The Ghost Festival Ride
A late night cab ride home on the Ghost Festival turns terrifying when a man realizes the wife he called down to bring money never actually came down at all.
# The Ghost Festival Ride
The night was darker than usual.
Marcus stepped out of the office building at nearly 10 PM, watching his colleagues scatter to their cars in the parking lot. He shuffled toward the bus stop, checking his phone—the last bus had already come and gone fifteen minutes ago.
Great.
He stood there alone under the flickering streetlight, flagging down the only thing available at this hour: a yellow cab. The driver, a heavyset man with tired eyes, pulled over without a word.
"Where to?" the driver asked, already flipping on the meter.
Marcus gave his address and watched the numbers tick upward. Thirty dollars. Forty. He stopped looking.
The streets were dead. No pedestrians. No other cars. Just the hum of the engine and the orange glow of passing streetlights. Through the window, he noticed figures scattered along the sidewalks—people kneeling beside small fires, orange flames dancing in metal buckets. Wisps of ash floated up like lost souls.
*The Seventh Month*, Marcus remembered. The Ghost Festival. The night when the veil between worlds grew thin.
He'd completely forgotten.
"Hold on," he said suddenly, patting his back pocket. His wallet wasn't there. He'd left it on his desk at the office. "Driver, can you wait here for a second? I just need to run upstairs and get my wife to bring the fare down. I forgot my wallet at work."
The driver's jaw tightened. "Yeah, fine. But hurry up. It's late, and I ain't running after midnight. This here's an unlucky night. Ghost Festival. Bad luck to be out working it."
Marcus stepped out in front of his building and called his wife.
"Babe, I need you to bring a hundred down. Right now. I'm outside with the taxi driver—don't take long."
He hung up and waited.
And waited.
The seconds stretched. His wife didn't appear. The driver's silhouette shifted impatiently behind the wheel.
Then a figure approached the cab window.
It was a young woman, maybe early twenties, with long dark hair. She leaned into the open window with a sweet, polite smile—straight white teeth framing her words.
"Hi there, mister. Sorry to bother you. But would you have a lighter? I came down to burn some paper money for my father, but I forgot to bring one."
Marcus didn't move. His eyes were locked on her face. On her teeth. On the way they pushed forward, overlapping her lower lip. Not straight. Not white. The complete opposite of what her smile had promised.
*Buck teeth.*
"Yeah," he managed. "Here."
He handed her the lighter. The girl took it, then tilted her head.
"Hey, what are you doing out here so late?"
"Waiting for my wife. She owes the driver." He glanced up toward the fifth floor. His apartment window was dark.
When he looked back at the girl, her expression had changed. Her eyes were wide, her face pale. She scrambled backward from the window, clutching the lighter to her chest, and ran—actually ran—back toward the crowd of mourners without a word.
"What the hell?" Marcus muttered.
The driver's voice came from inside the cab, tight and clipped:
"Just get out. I'm not charging you. Get out now. Take your luck and go."
Marcus barely had the door closed before the cab screeched away into the darkness.
He stood there, alone with the ash-covered streets and the distant murmurs of people talking to ghosts.
Then he noticed an old man walking toward him. He carried a large canvas sack over his shoulder, and as he walked, paper bills tumbled out of it, scattering across the pavement like dead leaves.
"Young man," the old man called out, his voice raspy and distant. "Get inside. Get your money. And leave. Don't let the Black and White see you."
Before Marcus could respond, the old man continued walking, his sack leaving a trail of spirit money behind him, disappearing into the shadows between streetlights.
*Black and White.*
The messengers. The ones who collect the dead.
Marcus didn't linger.
He rushed through the lobby, took the stairs two at a time, and pushed open his apartment door—
And stopped.
His wife stood in the middle of the living room. She was walking. In circles. Around the kitchen table. Round and round. Her eyes were open but empty, her lips moving in a slow, dazed whisper:
"This staircase... it's so long... so long..."
Marcus felt his heart drop through the floor.
The taxi driver had been afraid of *her*.
The girl had run from *her*.
She wasn't waiting for him to come home.
