[A low hum. The soft tick of cooling metal. Something shifts in the dark.]

The station wakes before he does.

Old tubes warm with a faint orange glow, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cluttered room. Dust motes drift lazily in the air, stirred by the slow, deliberate footsteps of the man who moves through the dimness like he’s part of it.

Brian doesn’t speak yet.

He sets a worn mug beside the console — the ceramic clinks softly, a familiar sound swallowed quickly by the room’s heavy silence. He adjusts a dial, taps a gauge with the back of his knuckle, brushes a thumb across the microphone’s metal grille as though checking its pulse.

The red light above the mic flickers once… twice… then steadies into a patient, unblinking glow.

He leans back in his chair, listening. Not to the equipment — to the room. To the forest pressing against the walls. To the night breathing through the cracks.

For a moment, he turns his head… just slightly… as if he feels someone standing behind him. As if he knows you’re there.

A faint smile touches his lips.

Then, in a voice that seems to rise from the floorboards themselves, he finally speaks.

“Good evening… wanderer.”

[A soft swell of static, like a curtain being drawn aside.]

“If you’re hearing my voice, it means the night has found you again. And tonight… it has a story it wants you to hear.”

He adjusts the microphone, the metal creaking softly beneath his touch.

“Out here on the Oregon coast, the fog rolls in like a living thing. It swallows the cliffs, the trees, the old logging roads that twist through the dark like veins. And sometimes… it swallows the past as well.”

A pause. A breath. The faintest rustle of paper — notes he doesn’t need, but keeps anyway.

“Some stories cling to these roads the way moss clings to bark. Old stories. Forgotten stories. Stories that refuse to stay buried.”

He leans closer to the mic.

“Tonight’s tale is one of those.”

[The hum deepens. Something taps faintly against the window.]

“It begins on a stretch of highway most folks don’t drive after sundown. A place where the forest presses close, where the air smells faintly of salt and antiseptic… and where the headlights never seem to reach quite far enough.”

His voice lowers, almost a whisper.

“They say that if you’re unlucky… or perhaps if you’re meant to… you might catch a glimpse of him.”

A soft scrape of a chair leg. The red light pulses.

“A figure wrapped in old, weather‑worn bandages. A man who shouldn’t be standing. A man who shouldn’t be breathing. A man who appears only when the fog is thickest and the night is at its deepest.”

Brian’s fingers drum once on the desk — a quiet, thoughtful rhythm.

“Some call him a warning. Some call him a curse. Most refuse to call him anything at all.”

He exhales slowly.

“But the forest remembers him. The road remembers him. And tonight… so will you.”

[Static swells, then settles into a low, steady hiss.]

“This is Midnight Air. And this… is the story of the Bandage Man.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wasn’t supposed to be on that road that night.

That’s the part I keep coming back to. If I had taken the highway like a normal person, if I hadn’t been so desperate to get away, if I hadn’t convinced myself that the old logging road would be faster… none of this would’ve happened.

But that’s the thing about bad decisions — they never feel bad in the moment. They feel necessary.

The fog had rolled in thick and low, swallowing the treetops and smothering the moonlight. My headlights carved out a narrow tunnel ahead of me, but everything beyond that was just… gone. Like the world ended three feet from my bumper.

I remember glancing at the clock on my dashboard. 12:17 a.m. The numbers glowed a sickly green, the kind of color that makes you feel like you’re being watched.

I told myself I wasn’t tired. I told myself I wasn’t scared. I told myself I just needed to keep driving.

But the road had other ideas.

The trees pressed in close on both sides, tall and ancient, their branches arching overhead like ribs. The deeper I went, the quieter everything became. No wind. No insects. No distant ocean. Just the hum of my engine and the soft crunch of gravel under my tires.

Then the smell hit me.

At first, I thought it was just the damp forest — that earthy, mossy scent you get near the coast. But this was different. Sharper. Chemical. Like old antiseptic mixed with something rotten underneath.

