The Ghost Rider: A Birthday to Remember

 

Dear Readers,

It was my birthday a day that should’ve been filled with celebration and joy. I had just picked up my dream bike, a gleaming Harley Davidson, straight from the dealership. The engine purred like a contented beast as I cruised along the empty highway under a cold, starless sky. It was late too late to be out alone on these roads.

The thrill of the ride began to give way to an uneasy stillness. The world seemed too quiet, the only sound was the rhythmic growl of my engine and the occasional rustle of the wind.

As a lifelong Harley enthusiast, I’d often joked with my friends that the day I finally got one, I’d become the Ghost Rider a lone figure tearing through the night, untethered and unstoppable. Little did I know, the name would come back to haunt me.

Then, out of nowhere, I noticed a pair of headlights in my side mirror. Another rider was approaching fast, his old motorcycle emitting a strange, uneven hum that sounded more like a moan than an engine.

The rider pulled alongside me, his vintage leather jacket cracked and weathered, his helmet an antique with a cracked visor. The bike looked ancient, its chrome dulled by time, its frame battered and rusty.

“Nice Harley!” he called out, his voice unnervingly loud and clear over the wind. “First ride?”

“Yeah,” I replied, glancing at him. Something about him didn’t feel right. His presence seemed... heavy as if he were more shadow than man.

“Birthday gift?” he asked, his tone oddly cheerful.

“Yeah,” I said hesitantly. “Got it for myself today.”

He laughed a sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “Good choice. Harleys are built to last... but riders? Not always.”

The comment lingered in the air like a chill.

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“Home,” I replied quickly. “Need to say my prayers to St. Benedict before bed.”

At the mention of St. Benedict, his head snapped toward me, the cracked visor reflecting the pale glow of my headlight. For a moment, I thought I saw his eyes—dark, endless voids that seemed to pull at my soul.

“Well,” I said, forcing a smile, “I should get going.”

“See you up ahead,” he said with a strange grin, and before I could respond, he gunned his bike and sped off.

The old motorcycle roared like a wounded animal as it vanished into the night. But as I watched his taillights, I realized something chilling: they didn’t fade into the distance they rose. Slowly, impossibly, the bike and its rider lifted off the ground, their form becoming more transparent with each second.

And then, they were gone.

My hands gripped the handlebars so tightly that my knuckles turned white. I raced home, my heart pounding. I told myself it was exhaustion, a trick of the mind, but deep down, I knew better.

When I parked my Harley in the garage, I noticed something strange. The air smelled faintly of burning oil and... roses. I brushed it off and headed inside.

The next morning, I went to clean the bike, determined to put the strange encounter behind me. That’s when I saw it.

The Harley’s mirror wasn’t reflecting the garage. Instead, it showed something else: the desolate highway from the night before. And standing in the distance was the rider, his bike silent, his figure still.

Before I could look away, he turned his head slowly, as if staring directly at me through the glass.

Carved into the reflection, as though etched into the surface of the mirror, were four chilling words:

“See you next ride.”

The mirror shattered in my hands.

Lets Ride…

Jacob M