I Worked as an UBER Driver. These are my SCARIEST Stories.

My name is Daniel. I drive for Uber in Oakland.   I used to study engineering at Cal State East  Bay. I liked statics and load calculations.   I liked knowing how much weight a beam could  hold before it failed. If something cracked,   there was a reason. If a structure leaned, you  could measure why. There was comfort in that.  

Driving nights in Oakland doesn’t work like that. I usually log in around 8:00 PM and stay out until   4:00 or 5:00 in the morning. The money’s better  after dark. Surge pricing hits around the bars   near Lake Merritt. Airport runs stack up near  Hegenberger Road. Late-night hospital pickups   come in from Summit and Highland.

 If you know  when to position yourself near International   Boulevard or Broadway, you can make enough  to cover rent and chip away at loans.   But nights also mean you see everything. I’ve been punched once on International near   42nd. A guy got in already angry, said I took too  long even though I was there in three minutes. He   swung before I could say anything. Split my lip on  the steering wheel. I finished the ride anyway.  

Someone tried to yank my door open at a red  light near 73rd Avenue. I had it locked. He   banged on the window with something  metal and ran when traffic moved.   A woman’s boyfriend leaned through my  driver-side window outside a liquor   store near Fruitvale BART and told me if I drove  off without her, he’d follow me home. I waited.  

She got in. He didn’t follow. One night outside Eastmont Mall,   a kid no older than sixteen grabbed for my phone  mount while I was stopped. I shoved him back and   drove off before he got a grip. It happens. You work anyway.   Oakland at night is specific. International  Boulevard smells like exhaust and fryer grease.  

Lake Merritt reflects red and blue police lights  across the water after midnight. The stretch of   98th Avenue near the Coliseum turns empty  after 1:30 AM except for warehouse workers   and the occasional car creeping too slow. Drivers talk. Not officially. Just small   comments when you’re waiting in the airport  queue or parked near a 24-hour gas station.  

Don’t idle in alleys off Edes Avenue. Don’t accept pickup pins that land inside   fenced industrial lots near the Port of Oakland. Don’t circle Lake Merritt after midnight   if the route loops twice. And if you’re near 98th and   you see trash piled near the curb at  2:00 in the morning, cancel the ride.  

Most of it sounds like paranoia. Or superstition.  Drivers work alone too long and start inventing   patterns. I didn’t pay attention at first. If a  pin showed up, I drove to it. If it paid surge,   I kept it. Bills don’t care about rumors. My coverage area is mostly East Oakland and   the lower hills. I take rides from West  Oakland BART down to San Leandro Street.  

I’ve driven up Joaquin Miller Road more times  than I can count. I’ve waited outside the Port of   Oakland gates hoping for a decent freight worker  tip. I’ve done airport runs from Hegenberger at   three in the morning when the roads are empty  and the Bay Bridge glows in the distance.   You learn how to scan people fast. Shoes. Hands.  Eyes in the rearview mirror.

 You notice who   sits too close. Who breathes too heavy. Who  won’t stop staring at the back of your head.   I installed a dashcam after my  second week. Interior and exterior.   Not because of ghosts. Because of people. The first time something didn’t make sense,   I assumed I was tired. Long shifts will do  that.

 When you drive twelve hours straight,   the city starts to flatten. Streetlights  blur. You replay the same blocks over and   over. Mandela Parkway looks the same at 11  PM and 3 AM. The Port cranes look like metal   skeletons against the sky. The water near  Jack London Square sits black and still.   There are normal dangers here. Robberies.  Fights.

 Drunk passengers who throw up and   argue about cleaning fees. That part I understand.  You can measure that risk. You can calculate it.   The other things don’t fit into numbers. The first rule I broke was on 98th Avenue.   It was 1:47 in the morning. I was idling near  Hegenberger Road after an airport drop-off when   a surge ping popped up. Pickup location: an alley  off Edes Avenue, behind a row of auto body shops.  

