The Girl in the White Dress

It was a rainy night on Route 44. A young man was driving home when he saw a girl standing by the side of the road, shivering in a white dress that was completely inappropriate for the cold autumn rain. He slowed down and pulled over, rolling down the passenger window. 'Need a ride, miss?' he asked. The girl nodded silently and climbed into the car. She was pale, with dark wet hair plastered to her face, and she wore a faded white dress that looked like it might have been a prom gown from years ago.

'Thank you,' she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 'I'm going to the house on Willow Creek Road. Do you know it?' The driver nodded. 'Sure, that's on my way. You're lucky I came along—nobody else would be out on a night like this.' He turned up the heat and glanced over at his passenger. She was staring straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap, shivering despite the warm air blowing from the vents.

'Cold night for a dance,' he said, trying to make conversation. The girl didn't respond. She seemed distant, almost otherworldly. They drove in silence for several miles, the only sound being the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers and the drumming of the rain on the roof.

When they turned onto Willow Creek Road, the girl directed him to a small white farmhouse set back from the street. 'This is it,' she said. 'Thank you again for the ride.' She opened the door and stepped out into the rain.

'Wait,' the driver said. 'You'll get soaked. Let me walk you to the door.' But by the time he had gotten out of the car and around to the passenger side, she had vanished. The front door of the house was closed, and there was no sign of anyone on the porch or anywhere on the property.

Confused, the driver walked to the door and knocked. An elderly woman answered, her face tired and sad. 'Yes?' she said.

'I, uh, I gave a girl a ride,' the driver explained. 'She said she lived here. She was wearing a white dress—'

The woman's eyes filled with tears. 'That was my daughter,' she said softly. 'She died three years ago tonight. She was coming home from a dance when her car skidded on the wet road and hit a tree. She was wearing her prom dress.' The driver felt a chill run down his spine. He excused himself quickly, got back in his car, and drove away as fast as he could.

When he got home, he went to take off his jacket and felt something in the pocket. He reached in and pulled out a white satin hair ribbon—the kind that would have been worn in a young girl's hair. The ribbon was still slightly warm, as if it had just been placed there. He never drove down Route 44 at night again, and he never forgot the girl in the white dress who vanished into the rain.