Detour: Lost Highway Horror Story

The radio sputtered to life with a burst of static, then a voice, crackly and ancient, whispered, "Lost Highway, detour recommended." Sarah gripped the steering wheel tighter, the desert road ahead an endless ribbon of asphalt. Her phone had died an hour ago, and the only gas station for miles had been boarded up, a skeletal monument to some forgotten boom. Lost. She was hopelessly lost. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. The temperature plummeted, and a bone-chilling wind howled across the desolate landscape. Headlights flickered in the rearview mirror, growing closer. Relief washed over her, short-lived as the car behind her gained on her impossibly fast. It was a black muscle car, low to the ground and devoid of any markings. Panic clawed at her throat. She slammed her foot on the gas, the engine screaming in protest, but the car behind her kept pace. Just as it pulled alongside, she saw the driver. Or what passed for a driver. A skeletal figure, its eyes burning embers in the gloom, wore a tattered fedora that cast its face in shadow. A skeletal grin stretched across its face, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. With a surge of adrenaline, Sarah swerved off the highway, jolting onto a dirt road barely visible in the dying light. The car behind her followed, its headlights cutting through the dust like angry eyes. The road wound deeper into the desolate landscape, the air growing colder, heavier. The only sound was the frantic hammering of her heart and the relentless chase behind her. Then, a town materialized out of the gloom. Buildings hunched like skeletal figures against the dying light, their windows vacant eyes. Desperate, Sarah steered into the town, the black car hot on her heels. Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the rasp of her breath and the crunch of tires on gravel. She saw a diner, its neon sign flickering erratically: "Welcome Travelers." A beacon of hope. She slammed on the brakes and threw open the door. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of decay. Booths sat empty, their red vinyl cracked and peeling. A jukebox played a slow, mournful tune on repeat. There was no one behind the counter, but a single cup of coffee sat there, steaming. As Sarah reached for it, a cold hand clamped on her wrist. She whirled around to see the skeletal figure from the car, now standing inside the diner, somehow impossibly fast. "Lost, are we?" Its voice was a dry rasp, like sandpaper on bone. "This town doesn't like lost souls. They tend to...stay." With a chilling smile, it reached out with its other hand, its skeletal fingers inches from her face. Sarah screamed, but no sound came out. Then, with a jolt, she woke up. Gasping for breath, she sat up in bed, bathed in sweat. The dream, so vivid, so real, lingered. She glanced at the clock: 3:33 am. An unsettling hour. Then, a noise from outside. A car engine rumbling to a stop. Headlights flickered past her window, moving slowly down the street. A black muscle car. Her heart hammered in her chest. Lost Highway. Detour recommended. The voice echoed in her mind. Sarah scrambled out of bed and ran to the window. The car was gone. But in the cold morning light, she saw something new on the deserted street: a single cup of coffee, steaming gently on the curb.