Good fare. Close by. I accepted it.   That’s when I learned why drivers  don’t stop near trash after 1:30 AM.   ________ CASE ONE — The 98th Avenue Rule   The pickup ping came through at 1:47 AM while  I was stopped near the Chevron on Hegenberger   Road. It was a short ride request with a  decent surge attached.

 The pickup location   sat just off 98th Avenue, down a narrow alley  behind a row of auto body shops near Edes.   I remember thinking it was easy money. The alley wasn’t well lit. One wall was   corrugated metal. The other was cinder  block stained dark near the base from   years of runoff. Three large green trash bins  sat against the wall halfway down.

 A pile of   black garbage bags was stacked beside them. No  movement. No people waiting with phones out.   I pulled forward slowly and stopped near the  pickup pin. I put the car in park and turned   on my hazards. The app showed the rider’s name,  but I didn’t recognize it. No profile photo.   I waited. Thirty seconds passed. Then sixty.  

The alley was quiet except for the hum of  my engine and a faint electrical buzz from   a broken light fixture above one of the  shop doors. The trash bags sat still.   At ninety seconds, I leaned  forward to check the map again.   That’s when one of the garbage bags shifted. It wasn’t wind. The air was still.

 The bag   twitched from the inside, then settled. I stared  at it for a few seconds, expecting a raccoon to   burst out. Oakland has plenty of those. The bag moved again.   Slower this time. Like something  inside it was adjusting its position.   I reached to cancel the ride. Before I could press the button,   the lid of the nearest green trash bin lifted  halfway up. Not fast.

 It rose steadily, like   someone inside was pushing it with both hands. Then something stood up behind it.   At first I thought it was someone wearing  a costume. It was bright green. Rounded at   the shoulders. The surface looked soft,  almost foam-like. Its head was large and   oval-shaped with two wide, circular eyes that  reflected my headlights without blinking.  

It straightened fully, clearing  the top of the trash bin.   The “skin” along its side had split at the  seam near the ribs. Through the opening,   I saw darker tissue underneath. Not  fabric. Not stuffing. Something wet.   A second shape rose from  the pile of garbage bags.   This one unfolded awkwardly, pushing plastic aside  as it stood. It had the same bright green surface.  

Same wide mouth stretched too far across its face.  When it opened that mouth, I saw rows of small,   narrow teeth packed tightly together. They didn’t rush me right away.   The first one waddled forward two  steps. Its legs moved stiff at the hips,   then loosened. It adjusted to the pavement  like it was getting used to standing upright.  

Then it sprinted. It covered the distance between the trash   bins and my rear bumper in less than two seconds. The impact hit the trunk hard enough to shake the   steering wheel in my hands. My rear camera  flashed white for half a second, then went   to static before returning to a distorted view. The second one ran toward the passenger side.  

It slammed both hands against the rear window.  Its face pressed flat against the glass. The   green surface stretched thin around its teeth.  I could see the seam splitting wider near its   cheek. The plastic-looking eyes didn’t blink. They  just stared directly through the glass at me.   I shifted into drive and hit the gas.

 The tires spun for a moment on loose   gravel before catching. The first creature  slid off the trunk. I heard something scrape   across the metal as I accelerated. I didn’t look back again until   I hit the end of the alley. I blew through the stop sign at 98th and   turned onto Hegenberger without slowing. My hands  were tight on the wheel.

 My heart was pounding   hard enough that I could feel it in my neck. I drove three blocks before checking   the rearview. The alley was empty.   No one was chasing the car. No green  shapes in the road. No movement at all.   I kept driving until I reached the I-880 on-ramp.

  I pulled onto the shoulder just before merging and   put the car in park. I stepped out.   The trunk had a shallow dent just left of center.  Not deep, but visible even in low light. There was   a smear across the paint. Thick. Dark green.  It wasn’t paint transfer. It had texture.   Small fibrous strands ran through it. The smell hit me when I leaned closer.  

Bleach mixed with spoiled vegetables. Like a  dumpster behind a grocery store in August.   I wiped some of it with a napkin from my  glove box. The residue stuck to the paper   and left a streak across the clear coat. I got back in the car and drove home.   The next morning, in full daylight, the dent  was still there.

