The Vanishing Hitchhiker

A long drive home turns into a detour through the Pennsylvania wilderness — and a nightmare that never lets go. When one man decides to take the back road to avoid traffic, he discovers a family frozen between life and something far worse… and learns that some shortcuts lead straight into the dark.

The story changes bit by bit, but the results are often similar.

Thank you for enjoying my podcast! Take a listen to the other podcast at Candlelight Storyworks

Midnight Scares - Fall Asleep to Spooky Storiesl
Candlight Classics - Classic Short Stories to Help You Sleep
Candlelight Romance - Fall Asleep While Falling In Love
True Crime by Candlelight - Drift Off to Dark Mysteries

Find them all on your favorite podcast right here:
https://linktr.ee/candlelightstoryworks

If you are tired of commercials, you can always follow me on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/candlelightstoryworks

I am also writing a few horror and gothic romance books. If you're intrested, please follow me on my other Patreon at
http://www.patreon.com/sarahmarshalking

**While this is my voice, sometimes I use an AI cloned version of my voice because it helps with my dyslexia.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:02):
The storm outside has grown restless. The rain runs down
the window in crooked paths, each drop chasing the other
to the sill, like ghosts racing for the same grave.
The fire's burning lower, now steady but tired, throwing just
enough light to make the shadows look alive. It's a

(00:23):
good night for a drive, if you don't mind having
the road all to yourself. That's how this story begins,
with a long stretch of asphalt, a lonely driver, and
a girl who never quite made it home. Her name,
depending on who's telling the story, changes Mary Sarah Ellen.

(00:45):
They all have faces that blur into one another, but
the road stays the same, two lanes cutting through the
edge of a town that's forgotten. It even has a name.
Locals call it Route forty seven, the kind of place
where the fog hangs low and the ditches hold secrets
older than the telephone poles that lean along its shoulder.

(01:09):
It was late after midnight, the kind of cold that
seeps through the glass and bites your knuckles on the
steering wheel. Tom was just trying to stay awake. He'd
been driving for hours, an overnight run from Richmond to
his small apartment two towns over. His eyes stung, his

(01:30):
coffee was gone cold. The radio hissed static. That's when
he saw her, a girl on the side of the road, pale, shivering,
her dress clinging to her like it was still raining,
even though the sky had gone dry hours ago. She
was barefoot, standing in the beam of his head lights,
like she'd been waiting for him. Tom slowed instinctively, rolled

(01:55):
down the window just enough to call out, you all right, miss?
She nodded once, hesitant. Her hair was plastered to her
face and her lips moved before sound followed. I need
to get home, she said, it's not far. Please. He
unlocked the door. She slid into the passenger seat, folding

(02:17):
her hands neatly in her lap, like she'd been raised
to mind her manners. You sure you're okay, he asked.
She nodded again, just cold. He offered her his jacket.
She took it without a smile, pulling it around her shoulders.
Her hands, he remembered this later, were freezing. He drove on,

(02:40):
glancing at her now and then something about her didn't
sit right. She was too quiet, too still. Her eyes
stayed fixed on the road ahead, but not like she
was watching it more like she was remembering it. What's
your name, he asked, Mary, Where do you live? Mary?

(03:02):
She lifted one thin hand and pointed down the road. There,
she said, softly, just over the hill. He followed the
direction of her finger. The road curved gently, then dipped
between two patches of oak trees. Through the branches, he
saw the faint glow of a house light in the distance.

(03:24):
They rode in silence for another minute. The heater hummed.
He thought he saw her reflection blink slower than her
body did, a trick of the light. Maybe, he told himself.
She was exhausted cold, that was all. When they crested
the hill, the house came into view, a white farm
house with a porch swing and a narrow drive lined

(03:46):
with stones. This it, he asked, But the seat beside
him was empty. The jacket she'd been wearing lay folded
neatly where she'd sat. Tom's hands went numb on the wheel.
He pulled over, heart thudding in the hollow. Quiet, He
got out, looked around nothing, just the wind, the rustle

(04:09):
of dry leaves, the creak of the swing on the porch.
He picked up the jacket, walked to the door and knocked.
After a moment, a woman answered, older, gray hair in
a loose bun, face drawn but kind. She looked like
someone who'd been waiting a long time for something she

(04:29):
couldn't name. Ma'am. Tom began his voice shaking. I I
picked up a girl on the road just now. Said
her name was Mary. She said this was her house.
The woman's expression changed slowly, a flicker of confusion, then
a kind of weary recognition. She opened the door wider

(04:52):
and motioned him inside, Come in, out of the cold.
She said, you're not the first. The living rooms smelled
faintly of lavender and dust. Framed photos lined the mantle,
all black and white, all of the same young woman
with that same solemn face. She died twenty years ago.

(05:13):
The woman said, quietly, car crash right down that hill.
Tom stared at her. No, he whispered, No, I she
was here. She spoke to me. The woman nodded slowly, sadly.
She always does every October around this time, she asks

(05:38):
for a ride home. Her eyes softened. Did she take
your jacket? Tom looked down at the bundle in his hands.
His throat tightened. Yes. The woman smiled a tired hollow smile.
You'll find it in the morning. Out at the cemetery,

(05:59):
he did. Didn't sleep that night. He sat in his
car at a gas station, replaying every second the sound
of her voice, the way the air had gone colder
after she spoke, the weight of her absence. When he
realized she was gone, at sunrise, he drove back. The
road looked different in daylight, smaller, less haunted. He followed

(06:23):
the curve, the dip, the hill. When he reached the cemetery.
Just past the bend, he saw something pale, fluttering in
the breeze, his jacket draped over a headstone. He got
out slowly, his boots crunching the frost bitten grass. The
inscription on the stone was clear, Mary Elizabeth Campbell born

(06:48):
nineteen thirty six died nineteen fifty six, Gone but not forgotten.
The jacket was perfectly dry, no dew, no dirt. He
picked it up, carefully, folded it, and left it there.
They say Tom never told anyone what he saw that night,
but the story traveled without him. Every town has its version.

(07:11):
Sometimes it's a girl in a prom dress walking home
from the dance that ended too soon. Sometimes she's a bride,
still wearing the gown she never got to take off.
Sometimes she leaves behind a scarf, a book, a rose,
always something to prove she was real, Always something to

(07:34):
make you wonder how many times she's walked that road,
still trying to make it home. You know, I once
drove a long road like that, the kind where the
fog curls over the asphalt like its breathing. There's something
about an empty highway that feels like a confession waiting
to happen. They say ghosts linger where the living forget

(07:55):
to listen. I think maybe she just wants to be remembered,
for some one to keep offering her a ride so
she doesn't have to walk alone any more. If you're
out driving some night and you see a young woman
on the roadside, cold and lost and looking over her shoulder,
stop if you must, offer her warmth, if you can.

(08:19):
But when you reach the top of the hill and
she's gone, don't turn back. Some passengers don't need to
be taken home, They just need to remember where it was.
This is the vanishing hitchhiker. She will never make it home.