It happened once on a stormy eve,
When thunder rolled and winds would weave.
A man drove slow through pounding rain,
The radio hissed a ghostly refrain.
His headlights sliced through mist and gray,
A lonely road, no sign, no way.
Till by the shoulder, soaked and still,
A girl stood waiting — pale and chill.
Her dress was white, her hair a mess,
She waved for help in sheer distress.
The man pulled over, rolled his door,
“Hop in,” he said — and nothing more.
She whispered soft, her voice so small,
“Please take me home — it’s not far at all.”
No smile, no glance, no breath of fear,
Just silent calm — too calm, too clear.
He nodded once, began to drive,
Just glad to keep a soul alive.
But as he glanced, his blood ran cold —
Her eyes were black, like night untold.
No iris, white, nor human hue,
Just endless dark that pierced straight through.
He blinked, he gasped — she didn’t move,
Just stared ahead, with face unmoved.
He slammed the brakes, the car did skid,
He turned to ask — but she was hid.
The seat was bare, the night was still,
No girl remained upon that hill.
The door was locked, the glass intact,
No sign she’d left — no single fact.
Yet on the seat, a puddle lay,
Of rainwater cold — where she once lay.
Next day he sought that haunted street,
And found a stone beneath his feet.
A grave — her name — the year she died.
He dropped the rose, and softly cried.
So if one night you drive alone,
And see a girl by road or stone —
Don’t stop, my friend, don’t meet her gaze,
Those black eyes burn for endless days.