Here is a ghost story I once heard in Mexico, from the lips of the taxi driver guiding us home:

I sat in my car outside of the airport, taking in the beautiful sight of early morning Guadalajara, Mexico. Although driving at night was quite unfortunate, my fear of driving late had gone due to the various timings my job had put me through. Driving along a dark mountain was never the best, but one can get used to anything. Afterall, work can’t stop for fear.

I remember pulling up to a street, not yet deserted, but not at all lively. As I neared a corner, a man, slim and tall, waved towards my car, eager to see a taxi passing by. 

I pulled over towards him. I stopped the car and was about to pop the trunk when I realized he had nothing with him. I found it a bit odd, to say the least, but it wasn’t anything necessarily crazy. I quickly unlocked the car and let him in.

“Where do you wish to go?” I asked him.

Without hesitation, he replied with the name of his town, Juchitlan. 

As we drove, the man wasn’t shy at all. He struck the conversation first, a rare occasion when I drove people, especially this late at night. The man was charismatic, happy to hold a conversation. With all the stories he had to tell, it was as though he hadn’t spoken in years. It wasn’t until an hour in that I realized we forgot to settle on the most important part of the drive— how he was going to pay. As soon as I brought it up, the man’s face instantly filled with shock. He frantically checked his pockets one by one, and after not finding anything, he checked them again.

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t have my wallet on me,” he said, the worry marking his voice heavy. He paused for a moment, as if trying to figure out a way to solve the problem. “When you drop me off, I’ll go inside my house and bring some money out.”

The way he spoke was sincere. He didn’t really seem like the type to steal (if this even counted as such). Besides, I wasn’t just going to stop and leave him on the side of the road, especially not when the next ranch was miles away. 

As we neared the end of the journey, the sun had just begun to rise above the mountains and soon, we had pulled up to the edge of the ranch. I drove him to his house as he directed me along the streets, and we finally parked at the corner of his street. He walked out and once he closed the car door, he peered in through the window.

“Stay here, I’ll bring out the money.”

We each exchanged some good byes as he walked into the house. I remained in my car, waiting patiently for him to bring out the money. I waited, and waited, and waited. As the minutes flew by, I began to wonder if he even intended on paying. Maybe he just can’t find the money,  I told myself, praying that he hadn’t scammed me. It wasn’t until 30 minutes passed that I decided I had waited long enough.

Angrily, I walked towards the door. I knocked politely the first time, making sure I wasn’t portraying any irritation in my physical actions. I gave it a few sounds, waiting for any footsteps. Nothing. I knocked again, this term a little harder, but still not pounding. This time, someone opened it. 

A young woman stood in the doorway. By the look of her face, she was bothered by my presence. More importantly however, she was not the man that I’d driven. 

I cleared my throat. “Where is the man?”

No response. We were both equally confused, both completely puzzled by this interaction. 

“Man?”

“Yes. I just drove a man from Guadalajara.”

She raised an eyebrow in suspicion. Now that I thought about it, maybe I had knocked at the wrong house. But just as I was about to leave, her eyes filled with shock.

“Was he travelling without any backpack or luggage?” she asked, almost annoyed. 

“Yes, that was him.”

She sighed. “Wait here.”

She walked into the house, as I stood outside waiting. Thankfully, unlike the man, she returned in a matter of seconds. When she came to the door, she stood there, with a picture frame in hand. 

“Is this the man,” she asked, as she  handed me the frame.  “The man that you drove?”

I took a look, and sure enough, it was him. I nodded.

She sighed, and pulled out her wallet. 

“How much was it?”

“800 pesos.”

“This man, never pick him up again if you happen to come across him.” She looked up at me, unbothered, as she handed me the money.

“What? Why?”

“He’s dead. And yet, his ghost always finds a way to trick taxi drivers into a ride; it gives him someone to talk to.”