I rolled the window up, but it didn’t help. The smell was inside the car.

I tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the road. Tried to pretend the fog wasn’t getting thicker, creeping across the windshield like a living thing.

That’s when I heard the first thump.

A dull, heavy sound from the back of the truck. Not loud — just enough to make my heart skip.

I tightened my grip on the wheel.

Another thump. Then a slow, dragging scrape across the metal.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe. It was probably nothing. A branch. A rock. Something kicked up by the tires.

But then the truck shifted.

Just slightly. Just enough for me to feel the weight of something settling onto the bed.

My mouth went dry.

I didn’t want to look. God, I didn’t want to look.

But I did.

I lifted my eyes to the rearview mirror.

At first, all I saw was fog — thick, swirling, swallowing the red glow of my taillights. But then… something moved. A shape. A silhouette. Tall. Still. Wrapped in strips of cloth that fluttered in the cold air like they were underwater.

Bandages.

Old. Frayed. Stained with something dark.

I froze.

The figure didn’t move. Didn’t tilt its head. Didn’t raise a hand.

It just stood there… as if it had been waiting for me.

The smell of antiseptic flooded the cab. My eyes watered. My chest tightened.

And then — slowly, impossibly — the figure leaned forward.

Not toward the road. Not toward the forest.

Toward me.

Toward the mirror.

Toward the thin sheet of glass separating us.

My breath caught in my throat.

The engine sputtered. The headlights flickered.

And then the truck died.

Everything went black.

And in that suffocating darkness… I realized I wasn’t alone.

For a moment, I thought the darkness itself had weight.

It pressed against the windows, thick and suffocating, as if the fog had seeped inside the cab and settled over my skin. My breath came shallow and fast, each inhale tasting like old antiseptic and cold metal.

I tried the ignition.

Nothing.

Just a dull click, like the truck was too afraid to make a sound.

My fingers trembled as I reached for my phone. No signal. Not even a single bar. Just a blank screen staring back at me, reflecting the faint outline of my own terrified face.

Another sound broke the silence.

Not a thump this time. Not a scrape.

A shift.

The soft, unmistakable creak of weight redistributing on metal.

Something was moving in the bed of the truck.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight and dry. I didn’t want to look. Every instinct screamed at me to stay still, to keep my eyes forward, to pretend none of this was happening.

But curiosity — or fear — won.

Slowly, I lifted my eyes to the rearview mirror.

The fog swirled behind me, thick and restless, but through it… I saw movement. A shape leaning closer. The faint outline of a head wrapped in tattered cloth. Strips of bandage fluttered in the cold air, some hanging loose, others clinging to the figure like they were the only thing holding it together.

I blinked, hoping the darkness was playing tricks on me.

It wasn’t.

The figure was closer now. Closer than before. Close enough that I could see the stains on the bandages — dark, uneven blotches that looked too old to be blood and too fresh to be anything else.

My breath hitched.

Then it happened.

A hand — or something shaped like one — pressed against the back window.

The glass fogged instantly beneath its touch, as if the air around it was colder than the night itself. The bandages around the fingers were frayed and loose, revealing glimpses of something pale underneath. Something that didn’t look like skin.

I froze.

The hand didn’t move. Didn’t tap. Didn’t claw.

It just rested there, gently, almost… curiously.

Like it was trying to feel the warmth inside the cab.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but stare at that hand pressed against the glass.

Then the bandages shifted.

Just slightly.

Enough for me to see the faintest hint of movement beneath them — a twitch, a pulse, something alive.

I jerked away from the mirror, my back slamming against the driver’s door. Pain shot through my shoulder, but I barely felt it. My eyes darted around the cab, searching for anything — a flashlight, a tool, a weapon — but the truck was empty.

Empty except for me.

And the thing outside.

The hand slid downward, leaving a streak of fog on the glass. Then it disappeared from view.