 The green smear had dried and   hardened along the edge. I tried to scrub it off  at a self-serve wash on International Boulevard.   It lightened, but it didn’t disappear completely. There were faint scratch marks near the trunk   latch. Four thin lines spaced evenly apart. Claw marks.   I checked the ride history in the app. The pickup was marked “Canceled by Driver.

” The   rider’s name had disappeared. The pickup location  no longer showed the alley behind the body shops.   It now sat at the front curb on 98th. I drove back that afternoon.   The alley looked normal. Trash bins upright.  Garbage bags stacked neatly. No damage. No dents   in the bins. No green residue on the pavement.

 I stood there for a minute, staring at the same   spot where the first one had stood up. A man from one of the shops stepped   outside to smoke and asked if I needed  something. I told him no and left.   After that night, I stopped accepting any  pickup where the pin landed inside an alley.   If the dot sits behind a building instead  of on the street, I cancel it immediately.  

And I don’t stop next to open trash piles  on 98th Avenue after 1:30 in the morning.   I don’t care how high the surge is. _______   CASE TWO — The Lake Merritt Loop The pickup came in at 12:32 AM on a Thursday.   I had just dropped off two college kids near  Grand Avenue and was idling along Lakeside Drive,   facing the water.

 The lake was flat and dark,  broken only by streaks of yellow and white   from the apartment buildings across the way.  A light wind pushed small ripples toward the   concrete edge. A few people were still out  walking, but most of the park had emptied.   The request popped up less than a block away. Pickup location: Lakeside Drive near the pergola.   Rider name: Linda. No profile photo.  

I accepted it and pulled forward under a  streetlamp. The pergola sat just off the path,   white columns glowing faintly under park  lighting. A few benches lined the walkway.   No one stood directly under the lamp. Then I saw her walking up from the grass.   She wasn’t running. She wasn’t waving.

 She just  walked straight toward the car like she already   knew which one was mine. She was barefoot.   Her hair was dark and wet, hanging in thin  strands against her cheeks and neck. It wasn’t   damp like sweat. It looked soaked. Her  dress clung tightly to her legs and waist.   No jacket. No purse. No shoes in her hands. She opened the rear passenger door and slid in.  

The seat cushion made a soft  sound under her weight.   “Daniel?” she asked. “Yeah,” I said. “You’re Linda?”   She nodded once. The destination on the   app read: Grand Lake Theatre. Easy ride. Around the lake,   up Grand Avenue, two turns and done. I pulled away from the curb and merged onto   Lakeside Drive. The navigation arrow traced  the edge of the water in a smooth curve.  

I checked the rearview mirror. She sat upright, hands folded   loosely in her lap. Her eyes weren’t on me. She  stared out the window at the water sliding past.   Her hair dripped occasionally onto the seat. I heard it. A faint tap when droplets   hit the vinyl. “Long night?” I asked.   She didn’t answer.

 I figured she’d had a few drinks   and didn’t want to talk. That wasn’t unusual. As I passed the intersection near Bellevue   Avenue, the navigation screen flickered. The blue arrow marking my car froze in place,   even though I was still moving. The rest  of the map continued scrolling forward,   but the route line disappeared. The destination  box at the top of the screen went blank.  

No address. No turn instructions. Just a spinning circle.   I checked my signal bars. Full service. I tapped the screen twice. Nothing changed.   “App’s acting weird,” I said, half to myself. No response from the back seat.   I glanced up at the mirror. The seat was empty.   I hit the brakes hard enough that  my seatbelt locked against my chest.  

The car behind me swerved around and laid on  the horn. I steered toward the curb near a patch   of grass and turned on my hazards. I twisted around fully in my seat.   The back door was closed. The seatbelt strap hung loose,   still slightly angled as if someone  had just unbuckled it. The fabric of   the seat was darker where she had been sitting. I reached back and pressed my hand against it.  