She had never come down to bring the money.
Because she was already—
Marcus never finished the thought.
---
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The night was darker than usual.
Marcus stepped out of the office building at nearly 10 PM, watching his colleagues scatter to their cars in the parking lot. He shuffled toward the bus stop, checking his phone—the last bus had already come and gone fifteen minutes ago.
Great.
He stood there alone under the flickering streetlight, flagging down the only thing available at this hour: a yellow cab. The driver, a heavyset man with tired eyes, pulled over without a word.
"Where to?" the driver asked, already flipping on the meter.
Marcus gave his address and watched the numbers tick upward. Thirty dollars. Forty. He stopped looking.
The streets were dead. No pedestrians. No other cars. Just the hum of the engine and the orange glow of passing streetlights. Through the window, he noticed figures scattered along the sidewalks—people kneeling beside small fires, orange flames dancing in metal buckets. Wisps of ash floated up like lost souls.
*The Seventh Month*, Marcus remembered. The Ghost Festival. The night when the veil between worlds grew thin.
He'd completely forgotten.
"Hold on," he said suddenly, patting his back pocket. His wallet wasn't there. He'd left it on his desk at the office. "Driver, can you wait here for a second? I just need to run upstairs and get my wife to bring the fare down. I forgot my wallet at work."
The driver's jaw tightened. "Yeah, fine. But hurry up. It's late, and I ain't running after midnight. This here's an unlucky night. Ghost Festival. Bad luck to be out working it."
Marcus stepped out in front of his building and called his wife.
"Babe, I need you to bring a hundred down. Right now. I'm outside with the taxi driver—don't take long."
He hung up and waited.
And waited.
The seconds stretched. His wife didn't appear. The driver's silhouette shifted impatiently behind the wheel.
Then a figure approached the cab window.
It was a young woman, maybe early twenties, with long dark hair. She leaned into the open window with a sweet, polite smile—straight white teeth framing her words.
"Hi there, mister. Sorry to bother you. But would you have a lighter? I came down to burn some paper money for my father, but I forgot to bring one."
Marcus didn't move. His eyes were locked on her face. On her teeth. On the way they pushed forward, overlapping her lower lip. Not straight. Not white. The complete opposite of what her smile had promised.
*Buck teeth.*
"Yeah," he managed. "Here."
He handed her the lighter. The girl took it, then tilted her head.
"Hey, what are you doing out here so late?"
"Waiting for my wife. She owes the driver." He glanced up toward the fifth floor. His apartment window was dark.
When he looked back at the girl, her expression had changed. Her eyes were wide, her face pale. She scrambled backward from the window, clutching the lighter to her chest, and ran—actually ran—back toward the crowd of mourners without a word.
"What the hell?" Marcus muttered.
The driver's voice came from inside the cab, tight and clipped:
"Just get out. I'm not charging you. Get out now. Take your luck and go."
Marcus barely had the door closed before the cab screeched away into the darkness.
He stood there, alone with the ash-covered streets and the distant murmurs of people talking to ghosts.
Then he noticed an old man walking toward him. He carried a large canvas sack over his shoulder, and as he walked, paper bills tumbled out of it, scattering across the pavement like dead leaves.
"Young man," the old man called out, his voice raspy and distant. "Get inside. Get your money. And leave. Don't let the Black and White see you."
Before Marcus could respond, the old man continued walking, his sack leaving a trail of spirit money behind him, disappearing into the shadows between streetlights.
*Black and White.*
The messengers. The ones who collect the dead.
Marcus didn't linger.
He rushed through the lobby, took the stairs two at a time, and pushed open his apartment door—
And stopped.
His wife stood in the middle of the living room. She was walking. In circles. Around the kitchen table. Round and round. Her eyes were open but empty, her lips moving in a slow, dazed whisper:
"This staircase... it's so long... so long..."
Marcus felt his heart drop through the floor.
The taxi driver had been afraid of *her*.
The girl had run from *her*.
She wasn't waiting for him to come home.
She had never come down to bring the money.
Because she was already—
Marcus never finished the thought.
---
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