The rain began as a whisper on the windshield, barely audible over the hum of the engine and the faint static of the radio. Laurent Voss gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles pale against the leather, while his father, Dr. Emil Voss, scanned the winding road ahead with narrowed eyes. Kasra Pass, nestled in the remote highlands of Eastern Europe, was infamous—not for its treacherous curves or unpredictable weather—but for something far older. Something whispered about in the villages below. Something people had stopped naming out loud.

“This is a mistake,” Emil muttered, casting a glance at the fog rolling in like a living thing.

“We’ll be fine,” Laurent replied, too sharply. “It’s just local superstition.”

The headlights barely cut through the growing mist as the narrow pass twisted through the forested cliffs. Trees loomed like black skeletons, and every curve brought the threat of an unseen drop. Then it happened.

A figure stepped into the beam of the headlights.

Laurent swerved, but it was too late. A sickening thud echoed as the car skidded to a halt on the wet asphalt. Both men sat in stunned silence, the engine idling like a heartbeat. Rain tapped on the roof in a frantic rhythm.

Laurent stumbled out, heart pounding. There was no body.

Only a smear of crimson across the road.

Emil followed, his face pale, breath sharp with fear. “We need to leave. Now.”

“But she—she was right there,” Laurent stammered. “We hit her. I saw her face.”

“No,” Emil said firmly, voice shaking. “You saw something.”

Back inside, the car felt colder. The fog had thickened, a heavy white veil that muffled sound and swallowed light. Laurent restarted the engine. They drove in silence, but the atmosphere shifted. The radio, once quiet, began to crackle with whispers in a language neither could understand. Emil reached out to shut it off—and the dashboard lights flickered violently.

Then came the sound of a soft knock—from inside the trunk.

Laurent slammed on the brakes. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” Emil whispered. “God help us, yes.”

They stepped out again, dread seeping into their bones. The forest was unnaturally silent, save for the mechanical ticking of the engine cooling down. The trunk was empty. No blood. No sign of life—or death.

That’s when they saw it.

A figure stood a few meters ahead in the road.

Still. Silent.

Headless.

Its form was wrong—unnatural angles, shoulders too wide, arms too long. It turned slowly toward them, as if it felt their gaze. The moment stretched—until the thing moved, jerking forward like a marionette, impossibly fast.

They scrambled back into the car. Laurent slammed the accelerator. The car screamed down the road, swerving around blind curves, the entity now a flicker in the rearview mirror… and then, it was gone.

They didn’t stop until they reached the foot of the mountain, where a small roadside dhaba—a trucker’s diner—cast a flickering light in the darkness. They stumbled in, soaked and breathless.

Behind the counter stood a wiry man with weathered eyes. He didn’t ask what happened. He simply nodded and said, “You drove the pass at night.”

Laurent nodded, still shaking. “We… we hit someone. Then there was—something.”

The man sighed. “That was her. The Hollow Bride. She’s not a woman. She’s not even a ghost. She’s a hunger.” He leaned in. “And you didn’t escape her. Not really.”

“What do you mean?” Emil asked.

The man pointed toward the parking lot. “Look at your car.”

They turned. Through the diner’s glass windows, they saw it.

A figure was now sitting in the backseat. Still. Waiting.

It hadn’t been there before.

“Once you see her, once you let her inside—she doesn’t leave,” the man continued. “You don’t drive away from her. You carry her.”

Laurent’s mouth went dry. “Then what do we do?”

The dhaba owner’s eyes were dark. “You pray she doesn’t whisper your name.”

Behind them, the radio in their car turned on by itself.

And in the growing silence, the air filled with a soft voice—Laurent’s own—whispering from the backseat:

“You shouldn’t have stopped.”