Wet. Not soaked, but clearly damp.   I stepped out of the car and checked both sides. No door closing sound. No footsteps on pavement.   No splash from the water. The walkway  behind me was empty except for a couple   walking a dog about fifty yards away. The lake itself looked undisturbed.   I got back in and stared at the app. The ride was still active.  

The timer continued counting upward. The  destination field remained blank. No reroute.   No cancellation notice. I tapped “End Ride.”   The screen froze for several seconds. Then the ride completed automatically.   One star appeared immediately.   No message. No delay. Just the rating.

 I sat there for a minute, engine   idling, hazards blinking. The back seat smelled faintly like   lake water. Not chlorine. Not sewage. Just that  specific smell of algae and concrete that hangs   near the edge of Lake Merritt in summer. I drove the rest of the night distracted.   Every time I looked in the mirror,  I expected to see her again.  

The next two days passed without incident.  Normal rides. Normal people. A hospital   nurse from Summit. A bartender heading home  near Jack London Square. A couple arguing   quietly in Spanish on International. On Saturday night, I got home around   3:30 AM and turned on the TV while  heating leftovers.

 KTVU was running   a late-night segment about local cold cases. The anchor introduced a story about a woman who   had drowned in Lake Merritt three years earlier. They showed footage of divers entering the water   near the pergola. Yellow police  tape strung between trees.   Candles arranged along the railing. Then they put her photo on screen.  

I stopped moving. Dark hair. Narrow   jawline. Small scar just above the left eyebrow. The exact same scar I’d noticed in the mirror when   she turned slightly toward the streetlight. They switched to a driver’s license photo.   It was clearer. Same face. Same slight asymmetry   in the mouth. Same thin nose. Same eyes. I walked closer to the television.  

The report said she had left a bar near Grand  Avenue just before midnight. Friends said she   seemed fine. She never made it home. Her body  was recovered two days later from the lake.   Cause of death: drowning. They displayed her full name.   Linda Philips.  I muted the TV and stood there for a long time.  

The back seat of my car still smelled  faintly damp the next morning.   I drove back to Lakeside Drive  in daylight and parked nearby.   Joggers passed. A couple pushed a stroller  along the path. The lake looked harmless.   I stared at the spot where  she had stepped into my car.   No signs. No markers. No memorial plaque. Just concrete and water.  

Since that night, I don’t complete full  loops around Lake Merritt after midnight.   If the route circles the water twice, I reroute  manually through Grand Avenue or cut over toward   Broadway. If a pickup pin lands too close to  the pergola late at night, I let it expire.   I’ve been mugged in this city. I’ve been  punched in the face by a drunk stranger.  

I’ve had someone threaten to follow me home. Those are real dangers. You can see them coming.   None of those people vanished  without opening a door.   And none of them left a one-star  rating after they were already dead.   _____ CASE THREE — The Construction Worker   The pickup came in at 5:10 AM on a Tuesday. That’s the quiet hour. The bars are closed.

 The   overnight hospital traffic slows down. The sky is  still dark, but there’s a gray line forming over   the hills. Most of the rides at that time  are airport runs or early shift workers.   The request came from Mandela  Parkway near West Grand Avenue.   Rider name: Carlos. No profile photo.   I accepted it and pulled up along the curb  beside a stretch of industrial fencing.

 A   row of shipping containers sat across the  street. A semi-truck idled two blocks down.   He was already standing there when I arrived.   Hard hat in one hand. Reflective  vest over a long-sleeve shirt. Work   boots dusted white around the toes. He  looked like he had been up for hours.   He opened the back door and got in. “Morning,” he said.  

“Morning,” I answered. “Headed to work?” “Yeah,” he said. “Early shift.”   The app showed the destination as an  address near the Port of Oakland. A   chemical processing facility on the edge of the  industrial zone, just off Middle Harbor Road.   I’d driven that direction before, but  I didn’t remember that specific plant.  

He buckled his seatbelt carefully  and rested his hard hat on his lap.   “You drive nights?” he asked. “Mostly,” I said.   He nodded. “That’s rough,” he said. “I used to   do graveyard shifts. Hard on your body.” His voice was steady. Calm.   Friendly in a tired way.