Silence.

A long, heavy silence that felt like the world was holding its breath.

I didn’t dare move.

Then — from the passenger side — came a soft, deliberate tap.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Like knuckles gently rapping on a door.

I turned my head slowly, every muscle in my neck screaming in protest.

The fog outside the passenger window was thick, swirling in slow, unnatural patterns. But behind it… I saw a shape.

A face.

Or what should have been a face.

Bandages wrapped around and around, some stained, some torn, some hanging loose like wilted petals. No eyes. No mouth. Just the faint outline of features buried beneath layers of cloth.

The figure leaned closer, pressing its head against the glass. The bandages brushed the window, leaving faint streaks behind.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even blink.

The figure tilted its head, as if studying me. As if trying to understand what it was seeing.

Then — slowly — it raised its hand.

Not to break the glass. Not to claw its way inside.

But to point.

A single, trembling finger extended toward the darkness ahead of the truck.

I followed its gesture, squinting through the fog.

At first, I saw nothing.

Then the fog shifted… and I saw the road.

Or rather, where the road should have been.

The ground ahead dropped off sharply — a washed‑out section of the old logging path, the earth collapsed into a deep ravine. If the truck had gone even ten more feet, I would’ve driven straight into it.

My stomach twisted.

The figure outside the window lowered its hand.

And then… it stepped back.

Not disappearing. Not vanishing into thin air.

Just… retreating into the fog.

One step. Another. Until the swirling mist swallowed it whole.

The smell of antiseptic faded. The pressure in the air lifted. The fog thinned just enough for me to see the ravine clearly.

I sat there for a long time, shaking, staring at the place where the figure had stood.

Eventually, the truck sputtered. Coughed. Then the engine roared back to life on its own.

I didn’t question it.

I put the truck in reverse and backed away from the ravine as fast as I could, my hands trembling on the wheel.

I didn’t look in the mirror again.

Not once.

But when I got home… when I finally stepped out of the truck… I found something on the passenger seat.

A single strip of old, frayed bandage.

Cold to the touch.

And smelling faintly of antiseptic.

I didn’t sleep that night.

I tried — God knows I tried — but every time I closed my eyes, I saw that figure standing in the fog. The bandages fluttering like torn sails. The hand pressed against the glass. The way it pointed toward the ravine, saving me from a fall I never would’ve seen coming.

I kept telling myself it wasn’t real. That I was tired. That the fog was playing tricks on me. That the bandage I found on the passenger seat had been there all along.

But deep down, I knew better.

The smell of antiseptic still clung to my clothes.

By morning, I’d convinced myself to go to work like nothing happened. Routine felt safe. Normal. Predictable. But the moment I stepped outside, I froze.

There, on the hood of my truck, was another strip of bandage.

Shorter than the first. Frayed at the edges. Stained with something dark.

I stared at it for a long time, my stomach twisting. The morning breeze lifted one corner of the cloth, making it flutter like a tiny white flag.

A warning. Or a reminder.

I didn’t touch it. I didn’t want to.

Instead, I brushed past it, climbed into the truck, and drove to town with my hands shaking on the wheel.

The diner was quiet when I walked in — just a few regulars hunched over their coffee, the smell of bacon and burnt toast hanging in the air. I slid into a booth near the back, hoping the noise and the light would make me feel human again.

It didn’t.

The waitress, Marla, poured me a cup of coffee without asking. She’d known me since high school. She could read me like a book.

“You look like hell,” she said, sliding the mug toward me.

“Didn’t sleep,” I muttered.

“Nightmares?”

“Something like that.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. Instead, she leaned in a little, lowering her voice.

“You take the old logging road last night?”

My heart skipped.

“Why?”

“Because you smell like it,” she said. “That fog sticks to people. And… well… folks don’t usually come in looking like you do unless they’ve seen something.”

I swallowed hard.

“What kind of something?”

