Exit 17

Jason Bell hated night drives.
But after the funeral, the highway was the only way home.

Fog clung to the windshield.
Static hummed on the radio.
His GPS kept glitching — blinking random exits he didn't recognize.

Then the voice came through the speakers, cutting through the static:
"Do not take Exit 17."

Jason stared at the screen.
No exit 17 appeared.
Maybe he imagined it.

Mile after mile, the fog thickened.
He squinted through it, heart pounding.

Finally, he saw it:
EXIT 17 — a battered green sign swinging in the wind.

Too late to brake, too slick to turn — his car slid off the main road, tires squealing onto the dark exit ramp.

Immediately, the world changed.

No streetlights.
No other cars.
Just a single lane winding through endless woods.

The radio crackled again:

"You shouldn’t be here."

Jason gripped the wheel harder.

Up ahead, something stood in the road — a figure.
Wearing a mask.
Waving him forward.

Jason veered hard, missing the figure by inches, the car skidding sideways into the trees.

Engine dead.
Phone dead.

When he looked back toward the road, the figure was closer.

Smiling.
Waiting.

He wasn't on any map anymore.

Exit 17 didn’t lead anywhere.
It led to them.