Ghosts

The road behind is lined with trees that are tall enough to puncture clouds and obstruct birds. Some people of the world call it a single-lane road, but most know that it is more a passageway, a corridor through which we're expected to move heavy-duty vehicles with big fat asses through. And you best hope that there isn't another goddamn driver coming in from the other end while you're on it.

You'll end up spending several minutes of your existence making facial gestures and hand signs to manouvre the other driver to turn and twist their vehicle appropriately enough so that YOU can get a free pass through, royalty that you are, even if it means the other driver hangs off the edge of the road, holding on to dear life, hollering loudly from the knowledge that god, and only god, can rescue them. A single-lane road is the Nuremberg Trials for human morality.

Except at night when, chances are you're most likely alone, the headlights of your vehicle the only source of light, and whatever little of the moonlight that manages to poke through the canopy, a ghost of Goan origin sits beside you, (or behind you if you're the scooter-inclined), and requests you, politely, to ride off the road, drive into the trees and die.

The ghost whispers this quietly - it is not a threat or an ultimatum; it's an appeal, a requisition from the astral plane. I know it is a ghost because he has an undefined mass of wisp-iness where his legs should be.

It's how he died several years ago, and now wishes that every mortal being suffers the same fate of bad driving as him. The solution? Drive him to the end of the road and show him what that's like instead.