The storm came quickly, chasing Clara down the empty highway. Her old sedan groaned with every mile, the windshield wipers struggling against sheets of rain. She was running late, but her sister’s voice echoed in her mind: “Don’t take the backroads. They’re dangerous, especially at night.”

Clara had laughed it off then, confident she could handle anything. But now, with the storm raging and her phone battery dead, unease began to creep in.

When she saw the figure on the side of the road, her heart jumped. A man stood there, soaked to the bone, waving frantically. His silhouette was distorted by the rain, but Clara could make out his desperate gestures.

She hesitated. Picking up a stranger on a desolate road wasn’t her idea of safe, but the storm was unforgiving. Gritting her teeth, she pulled over.

The man leaned into the passenger-side window, rain dripping from his hair. “Thank you,” he gasped. “My car broke down. I’ve been out here for hours.”

Clara unlocked the door and he slid in, shivering.

“Where are you headed?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.  

“Anywhere but here,” he muttered.

The car crept along the slick road, the storm’s fury drowning out most conversation. Clara glanced at her passenger. He looked ordinary enough—mid-thirties, a scruffy beard, and a damp jacket. But something about him felt... off.

“So,” she said after a long silence, “what were you doing out here?”

He hesitated. “Just passing through.”

Clara frowned. His vague answer didn’t sit right, but she decided not to press him.

Minutes passed, the tension growing thicker. Then the man leaned forward, pointing ahead. “There! That house—can we stop there? I need to use a phone.”

Clara squinted through the rain. A faint light flickered from a rundown house at the end of a narrow dirt path. Her instincts screamed to keep driving, but the man’s urgency was palpable.

“Alright,” she said reluctantly, turning onto the path.

As they approached, the house loomed larger, its windows dark except for the faint glow of a candle. Clara parked, the engine sputtering into silence.  

“I’ll wait here,” she said.

The man hesitated, then nodded and stepped out. He trudged through the mud toward the house, his figure swallowed by shadows.

Minutes passed. Then ten. Clara grew restless.

Suddenly, her passenger emerged, sprinting toward the car, his face pale with terror. He yanked the door open.

“We have to go!” he shouted.

Clara froze. “What happened?”

But before he could answer, a figure appeared in the doorway of the house. A woman, holding a rifle.

“Get out of the car,” she barked, her voice steady despite the storm.

Clara’s heart pounded as the man beside her muttered, “Drive.”

“Now!” the woman shouted.

Clara’s mind raced. Who was lying? Before she could decide, the woman yelled something that sent chills through her:

“That man isn’t stranded—he escaped from the asylum!”

Clara turned to her passenger. His calm smile sent shivers down her spine. “Drive, Clara,” he said softly.

She never told him her name.