I HAVE A GHOST AND A SNAKE THAT CAUSES HUGE ACCIDENTS

I HAVE A GHOST AND A SNAKE THAT CAUSES HUGE ACCIDENTS ON A CERTAIN ROAD 

I don’t even know if these words will make sense. My hands won’t stop shaking. My head won’t stop hearing them — the hiss, the whisper, the crash. God… I didn’t think it would go this far. I just wanted money. I just wanted to be seen.

They told me, *feed the road, the road will feed you.*

They didn’t tell me the road would become a mouth.

They didn’t tell me the ghost would have a face.

They didn’t tell me the snake would crawl into my dreams.

I see them even now.

Behind me.

Beside me.

Inside me.

Every time I drive, I feel the air thicken. The ghost walks just outside the window. Sometimes it taps. Sometimes it presses its pale hands against the glass like it wants to climb inside. And the snake… the snake is worse. Long. Black. Scaled. I can’t tell where it begins or ends. It slithers along the tar behind my car, licking the road. I can hear it — hiss hiss hiss — like a prayer, like a curse.

Minutes after I pass, they die. They always die. Tires burst. Cars flip. Children scream. Metal twists. Blood on the road. And I keep driving, and the money keeps coming. I count it with hands that are not mine anymore.

I thought I could live with it. But the faces started to show. In the ghost’s eyes. In the snake’s scales. People I once knew. People I should have saved. People I never met but now they know my name. I can hear them at night calling me murderer.

The last one… oh God, the last one was caught on the garage camera. They all saw it. They saw me pass. They saw the accident minutes later. But they also saw *something else.* A shape. A blur. A pale figure gliding after me. A long dark coil dragging across the tar. It’s there on the footage. I’ve watched it a hundred times. I can’t stop watching it.

I’m not rich anymore. Not really. The money means nothing. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. The ghost sits at the edge of my bed. The snake curls around my legs. Sometimes I wake up and I can’t breathe because it’s on my chest. Its eyes are red. Its tongue is black.

I don’t know if I’m writing this to confess or to warn you. Maybe both. Maybe neither. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I am the road. I am the accident. I am the scream. I am the hiss.

If you’re reading this, and you drive that road after me… don’t. Turn back. Leave. Because it won’t be an accident. It won’t. It will be the ghost. It will be the snake. It will be me. And I don’t think it will ever stop until it finally takes me too.

Let me start from the very beginning...

I don’t know how to begin this… maybe by saying I am already cursed. I did not stumble into riches because I was clever, or because I worked harder than others. No. My wealth is stained. My hands are not clean. The truth is, I called something into this world, and it has never stopped following me.

It started the day I sat in front of a man whose eyes looked like dried blood. He told me, *“If you want to be rich, the road must know your name. The road must taste blood for you.”* At first, I laughed. How could the road know me? But the greed in me was louder than my doubt. I agreed, without thinking of the weight of those words.

The ritual bound me to two things: a ghost, and a serpent. They are one, yet not the same. The ghost walks beside my car, its face hidden in shadow, while the snake coils in the unseen spaces, slithering across tar that should not feel alive. Whenever I pass, the air behind me changes. Minutes later, someone pays the price. A tire bursts, a steering wheel stiffens, headlights vanish into the ditch. Lives are taken, and with every scream swallowed by the night, money finds its way to me.

I tried to tell myself it was only chance. That accidents happen every day. But I have seen too much. I have seen their broken bodies twisted on the tar while I drove away untouched. I have felt the hiss in my ears when I tried to pray. Sometimes I glance in my rearview mirror and see the ghost’s pale hands reaching out, as though to grab the car behind me. Sometimes, when I blink too long, I see the serpent’s eyes glowing red, licking the road like it is thirsty for more.

The worst part is not the deaths. The worst part is that I feel nothing anymore when I hear of them. I have trained myself to swallow pity like poison. But guilt has a way of digging its claws into your chest when you least expect it. At night, I hear the crashes replay in my dreams, and the voices of strangers I never knew cry out for help. They always cry my name.

The last time I almost lost my mind. It happened near the garage, where a camera caught what should not have been seen. The footage shows me driving past. Then, only minutes later, headlights blur, metal bends, glass shatters. But this time the lens picked up more than the accident — it caught the faint shape of the ghost drifting after me, and the shadow of something long and coiled dragging across the tar. I cannot erase it. People have seen it. They whisper now. They suspect.

I thought wealth would free me. Instead, I am chained tighter than ever. The ghost does not rest. The snake does not sleep. And the road is never satisfied. Each time I consider stopping, the thought of losing everything terrifies me more than the deaths. What kind of man does that make me? A murderer without a knife, a killer who lets the road do the work.

I cannot wash this from me. I cannot pray it away. The truth is, I sold myself to shadows, and they collect their price every day. I am confessing not because I seek forgiveness — I know there is none — but because I am tired of carrying this secret alone.

If you ever drive down that road after me and something happens to you, know this: it was not an accident. It was me. It was my ghost. It was my serpent. And it will never end until I am gone.