Ghost Story

Aming had been driving a night shift taxi for ten years, picking up all sorts of passengers. But tonight's passenger made his scalp crawl. At 3 AM, he picked up an old woman in black near the funeral home. After getting in, she didn't say a word, just handed him a slip of paper with an address. Aming glanced at the rearview mirror. The old woman had her head bowed, hands clasped on her lap, her posture unnaturally stiff. Halfway there, Aming felt something was wrong. In the rearview mirror, the old woman's face seemed to be getting closer and closer, almost touching the back of his seat. He slammed on the gas, desperate to get there quickly. "Young man," the old woman suddenly spoke, her voice hoarse. "Do you know who I'm going to see in your car?" Aming gave a dry laugh. "Oh, going to see your son so late?" "Yes," the old woman said. "He died in a car accident three years ago. Tonight is his death anniversary. I visit him every year." Aming gripped the steering wheel, cold sweat streaming down his face. "But this year is different," the old woman paused. "He's finally coming home with me." Just as Aming was about to ask what she meant, in the rearview mirror, the old woman looked up. Her face was pale and sunken, her eyes like two black holes. "Because you are the one who hit him." Aming swerved the steering wheel, and the car veered off the road. When he came to his senses, the back seat was empty. On the seat lay a yellowed photograph – in it, a young man was smiling brightly, arm around the old woman. And the man's face was exactly like Aming's.