 We merged onto West Grand and headed   toward I-880. The freeway was nearly empty. A few  headlights in the distance. The cranes at the Port   rose up like black shapes against the fading sky. “How long you been doing construction?” I asked.   “Long enough,” he said with a  small smile. “Pays the bills.”   He told me about early morning concrete  pours.

 About how the air smells different   near the water before sunrise. About how he liked  getting work done before the city fully woke up.   It felt normal. That’s the part that sticks with me.   There was nothing wrong with him. No strange smell. No odd breathing. No   strange pauses in conversation. Just a guy heading to work.   As we exited the freeway and moved  deeper into the industrial area,   the roads grew narrower. Warehouses lined both  sides. Chain-link fences topped with barbed wire.  

Security cameras mounted on poles. The address was about a mile ahead.   “You ever get weird riders at night?” he asked. “Sometimes,” I said. “Drunk people mostly.”   He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I bet.”   There was a pause. Then he added, “It’s   always nice to talk to good people.” I glanced at him in the mirror.  

He was looking straight ahead, not at me. We turned onto the final road.   The address was coming up on the right. Except there was no building.   I slowed down. The app’s blue arrow   pointed directly to a stretch of cracked  concrete behind a rusted chain-link fence.   No facility. No lights.   No structure at all. Just an empty lot covered in weeds and debris.  

I pulled to the curb and put the car in park. “This doesn’t look right,” I said. “Is the address   correct?” I turned around.   The back seat was empty. The hard hat was gone.   The seatbelt strap hung loose, still angled  across the seat as if it had just been unlatched.   I stepped out of the car. The fence had a sign bolted to it.  

Facility Closed — Chemical Accident. Unauthorized Entry Prohibited   Below that, smaller text listed the year. Six years ago.   The name of the plant was printed at the top. It matched the destination in the app.   I walked closer to the fence and looked inside.

 The concrete foundation was cracked and blackened   in places. Metal beams lay twisted near  the far end of the lot. Nothing stood   taller than my waist. The app chimed softly.   Ride complete. Five-star rating.   A tip notification followed seconds later. I got back in the car and stared at the back   seat. Dry.   No dirt. No footprints. No water. I picked up my phone and searched the plant name.  

The first result was a news article. Explosion at Chemical Facility   Near Port of Oakland Eight Workers Killed   The article was dated six years earlier. There was a group photo attached.   Construction crew standing in front of  the plant months before the accident.   I zoomed in. Third man from the left.  

Hard hat tilted slightly back.  Same dark hair. Same square jaw.    Carlos.   I sat there with the engine idling. Traffic began to pick up as the   sky lightened. A delivery truck passed  behind me. The driver didn’t look twice.   I checked the ride receipt in the app. Pickup: Mandela Parkway.   Drop-off: [Plant Address]. Time: 5:10 AM – 5:31 AM.  

Rating: ★★★★★ Tip: $8.00   No glitches. No missing data. Everything documented cleanly.   I drove back toward the freeway slowly. Halfway up the on-ramp, I glanced in the   rearview mirror again. Empty.   I’ve had passengers disappear before. But this one thanked me.   “It’s always nice to talk to good people.

” The next time I drove past that stretch   of road, I didn’t look at the empty lot. I kept my eyes forward and stayed in my lane.   Some riders don’t need a ride  to get where they’re going.   They just need someone to talk to on the way. _______   CASE FOUR — The Blood Bank Ride The pickup came in at 1:18 AM on a Sunday.   Location: International  Boulevard near 14th Avenue.  

That stretch stays active late. Liquor stores  with metal grates halfway down. A taco truck   shutting off its burners. A bus idling at the stop  with no passengers getting on. The streetlights   throw yellow light over everything, and the  pavement always looks wet even when it isn’t.   The rider’s name was Victor. No profile photo.  

I pulled up in front of a closed  discount store. The security gate   was down. The sidewalk was mostly empty. He stepped out from behind the bus bench.   He moved slowly. Not injured.  Not unsteady. Just deliberate.   He opened the rear passenger door  and got in without hesitation.   “Daniel?” he asked. “Yeah.

