You drive down the dark backroads, having previously attended a party your friends hosted. It took a while to get from your house to theirs, but you didn’t mind. You found the bumpiness of the roads and overhanging trees comforting as your headlights pierced the darkness.

You would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been driving as slow as you had been, a figure emerging from the trees, their hand outstretched. A hitchhiker, perhaps. Your kindness overshadows your intuition, and you slow even further, stopping with your passenger seat door to them.

Your heart sinks as the figure slinks into the passenger seat. They shift their head up, half of their head connects to the other with a squelching sound. They look at you slowly. Their head is split down the center, a clean cut, done by something like an axe. Their head is disorderly and asymmetrical as it shifts and slides with their movements. The rest of their body is mostly intact.

“Just the next gas station.” They rasp. They sound feminine. They turn their head forward, pointing a shaking bloodied hand towards the further road. “It’s only a few miles out. the Seven Eleven.” They smell of rot. You choke back a gag as they hold their head to keep it together.