Marla hesitated. Her eyes flicked toward the window, toward the distant line of trees beyond the parking lot.

“You ever hear the stories?” she asked quietly. “About the Bandage Man?”

My blood ran cold.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

She sighed, wiping her hands on her apron.

“People say he’s a ghost. A logger who got caught in a mill accident back in the forties. Others say he’s something older — something the forest made out of all the people it’s taken.”

She leaned closer.

“But the one thing everyone agrees on? He shows up when the fog is thickest. And he only appears to people who are about to die.”

I stared at her, my throat tight.

“He saved me,” I whispered.

Marla froze.

“What?”

“He pointed at the road. At a ravine. If he hadn’t—”

I couldn’t finish the sentence.

She sank into the booth across from me, her face pale.

“That’s not how the stories go,” she said. “He doesn’t save people.”

“Well, he saved me.”

Marla shook her head slowly.

“No. If he showed himself to you… it means something else.”

I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

“What does it mean?”

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

“It means he’s not done with you.”

I left the diner with my heart pounding, Marla’s words echoing in my head. The sun was high now, burning away the fog, but I still felt cold. Like something was watching me from the tree line.

When I reached my truck, the bandage on the hood was gone.

Not blown away. Not fallen. Gone.

I checked the ground. Checked the windshield. Checked the bed of the truck.

Nothing.

But when I opened the driver’s door, a smell hit me so hard I staggered back.

Antiseptic. Sharp. Cold. Familiar.

It poured out of the cab like a wave.

My hands trembled as I leaned in, scanning the seats, the floor, the dashboard.

And that’s when I saw it.

On the passenger seat, where the first bandage had been, lay a new one.

Longer. Darker. Still damp.

And beneath it… pressed into the fabric of the seat…

was a handprint.

A perfect, unmistakable handprint. Outlined in something brownish-red. Something that hadn’t been there when I left the truck that morning.

My breath caught in my throat.

The Bandage Man hadn’t just saved me.

He’d been inside my truck.

Inside my space.

Inside my life.

And he wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

I slammed the truck door shut and stumbled back, my breath catching in my throat. The handprint on the passenger seat stared up at me like an accusation — or a promise. The bandage lying across it looked almost placed, like someone had set it there gently.

Like a gift.

Or a claim.

I backed away until my shoulders hit the side of the diner. The morning sun was bright, warm, normal — but none of it touched the cold knot forming in my stomach.

Marla stepped outside just then, wiping her hands on her apron. She took one look at my face and frowned.

“What now?” she asked.

I pointed at the truck, unable to form words. She walked over, leaned in through the open door, and froze.

“Oh… hell,” she whispered.

She didn’t touch the bandage. Didn’t even get close. She just stared at it, her jaw tight, her eyes wide.

“That wasn’t there before,” I said quietly.

“No,” she agreed. “It wasn’t.”

We stood there in silence for a long moment. Cars passed on the highway. A gull screeched overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a logging truck rumbled by.

But none of it felt real.

Finally, Marla turned to me.

“You need to talk to someone,” she said.

“Who?” I asked. “The sheriff? He’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Not the sheriff.” She hesitated. “Someone who knows the old stories.”

I frowned. “Like who?”

She glanced toward the tree line again, as if expecting something to step out of the shadows.

“There’s a man who lives out past the mill,” she said. “Name’s Harlan. He used to work the logging roads back in the day. Knows every inch of them. Knows the stories better than anyone.”

“And you think he’ll believe me?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “that he’s the only one who might.”

I didn’t want to go.

Every instinct told me to drive home, lock the doors, and pretend none of this was happening. But the bandage on the seat… the handprint… the smell… they were all reminders that pretending wasn’t an option anymore.

So I drove.

The road to Harlan’s place wound through dense forest, the trees growing taller and darker the farther I went. The sunlight struggled to break through the canopy, casting long, shifting shadows across the gravel.

