I’m twenty-three, and I work at a Tesco in Manchester. Nothing exciting, you know, just stocking shelves and dealing with customers. My mate Sarah and I usually carpool to save on petrol—prices are mental these days. This happened last October, on a Thursday night shift that ended at eleven.
We were both knackered, basically counting down the minutes until we could leave. The thing is, our Tesco is on the edge of town, near the industrial estate. Not many streetlights once you get past the main road. I should have known something was off when we walked to the car park and I noticed this white van idling near the entrance. No markings on it. Just sitting there with the engine running.
“Bit weird,” Sarah said, glancing at it.
“Probably just a delivery driver on break,” I told her, though even then, my stomach felt tight.
We got in my car—a knackered Vauxhall Corsa that barely passed its MOT—and I pulled out onto the main road. The van pulled out behind us. About ten seconds later.
“Is that the same van?” Sarah asked, turning in her seat.
“Maybe. Could be going the same way.”
But here’s the thing—I live in Stretford, and Sarah lives in Altrincham. Completely different directions. We always drop her off first, then I head home. The route we take is pretty specific, through some back roads because the M60 is a nightmare at night with roadworks.
The van stayed behind us. Not right on our bumper, but close enough that I could see it in my rearview mirror. Two headlights, bright and steady. About an hour later—well, more like twenty minutes, but it felt like an hour—I turned onto a smaller road. The van turned too.
“Okay, that’s weird,” I said.
“Maybe you’re just being paranoid,” Sarah replied, but her voice had gone quiet.
I tested it. Took a random left turn down a residential street I’d never been on before. The van followed. My heart started pounding properly then, that sick feeling spreading through my chest. I felt my hands go slick on the steering wheel.
“They’re definitely following us,” Sarah whispered.
I should have driven straight to a police station. Looking back, I realize that would have been the smart thing. But I didn’t want to seem crazy, you know? What if it was just a coincidence? What if I was overreacting?
So I kept driving, thinking maybe they’d eventually turn off. We ended up on this long, empty road lined with trees—proper dark, the kind where your headlights only show about twenty feet ahead. The van stayed behind us, matching our speed exactly. When I slowed down, it slowed down. When I sped up, it sped up.
“Try calling the police,” I told Sarah.
She grabbed her phone. No signal. Obviously. Because that’s just our luck, isn’t it?
That’s when the van started flashing its high beams. Once. Twice. Three times. Then it sped up, getting closer to our bumper. Close enough that I could barely see anything in my rearview except blinding white light.
I felt my heart drop into my stomach.
“What do they want?” Sarah’s voice cracked. She was gripping the door handle so hard her knuckles had gone white.
I pressed the accelerator down harder, my Corsa struggling to pick up speed. Sixty. Sixty-five. The van kept pace effortlessly. We flew past darkened houses, empty fields. There was nowhere to pull off, nowhere to go.
Then the van pulled into the other lane, drawing up beside us.
I didn’t want to look. Everything in me screamed not to look. But I did.
The driver’s window was down. I could see a figure in the driver’s seat, but their face—I swear to God—their face was wrong. Too pale, almost grey in the darkness. And their eyes. Their eyes were opened wider than possible, unblinking, locked on me.
They smiled. Not a normal smile. Something stretched and horrible.
Sarah screamed.
I slammed on the brakes without thinking. The van shot ahead of us, and I yanked the wheel, pulling a sharp U-turn that made my tires squeal. We flew back the way we’d come, both of us breathing so hard I thought I might pass out.
I didn’t stop until we reached a 24-hour Asda car park, bright and full of people. We sat there for two hours, shaking, waiting for Sarah’s boyfriend to come get her. I followed him back to her place, then drove home with my doors locked and my phone in my lap.
The next day, I reported it to the police. They took notes but said without a license plate or better description, there wasn’t much they could do. They suggested it was probably just someone messing about.
But I’ll never forget that face. Those eyes.
To this day, I still check my rearview mirror obsessively. I take different routes home every night. And whenever I see a white van, my hands start to shake.
Sarah quit Tesco two weeks later. Said she couldn’t do the late shifts anymore. I mean, I don’t blame her.
I wish I had trusted my instincts sooner. I wish we’d never taken that dark road. But mostly, I wish I could forget what I saw in that driver’s window—because sometimes, late at night, I still see those eyes in my dreams.
Wide open. Watching. Waiting.
