exposed, like the world was waiting for him to
let his guard down. He'd stopped at this gas station,
a flickering neon shell at mile marker ninety three to
refuel his truck and himself after a long haul. The clerk,
a guy with sunken eyes and a cigarette stained beard,
barely looked up as Jake paid for coffee. No other

(01:30):
cars sat in the lot, just his rig under the
buzzing sodium lights. The bathroom was around back, a single stall,
cinder block box, separate from the store. He didn't like it,
but his bladder didn't care. Inside the air was heavy,
colder than the desert night outside. The mirror above the

(01:51):
sink was cracked. One corner spiderwebbed, reflecting a warped version
of his face. He checked the corners. No shower, no
stalls to hide anything, just a toilet, sink and a
vent rattling faintly overhead. Still his skin prickled. He sat,
phone open to a newsapp, scrolling to keep his mind

(02:14):
off the quiet. The vent's rattle grew uneven, like a breath,
catching then stopping. Jake froze, thumb hovering over the screen,
just the ac He told himself, old systems did that. Sputtered, groaned.
He exhaled slow, watching his breath cloud in the dim light,

(02:37):
too cold for a desert summer night. His pulse ticked up,
a faint drum in his ears. He glanced at the door, locked.
The bolt was rusted but solid, nothing could get in.
He scrolled faster, eyes skimming headlines without reading. A faint
hum started, not the light, not the vent, low, like

(02:59):
a stuck in the back of a throat, coming from nowhere. Everywhere.
The walls seemed to carry it, the sound seeping through
the tiles. Jake's grip tightened on his phone. He wasn't
a kid anymore, jumping at shadows after a scary movie.
He was thirty two, a trucker who'd seen empty highways

(03:22):
and darker nights. But the hum grew, buzzing in his chest,
and the air felt wrong, thick, like it was pushing
back against him. A shadow flickered in the mirror, not his,
not quite. It moved when he didn't, A smear of
darkness in the cracked glass gone. When he blinked. His

(03:42):
heart slammed harder. Now just the light, he thought, flickering
bulbs played tricks. He stared at the mirror, daring it
to move again. Nothing. The hum faded, leaving only the
vents rattle. He shifted on the sea, the cold porcelain,
biting through his jeans. His phone screen dimmed ten percent battery.

(04:07):
He tapped it, awake, focusing on the words, but his
eyes kept drifting to the door. The bolt was still locked,
but the gap beneath it looked darker, like something blocked
the faint light from the parking lot. A soft tap
came from the sink. Jake's head snapped up. The faucet

(04:29):
dripped a slow, deliberate plink against the basin. He hadn't
touched it, had it been dripping before. He couldn't remember. Plink, plink, plink.
Each drop hit like a countdown, steady, unhurried, His throat tightened,
the air tasting sour now like the bleach had curdled.

(04:51):
He stood, pulling up his jeans, phone clutched in one hand.
The faucet stopped, Silence, pressed in heavier than before. He
stepped toward the sink, slow, his boots scuffing the tiles.
The mirror showed only him, pale, eyes wide, but the
edges seemed wrong, blurred, like the glass was holding something back.

(05:12):
A breath brushed his neck, not a breeze, not the vent,
a warm puff, like someone standing too close exhaling just
behind him. He spun hard in his throat, phone light
swinging wildly. Nothing. The bathroom was empty, the door still locked,
but the air felt alive, watching, waiting for him to move.

(05:36):
He backed toward the door, eyes on the mirror. The
shadow was there again, not his, not quite taller thinner,
a smudge of black that didn't match his shape. It
lingered in the corner of the glass still, even as
his light shook. He reached for the bolt, fingers fumbling,

(05:56):
cold metal biting his skin. The hum returned louder, a
low moan vibrating through the walls. Words formed in it,
not clear, but close, like a whisper half heard in
a dream. Stay. Stay. Jake's hand froze on the bolt,
His reflection blinked. When he didn't, he yanked the door open,

(06:18):
the hinges screaming. The parking lot was empty, his truck
alone under the buzzing lights. He stumbled out, phone slipping
from his hand, cracking on the pavement. The door slammed
shut behind him, the sound echoing across the lot. His
breath came in sharp gasps, The desert air warm, but

(06:39):
not enough to shake the chill in his bones. He
didn't look back. He climbed into his truck, locked the doors,
and peeled out, tires screeching. The gas station shrank in
his rear view, its neon sign flickering like a dying star.
His phone lay shattered on the asphalt, but he didn't care.

(07:00):
He just drove the highway, stretching dark and endless. Back
at the station, the clerk glanced up from his counter,
eyes narrowing at the empty lot. He shuffled to the bathroom,
key in hand and unlocked the door. The light still buzzed,
the sink still dripped. He didn't look at the mirror,

(07:21):
didn't need to. He'd heard the hum before, felt the
breath on his neck, Not tonight, he muttered, voice low,
like he was talking to the walls. He locked the
door and walked away, leaving the bathroom to its shadows.
Jake never stopped at mile ninety three again. He took

(07:42):
longer roots, avoided night drives when he could, But sometimes
on empty highways he'd feel it. A warm breath on
his neck, a hum in his ears, too low to
be the engine. He'd check his mirrors, see nothing but
his own face, and sometimes just for a second, a

(08:02):
shadow that wasn't his