By the time I reached the old mill road, my hands were slick with sweat.

Harlan’s cabin sat at the end of a narrow path, half-hidden by overgrown brush. The place looked abandoned — windows dark, porch sagging, chimney cold. But smoke curled faintly from a metal drum beside the house, and a stack of freshly chopped wood leaned against the wall.

Someone was home.

I stepped out of the truck, the smell of antiseptic still lingering faintly in the cab. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.

I knocked on the door.

Nothing.

I knocked again, louder.

Still nothing.

I was about to turn back when a voice rasped from behind me.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I spun around.

An older man stood near the woodpile, his clothes worn, his beard tangled, his eyes sharp and wary. He held an axe in one hand, not raised, but not exactly lowered either.

“You Harlan?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just studied me, his gaze flicking to the truck, then back to me.

“You smell it,” he said quietly.

My blood ran cold.

“The antiseptic,” he continued. “It’s on you.”

I swallowed hard. “I… I saw something last night. On the old logging road.”

His jaw tightened.

“Describe it.”

I hesitated. Saying it out loud felt dangerous, like naming it might make it real in a way I wasn’t ready for.

But I forced the words out.

“A man,” I said. “Wrapped in bandages. Old ones. Stained. He… he pointed at the road. Saved me from going over a ravine.”

Harlan’s face darkened.

“That’s not a man,” he said. “And he didn’t save you.”

I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

“What do you mean?”

Harlan stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“He shows himself to people who are close to death,” he said. “Sometimes he pushes them toward it. Sometimes he pulls them back. But it’s never kindness. It’s never mercy.”

“Then why did he stop me from driving off the road?”

Harlan shook his head.

“He didn’t stop you. He marked you.”

My stomach twisted.

“Marked me for what?”

Harlan looked past me, toward the trees, his expression grim.

“For whatever comes next.”

Harlan’s words hung in the air like smoke.

“Marked me for what?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked past me, toward my truck, moving with a slow, deliberate caution — like he expected something to leap out of the shadows.

He stopped at the driver’s side door and inhaled sharply.

“Smell’s stronger now,” he muttered. “Means he’s close.”

My skin crawled.

“You’re telling me he followed me here?”

Harlan turned, his eyes sharp and tired all at once.

“He doesn’t follow,” he said. “He lingers. Like a stain. Once he’s touched you… he’s part of your story.”

I swallowed hard.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No one does.”

He motioned for me to follow him toward the cabin. I hesitated, glancing back at the truck, half-expecting to see a bandaged figure standing behind it.

But the forest was still.

Too still.

Inside the cabin, the air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and old books. Maps covered the walls — hand‑drawn logging routes, faded topographic charts, and old photographs of men in hard hats standing beside massive fallen trees.

Harlan pointed to a chair.

“Sit.”

I did.

He rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a weathered binder held together with duct tape and stubbornness. He dropped it on the table with a heavy thud.

“Everything I know about him is in here,” he said. “Stories. Sightings. Accidents.”

He flipped it open.

The first page was a newspaper clipping from the 1940s. LOGGING MILL ACCIDENT CLAIMS TWO LIVES Below the headline was a grainy photo of a collapsed structure, smoke rising from the wreckage.

“That’s where the story starts,” Harlan said. “Mill fire. Two men trapped inside. One died instantly. The other… well…”

He tapped the photo.

“They pulled him out alive. Barely. Wrapped him head to toe in bandages. Said he was burned so bad you couldn’t tell where the man ended and the cloth began.”

I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

“What happened to him?”

“No one knows. Some say he died on the way to the hospital. Others say he walked off into the woods before they could stop him. But the sightings started soon after.”

He flipped to another page — a handwritten account.

‘Saw him on the road. Wrapped in bandages. Thought it was a prank. Then the truck died.’

Another page.

‘Smelled antiseptic. Heard something on the roof. Didn’t look.’

Another.

‘He pointed at the ditch. Saved my life. But he came back.’

