I’ve been driving for RideShare UK for about eight months now. Mostly weekends, you know, just to cover my rent in Manchester. It’s decent money, and honestly, the passengers are usually fine. Boring, even. That changed last Saturday night.
I should mention—I’d never done the shared ride option before. The app had been pushing it for weeks, saying I could earn an extra thirty percent. I finally caved around eleven PM. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? A few strangers in my car for twenty minutes?
My first pickup was outside a quiet pub in Didsbury. A woman, maybe forty, dressed in a long grey coat. She got in without saying hello, which was fine. Some people just don’t chat. But as I pulled away, she said, “You know where I’m going, don’t you?”
I glanced at my phone. “Says here it’s—”
“Forty-seven Meadowbank Road.” She said it before I could finish. Looking back, I realize that should’ve been my first warning. The address was on my screen, obviously, but something about the way she said it felt wrong. Too certain. Too cold.
“Right, yeah,” I said. “Not far.”
She didn’t respond. Just stared out the window.
About five minutes later, the app pinged. Another passenger, same route. A bloke this time, early twenties, standing under a broken streetlight near the Arndale. He climbed into the back seat next to the woman.
“Alright?” I said.
He nodded. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at her either. Just sat there, hands folded in his lap.
I pulled back into traffic. The car felt heavier somehow. Colder. I turned up the heat, but it didn’t help.
“Busy night?” I tried.
Neither of them answered. Maybe I was just paranoid, but the silence was suffocating. I could hear my own breathing, the tires on wet pavement, nothing else. I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. The woman’s face was blank. Expressionless. The bloke’s head was tilted down, like he was asleep, but his eyes were open.
At the next light, I checked the app again. His drop-off was the same as hers. Forty-seven Meadowbank Road. That seemed odd—matched riders usually have different destinations—but I didn’t think much of it. Not yet.
The app pinged again. Third passenger.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
This one was a teenage girl, standing alone outside a closed chippy. She looked scared, honestly, like she’d been crying. I almost felt bad for her. I unlocked the doors.
She slid in next to the bloke. For a second, just a second, I could’ve sworn she flickered. Like a light bulb on its last legs. I blinked hard. Exhaustion, I thought. Too many late shifts.
“Thanks for stopping,” she whispered.
“No worries. Where you off to?”
“You already know.”
My heart dropped. I looked at the app. Same address. Forty-seven Meadowbank Road.
“All three of you?” I said, trying to laugh it off. “What, is there a party or something?”
Nobody answered. The girl’s reflection in the mirror looked… wrong. Her skin was too pale. Her eyes too dark. And the bloke—I swear to God—he wasn’t breathing. His chest didn’t move at all.
I felt my hands start to shake on the wheel. Something wasn’t right.
“So, uh, how do you all know each other?” I asked, desperate to break the silence.
“We don’t,” the woman said flatly.
I should have pulled over. I should have told them to get out. But I didn’t want to seem crazy, you know? I didn’t want a bad review. Stupid, I know. Stupid and cowardly.
The streets grew darker as we drove. Fewer streetlights. Fewer cars. I realized I’d never been to Meadowbank Road before. The app was leading me east, toward the outskirts of the city, where the houses thinned out and the trees grew thick.
When we finally turned onto Meadowbank, my stomach twisted. The road was narrow, unlit, lined with tall iron gates. I knew those gates. Everyone in Manchester knows those gates.
Southern Cemetery.
“No,” I whispered. “No, this can’t be right.”
The woman leaned forward. Her breath was cold against my neck. “Forty-seven Meadowbank Road.”
I looked at the address on my phone. She was right. The pin dropped directly onto the cemetery entrance.
“This is a mistake,” I said. My voice cracked. “Nobody lives here. It’s a bloody graveyard.”
The bloke spoke for the first time. His voice was hollow, like an echo in an empty room. “We’re already here.”
I slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a stop just outside the gates. I whipped around to look at them—really look at them—and that’s when I saw it.
They were fading. All three of them. Like smoke. The woman’s face was translucent. I could see the headrest through her skull. The bloke’s hands were disappearing, finger by finger. The girl’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.
I screamed. I don’t care how that sounds. I screamed and threw the car into reverse.
The woman’s hand shot out, gripping my shoulder. It was freezing. Impossibly cold. Her mouth opened too wide, and she whispered, “You should have trusted your instincts.”
Then they were gone. All three of them. Vanished. The back seat was empty.
I drove home shaking so hard I could barely hold the wheel. I deleted the app that night. Quit the next morning.
Two days later, I saw the news. Three people reported missing in Manchester over the past month. A woman, a young man, a teenage girl. Their photos flashed on the screen.
I recognized every single face.
To this day, I still won’t drive past Southern Cemetery. And I’ll never forget the way she said my name—my full name—right before she disappeared.
I’d never told her what it was.