”   He shut the door gently. The smell hit almost immediately.   Rot. Not garbage rot. Not   sour milk. Something heavier. Thicker. Underneath it was the metallic scent   of blood. Fresh iron. The kind you taste  when you bite the inside of your cheek.   It filled the cabin in seconds.   The destination in the app read:  BloodSource Donation Center on Broadway.  

Open 24 hours. I pulled back into traffic.   In the rearview mirror, I  got a clear look at him.   His skin was pale in a way that didn’t  match the lighting. Not just light. It   looked stretched tight across his cheekbones.  His lips were thin and almost gray. His hair was   combed straight back, dry and flat. He wasn’t looking out the window.  

He wasn’t looking at the dashboard. He was staring directly at the back of my head.   “You heading to donate?” I asked. He didn’t answer.   Instead, he smiled. Slowly.   His teeth were small and evenly  spaced. Too even. Too clean.   The grin didn’t reach his eyes. We passed 19th Avenue. The   car felt smaller than usual.  The smell of rot stayed steady.   

He leaned forward slightly. Just an inch.   The distance between his  face and my headrest closed.   In the mirror, his eyes didn’t blink. Not once.   At the next red light near 23rd Avenue,  I watched his reflection carefully.   His chest wasn’t rising. There was no visible breathing.   Instead, the muscles in his throat  pulsed once every few seconds.  

A slow contraction under the skin. He leaned closer again.   Another inch. I adjusted my seat forward   slightly without making it obvious. His grin widened.   We drove in silence for another block. I felt his eyes fixed on the back of my skull.   The light ahead turned yellow. And I braked hard.   Something slid off the dashboard  and dropped into my lap.  

The silver necklace my grandmother  gave me when I was a kid.   Thin chain. Small pendant. Plain silver. I usually keep it resting near   the base of the windshield. It had shifted forward when I stopped.   I picked it up without thinking. The metal felt cool in my hand.   I lifted it and hooked it  over the rearview mirror.  

The chain swung gently in front of the glass. In the mirror, his reaction was immediate.   The grin vanished. His eyes shifted.   Not to me. To the necklace.   His body stiffened against the seatback. The smell of rot didn’t disappear,   but it changed. It thinned.   His jaw tightened. “Let me out,” he said.  

We were still three blocks  from the blood bank but   I didn’t argue. I unlocked the doors.   He moved fast. The door opened before   the car fully stopped rolling. He stepped out onto the sidewalk   without looking back. The door shut firmly.   I checked the mirror.

 He was already halfway down the block, walking   quickly toward a darker stretch of Broadway. I drove the remaining distance to   the blood bank anyway. The building was lit up.   A security guard stood inside the glass  doors. Two cars were parked in the lot.   No one matching his description  was walking toward it.   The ride completed automatically in the app. No rating.  

No tip. No complaint.   When I got home, I left the  necklace hanging from the mirror.   I haven’t taken it down since. I don’t know what he was.   I only know that when he saw that  silver necklace, he wanted out.   ________________ CASE FIVE — The Port of Oakland   This one happened at 2:54 AM on a Wednesday.

 I was parked near Jack London Square after   dropping off a couple from Uptown when  the request came in. Surge was high near   the Port. Pickup location sat inside the  container yard off Middle Harbor Road.   That’s unusual. Most port workers  meet rides outside the gate.   I almost declined it. Then I saw the fare.   I accepted.

 The road toward the Port is wide and   mostly empty that time of night. The cranes stand  still over the water. Floodlights wash everything   in hard white light. Stacks of containers  rise like metal buildings on both sides.   The app directed me to Gate 4. The guard booth light was on.   No guard inside. The gate arm lifted   automatically as I approached. I didn’t scan anything.  

It just went up. That should have been enough to turn around.   Instead, I drove through. The route took me down a   narrow service lane between container  stacks. My headlights reflected off red,   blue, and gray steel walls on both sides. The pickup pin sat ahead near a red container.   Three trash bins were lined up against it. Green lids.  