My breath caught.

“He came back,” I repeated.

Harlan nodded grimly.

“He always comes back. Not for everyone — just the ones he marks.”

I leaned back in the chair, my pulse pounding.

“So what does he want from me?”

Harlan closed the binder.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On why he showed himself.”

I stared at him, frustration boiling up through the fear.

“He pointed at the ravine. He saved me. Isn’t that enough?”

Harlan shook his head.

“You’re thinking like he’s human. He’s not. He doesn’t save people. He interrupts them.”

“Interrupts them?”

“Your death,” Harlan said quietly. “He interrupted your death.”

The room felt suddenly smaller.

“You mean… I was supposed to die last night?”

Harlan didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

I felt the truth settle over me like a weight.

The ravine. The fog. The dead truck. The figure pointing.

I wasn’t lucky. I wasn’t spared.

I was postponed.

Harlan stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“He doesn’t let go once he’s touched you. He’ll show himself again. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But he will come back.”

My hands trembled.

“So what do I do?”

Harlan hesitated.

“There’s only one thing anyone’s ever done.”

“What’s that?”

“Face him.”

I stared at him, stunned.

“You’re telling me to go back out there?”

“I’m telling you,” he said, “that running won’t help. He’s tied to the place where you should’ve died. And until you go back… he’ll keep finding you.”

I felt sick.

“You want me to return to that road?”

Harlan nodded.

“And you’re coming with me,” I said.

He didn’t flinch.

“No,” he replied. “He didn’t mark me. He marked you. If I go, he won’t show. If you go alone… he will.”

The room went silent.

The forest outside creaked. A crow called in the distance. Somewhere, a branch snapped.

Harlan looked toward the window, his expression tightening.

“He’s close,” he whispered.

My heart hammered.

“How do you know?”

Harlan’s eyes narrowed.

“Because the smell just got stronger.”

And then I smelled it too.

Antiseptic. Cold. Sharp. Filling the cabin like a rising tide.

Harlan grabbed my arm.

“You need to leave,” he said urgently. “Now.”

“But—”

“Go. Before he steps inside.”

I stumbled toward the door, my pulse racing, the smell growing thicker with every breath.

As I reached the porch, Harlan called after me.

“And whatever you do… don’t look back.”

I didn’t.

But as I ran to my truck, fumbling with the keys, I heard something behind me.

A soft, deliberate sound.

The slow, dragging scrape of bandages across wood.

I didn’t look back.

I didn’t dare.

Harlan’s warning echoed in my skull as I sprinted across the clearing toward my truck, the smell of antiseptic thickening with every step. It clung to the air like a cold fog, seeping into my lungs, coating the back of my throat.

My keys slipped in my shaking hands. I fumbled, cursed, tried again.

Behind me, the porch creaked.

Not from wind. Not from settling wood.

From weight.

Something stepped onto it.

I jammed the key into the ignition and yanked the door open. The smell inside the cab was faint but unmistakable — the same sharp, sterile rot that had followed me since the night before.

I threw myself into the seat and slammed the door shut.

For a moment, everything was silent.

Then something brushed the back window.

A soft, dragging whisper of cloth against glass.

My breath hitched. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to.

I could feel him.

The engine roared to life on the first try — a miracle, considering it had died without warning the night before. I didn’t question it. I threw the truck into gear and tore down the dirt path, gravel spitting out behind me.

The trees blurred past. The road twisted. My heart hammered.

But the smell didn’t fade.

If anything… it grew stronger.

I risked a glance in the rearview mirror.

Nothing.

Just fog.

But I’d seen enough to know that meant nothing at all.

I didn’t stop driving until I reached the highway. Even then, I didn’t slow down. I kept going, pushing the truck harder than I ever had, desperate to outrun something I couldn’t see.

But no matter how far I went, the smell stayed with me.

