Chapter 1

Today at the office, someone brought a box of cheap fortune cookies to the breakroom. I cracked one open without thinking. The slip of paper inside said: "Do not deviate from your path." I laughed and threw it in the recycling bin. I don't believe in fate, signs, prophecies, or any of that nonsense. But I grabbed a second one out of habit and put it in my pocket.

The fog tonight was unreal. I was just trying to get home after a brutal late shift. The main highway was completely blocked because of some massive accident. I could have waited it out, but I was tired and impatient. I decided to take an old bypass road the GPS suggested. I didn't think twice. I just took the turn.

After a mile or two, the asphalt just ended. It turned into this broken, muddy logging trail. The trees were so close to the road that branches were scraping against my windows.

Suddenly, my phone made this weird, sharp chime. The screen blinked, and the blue route line turned solid gray. A text box popped up: "Entering unmapped structure. Speed restricted."

I stared at it. That didn't make any sense. Then the "Time to Destination" counter glitched out. The numbers vanished, and the map started spitting out rapid, cold updates:

"Traffic jam ahead."

"Detected: 114 stationary objects."

"Detected: 114 open doors."

"Prepare to stop. Your door is number 115."

Right at that moment, my podcast cut out. The speakers hissed, and then a faint melody started playing. An old lullaby my mom used to sing to me. But the lyrics shifted:

"Sleep, sleep, Mark… It's a pity we're never making it back home…"

I slammed the power button, but the stereo ignored me. The music kept looping.

I looked back at the road. The dirt was pure mud, but right down the middle, someone had painted a perfect, bright double red line. It looked like fresh blood, and it sat perfectly on top of the mud without mixing. On my phone, the gray GPS line tracked it perfectly.

I kept rolling forward. A minute later, the fog broke, and I hit the brakes so hard my seatbelt bruised my chest.

The app wasn't glitched. It was literal.

Both sides of the road were packed with cars. Endless rows, bumper-to-bumper, stretching into the dark woods. Every single door was wide open. The cars looked dead—caked in dried mud, covered in dead leaves. I whispered to myself: "What is happening here? Where did all these people go?" In the dim glow of my headlights, I saw things left behind: an empty child's seat strapped into the back of a sedan, a pair of glasses on a dashboard, an open wallet on a passenger seat.

My engine idled, and the sound felt deafening. Then the GPS pinged.

"Route completed. You have arrived at your destination."

At the bottom, where the street name should be, it read: "End of the Line."

Then, with a loud click, all my door locks popped open. The overhead cabin light turned on, lighting me up like a target.

I slammed my thumb onto the lock button. They clicked shut. Two seconds later, they popped open again. The GPS was forcing the arrival protocol.

I’m holding the lock button down with all my strength. My phone is losing signal. I'm typing this with one hand.

Because out there in the fog, a door just slammed shut. A heavy metal thud.

Then another one closer. Then a third.

Someone is walking down the line of cars in the pitch black. They are closing the open doors one by one. And they are coming right toward me.

I killed the engine immediately. I let go of the lock button, and held my breath in the pitch black.

The last slam was right next to my car. I can hear boots heavy in the mud just outside my window. My thumb is cramping up, and the locks are clicking against my finger, trying to open.

Heavy footsteps splashed through the mud right behind my door. A shadow loomed over my window, blocking the faint light of the fog. For a second, everything froze. Then the sound of the boots slowly faded into the darkness ahead, following the red line.

I’m sitting here in the dark, terrified to turn the ignition key again. The forest is quiet. I don't know if I made the right choice. Suddenly, my hand brushed against something in my pocket. The second fortune cookie I'd grabbed earlier. I cracked it open. The slip of paper said: "Your door is number 115."