One slightly tilted. I stopped twenty feet away.   No worker. No hard hat.   No movement. Then I smelled it.   Bleach. Sharp and chemical.   Underneath it, spoiled vegetables. Sour and heavy.  Like produce left sealed in plastic too long.   The exact same smell from 98th Avenue. My stomach tightened.   The rear camera flickered on without me shifting. The image shook for a second.  

The trunk alert lit up. TRUNK OPEN.   I hadn’t touched the release. In the rearview mirror, the back seat was empty.   In the camera feed, the trunk  lid was raised halfway.   Something green unfolded from inside. This one was big.    Its surface was the same foam-like  green texture.

 The seam along its   side split wider as it stretched. Dark  interior tissue showed through the tear.   It braced itself against the trunk frame. The smell intensified.   Bleach and rot filled the cabin. Its mouth opened sideways along the seam.   Rows of small, tightly  packed teeth flexed outward.   The camera glitched white. The trunk slammed shut.  

The dashboard still read: TRUNK OPEN.   I didn’t hesitate. I threw the car into drive and hit the gas.   The service lane ended at the exit gate. The gate arm was down.   No guard. I didn’t slow.   The bumper hit the gate hard enough to snap  it free. The arm scraped across the windshield   and flipped off to the side.

 I turned onto Middle Harbor   Road and accelerated toward I-880. In the rearview mirror, nothing followed.   But the smell stayed. Bleach.   Rot. It filled   the car like something was still inside. The trunk alert flickered twice and disappeared.   I didn’t slow until I was on  the freeway heading north.   Three exits up, I pulled onto  the shoulder near High Street.  

The smell faded slightly when I stopped. I stepped out and walked to the back of the car.   The trunk was open.  Empty.   Spare tire. Jack. Emergency kit. But there was a small section of green residue.   And I could see claw marks.  The lining smelled like cleaning   chemicals and sour produce.

 The app showed:   Rider Unavailable — Ride Canceled. No rating.   No profile. Just gone.   _____ CASE SIX — The Airport Pickup   The last story happened just after  midnight at Oakland International.   Airport rides are usually simple. You sit in the  designated queue, wait for the app to assign you,   and pull to the curb when the passenger walks  out.

 Most of the time it’s business travelers   with rolling suitcases or college  kids coming home for the weekend.   This one was from Terminal 1. Rider name: William.   No profile photo. I pulled into the pickup lane   under the blue “Rideshare” sign. Automatic  doors slid open and shut behind a stream   of passengers. A few people stood around checking  their phones. A Southwest flight had just landed.  

He walked out alone. Early twenties. Short   dark hair. Clean-shaven. No luggage. He wore  jeans and a black Def Leppard jacket, the logo   across the back faded and cracked from age. He spotted my car and gave a small wave.   “Daniel?” he asked as he opened the back door. “Yeah.”   He slid into the seat and  shut the door carefully.  

“Appreciate you picking me  up this late,” he said.   “No problem,” I answered. “San Leandro?” “Yeah,” he said. “Near Washington Avenue.”   The address matched the one in the app. We pulled away from the curb and merged   onto Hegenberger Road. The airport lights  receded behind us. The road was mostly empty.  

“You coming back home?” I asked. “Yeah,” “Been a while.” he said.    He leaned back in the seat, looking out  the window at the passing streetlights.   “So how was your flight?” I asked. He didn’t answer.   Instead, he said, “How long you been driving?” “Couple years,” I said. “Mostly nights.”   “That’s steady work,” he replied. His voice stayed calm. Friendly.  

He asked if I liked it. I told him it paid  the bills. He nodded like that made sense.   We merged onto I-880 northbound.  Traffic was light. The freeway   hummed under the tires. The Port cranes  stood dark against the sky to our right.   He asked about my favorite late-night food spots  in East Oakland.