By the time I reached town, my hands were numb from gripping the wheel. I pulled into an empty parking lot behind the grocery store and killed the engine, letting the silence settle around me.

For a moment, I just sat there, breathing hard, staring at the dashboard.

Then I noticed something.

The passenger seat.

The bandage that had been lying there earlier… was gone.

My stomach dropped.

Slowly, I reached over and touched the fabric of the seat.

Cold.

Damp.

And beneath my fingertips… something rough.

I pulled my hand back and stared.

A smear of brownish-red stained my skin.

I wiped it on my jeans, heart pounding.

He’d been here. Again. Recently.

I forced myself to breathe, to think, to not fall apart. Harlan’s words echoed in my mind.

“He’s tied to the place where you should’ve died.”

The ravine. The logging road. The fog.

I didn’t want to go back. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to hide, to pretend none of this was happening.

But running hadn’t helped. Hiding hadn’t helped. Pretending definitely hadn’t helped.

There was only one thing left.

I had to go back.

Back to the road. Back to the fog. Back to the place where the Bandage Man had first appeared.

The thought made my skin crawl.

But something deeper — something colder — whispered that it was the only way.

I started the truck again, the engine rumbling beneath me like a reluctant animal. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in streaks of orange and red.

Night was coming.

And with it… the fog.

I drove out of town, past the diner, past the mill road, past the last streetlight. The forest swallowed the world around me, the trees growing darker and taller as the daylight faded.

By the time I reached the turnoff to the old logging road, the sky had dimmed to a bruised purple.

Fog was already gathering at the edges of the trees.

Waiting.

I pulled onto the gravel path, my headlights cutting through the mist. The smell of antiseptic seeped into the cab again, stronger than ever.

He was close.

I drove slowly, every nerve in my body on edge. The road twisted and narrowed, the trees pressing in like they were trying to keep me from going any farther.

But I kept going.

The fog thickened. The air grew colder. The world shrank to the small circle of light in front of me.

And then… I saw it.

The ravine.

The place where I should’ve died.

I stopped the truck and killed the engine. The silence that followed was absolute — heavy, suffocating, alive.

I stepped out onto the gravel, my breath forming pale clouds in the cold air. The fog curled around my legs, swirling like something with intent.

The smell hit me full force.

Antiseptic. Rot. Cold metal.

I turned slowly.

And there he was.

Standing in the middle of the road.

Wrapped in bandages that fluttered in the windless air. Tall. Still. Watching me without eyes.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

For a long moment, we just stood there — two figures in the fog, suspended in a moment that felt older than the forest itself.

Then he raised his hand.

Not pointing this time.

Reaching.

For me.

He reached for me.

Not fast. Not sudden. Just a slow, deliberate extension of his arm — like he had all the time in the world, and I had none.

The bandages around his fingers fluttered in the still air, revealing glimpses of something pale beneath. Not bone. Not flesh. Something in‑between. Something that shouldn’t exist.

I stumbled back, my boots skidding on the gravel. The fog curled around my legs, cold and heavy, clinging like wet cloth.

“Stay back,” I whispered, though my voice barely carried.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t even hesitate.

He stepped forward, the bandages trailing behind him like tattered streamers. The fog parted around him, bending away as if afraid to touch him.

I turned and ran.

I didn’t think. Didn’t look. Didn’t breathe.

I sprinted toward the truck, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, my heart slamming against my ribs. The fog thickened ahead of me, swallowing the road, the trees, the world.

Behind me, I heard nothing.

No footsteps. No breathing. No movement.

Just silence.

A silence so deep it felt wrong.

I reached the truck, yanked the door open, and threw myself inside. My hands shook violently as I jammed the key into the ignition.

The engine sputtered.

Coughed.

Died.

“No, no, no—”

I tried again.

Nothing.

The smell of antiseptic flooded the cab, thick and suffocating. My eyes watered. My throat burned.

I looked up.

He was standing right outside the windshield.

