The lane was merging into Highway 152 up ahead.

I could see the signs, like I had a thousand times before, but this time they were glowing.

I had never been around there at that time of night.

My daddy should tell me stories of that road, and no matter what, he would always suggest

a detour, away around that highway. Take the coastline road, and no matter what, he would always suggest a detour, a way around that highway.

Take the coastline road, he would say, or keep going towards Linen County, and then drive the

ten minutes back. He understood roads. He had those old maps, the books you would buy at the gas

stations or car repair shops. He would be out in the car by himself with a pencil

on his ear, flipping through the index and then back to the Mac. He was drawing out the route

and signs to watch out for. But not me. I relied on the voice that would tell me where to go,

and I would turn it on even to go to places I knew and had been to many

times before. Like this way back to my college apartment in the six-hour drive, had I left the phone

off, things would have turned out completely different. My name is Edwin, and here's a scary story.

It was late December when I was taking that drive.

I figured nobody would be out on the road so close to Christmas, but I was wrong,

at least for the parts near the city before the first

mountain ridge.

I had stayed on my hometown a little bit longer than expected because some old friends came home

for the holidays. We spent some time hanging out with each other. But even on that day,

I left much later, around eight in the evening against my dad's advice.

That road's crazy. Go around to Lionon County. Listen to me. I nodded. Grab the car keys.

I knew Dad's story well. Actually, the whole family knew it. And it's not like we don't trust dad or anything. He's always pulled through for us, but it was his story.

...