 I told him about a taco stand   near East 14th that stayed open late. He smiled. “Man,” he said quietly. “I missed that.”   We exited toward San Leandro and followed the  app’s directions through a quiet neighborhood.   Single-story houses. Porch lights  glowing softly. Lawns cut short.   “Hey that’s it,” he said, pointing  ahead. “Blue house on the left.

”   I slowed and pulled to the curb in front  of a small house with a trimmed hedge and   a narrow driveway. A streetlight  cast a pale glow over the lawn.   I shifted into park. “We’re here,” I said.   No answer. I glanced at the rearview mirror.   The seat was empty. I turned around fully in my seat.   The back door was closed. The seatbelt lay  flat against the cushion. No one there.  

My heart kicked once, hard. I opened the driver’s door   and stepped out onto the street. The night air felt cooler than before.   I walked around to the back  passenger door and opened it.   Empty. But something was lying across the seat.   The black Def Leppard jacket. I reached in and picked it up.   It was hot.

 I dropped it instinctively   and let it fall onto the pavement. As it hit the ground, I noticed holes   burned through the fabric near the  shoulder and lower back. Not torn.   Burned. Edges blackened and stiff. I scratched the back of my head,   trying to make sense of it. The front door of the blue house opened.   An older man stepped out. He wore jeans and  a gray T-shirt. He looked at me calmly.  

“Everything alright?” he asked.  “Yeah,” I said automatically. Then I paused.   I looked down at the jacket on the street. “Sir,” I said, “you ever feel like you’ve   seen a ghost?” He didn’t laugh.   He stepped off the porch and walked  toward the curb. He bent down and   picked up the jacket carefully. He looked at the back first.  

His expression changed. He turned it over and   checked the tag near the collar. His fingers trembled slightly.   “My son used to have a jacket  just like this,” he said quietly.   He looked closer at the name  written inside the tag.   William Price Jr. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.   Neither did I.

 “He was twenty-two,” the   old man said. “Plane crash. Twenty-three  years ago. Flight out of Oakland.”   He kept staring at the name on the tag. I didn’t know what to say.    We talked briefly. The older  man’s name was William.   After a minute or two… I got back into my car and closed   the door gently. He kept his son’s jacket.  The ride in the app showed completed.  

Five-star rating. As I pulled away from   the curb, I looked once more in the mirror. I think… well I think he just wanted to go home.    _____ I don’t drive nights anymore.   I tried switching to daytime shifts for  a few weeks. Airport runs in the morning.   Office commuters downtown. Grocery store  pickups in Alameda.

 It felt different with   the sun out. The city looked smaller. Manageable. But it didn’t change what had already happened.   Every time someone got in the back  seat, I checked the mirror twice.   Every time I smelled something out of  place, my hands tightened on the wheel.   Every time the app froze for half a second  longer than usual, my stomach dropped.  

So I stopped. I sold the car to a guy in Hayward who   didn’t ask many questions. Cleared what I owed on  it. Took a job that keeps me inside most days.    I still drive sometimes, just not for strangers. I don’t go near 98th Avenue at night. I don’t   circle Lake Merritt after dark.  I don’t take calls from the Port.  

And I don’t sit in airport queues past midnight. I keep the silver necklace hanging from the mirror   in my new car. I don’t leave it on the dashboard  anymore. It stays up where I can see it.   Some nights, when I’m stopped at a light,  I still check the back seat out of habit.   It’s always empty.

 But every now and then,   when I pass a trash bin sitting too close to the  curb, or when I drive by Lake Merritt and see the   water sitting flat under the streetlights, or  when a plane flies low overhead on approach to   Oakland International, I think about the  rides I finished and the ones I didn’t.   I think about the construction worker  who just wanted to talk before work.  

I think about the woman who  never made it out of the lake.   I think about the the thing that grinned in  the mirror until silver swung between us.   And I think about William Price Jr.   Twenty-two years old. Twenty-three years gone.   Oakland has real danger. Real violence.  Real reasons to keep your doors locked.  

But sometimes the rider gets out before you stop. Sometimes the back seat empties without a sound.   And sometimes, I think, they’re  just trying to get back home.