So close I could see the texture of the bandages — the frayed edges, the dark stains, the places where the cloth had fused to whatever lay beneath.

He tilted his head.

Not like a person. Like something trying to remember how a person moves.

I froze.

He raised his hand again.

But this time… he didn’t reach for me.

He pointed.

Not at the ravine. Not at the road.

At me.

Directly at me.

The fog behind him shifted — not swirling, not drifting, but moving, like something alive was pushing through it. Shapes formed in the mist. Tall shapes. Thin shapes. Wrapped shapes.

More of them.

Dozens.

Maybe more.

All standing still. All facing me. All wrapped in the same tattered bandages.

My breath hitched.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no—”

The Bandage Man lowered his hand.

And the others stepped forward.

Not fast. Not slow.

Just… inevitable.

The fog swallowed their legs first, then their torsos, then their heads, until they were nothing but silhouettes drifting toward me like ghosts pulled by a single thread.

I slammed my hand against the horn.

It didn’t make a sound.

The truck was dead. The world was dead. Everything was silent except for the soft whisper of bandages brushing against the fog.

I reached for the door handle, desperate to run, to escape, to do anything—

But the handle wouldn’t move.

It felt cold. Colder than metal should ever feel.

I looked down.

A strip of bandage was wrapped around it.

Tight.

Holding it shut.

My heart stopped.

I looked up again.

The Bandage Man was gone.

Vanished.

The fog where he’d stood was empty, swirling gently like disturbed water.

But the others…

They were closer.

Much closer.

Their shapes pressed against the fog, their bandages fluttering, their heads tilted in unnatural angles. They surrounded the truck, forming a loose circle, their movements synchronized like they shared a single mind.

The smell of antiseptic grew so strong I gagged.

I tried the handle again.

It didn’t budge.

I tried the other door.

Locked.

I tried the windows.

Dead.

The fog pressed against the glass, thick and heavy, like it wanted to seep inside.

Then — from behind me — came a sound.

A soft, deliberate exhale.

Right next to my ear.

I froze.

Slowly, painfully slowly, I turned my head.

The back seat was empty.

But the air was cold. Colder than the fog. Colder than the night.

And then I saw it.

In the rearview mirror.

A shape sitting directly behind me.

Wrapped in bandages.

Still.

Silent.

Watching.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t scream.

I couldn’t move.

The figure leaned forward, the bandages brushing my shoulder, cold and damp. The smell of antiseptic filled my lungs.

And then—

Everything went white.

Not bright. Not blinding.

Just… gone.

Like someone had erased the world.

When I opened my eyes, I was standing in the middle of the road.

Alone.

The truck was gone. The fog was gone. The forest was silent.

I looked down at my hands.

They were clean.

No blood. No dirt. No bandages.

For a moment, I thought I’d imagined everything.

Then I felt something in my pocket.

I reached in.

My fingers brushed cloth.

I pulled it out.

A strip of bandage.

Cold.

Damp.

And wrapped around it… was my truck key.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

BRIAN (soft, reflective, almost whispering): “Some stories don’t end. They just… stop. Like a breath held too long in the dark.”

A quiet pause. The faint hum of the booth.

“Authorities found the truck. Empty. Keys missing. No footprints in the gravel. No signs of a struggle.”

Another pause — the kind that feels intentional.

“But the fog was thick that night. And the fog… has a way of keeping secrets.”

He exhales slowly, almost like he’s tired.

“Maybe our traveler walked away. Maybe they found another road. Or maybe… the night simply decided to keep them.”

A soft static swell.

“If you ever find yourself driving that stretch of highway… and the air starts to smell a little too clean… a little too sharp… don’t panic.”

A beat. Then his voice drops lower.

“Just keep your eyes forward. And whatever you do… don’t check the back seat.”

The booth light flickers.

“This is Midnight Air.”

A final whisper — almost too soft to hear.

“Sleep… if it lets you.”