The Pale Driver (Halloween 2025) (Patreon)

They say she still rolls through these streets after midnight.

Sometimes by the canal, sometimes near the clubs that never really close.

If you listen closely, you might hear it, the soft sigh of wheels gliding over wet asphalt.

That’s her.

The Pale Driver.

No one knows where she came from. Some say she was in an accident years ago, others that she’s been here forever, a ghost that learned to blend in, to dress like the living.

She looks like any other woman heading home after a night out, hair curled, eyes lined dark, perfume still fresh.

If not for the wheelchair, you’d never think twice.

It’s a red, lightweight chair, sleek and silent, except for that tiny creak that always seems to echo too long. Her legs lie motionless across the footrest, thin beneath her skirt and black stockings, high heels catching the glow of passing lights. She doesn’t hide them. She doesn’t have to.

That’s part of what draws them in.

She always knows who to pick.

She waits on corners, where the lamps flicker and the noise of the city fades. And when she sees one of them, the ones who stare a little too long, whose curiosity tastes like hunger, she smiles.

“Hey,” she says softly, “sorry... could you help me? My wheel’s stuck.”

She always says it the same way, polite, shy, a little embarrassed.

When they step forward to help, she looks up with those pale eyes that seem to hold too much night in them.

“You’re so kind,” she says. “Most people don’t even look at me.”

She rolls beside them, chatting lightly, her perfume drifting through the night.

Then she says it. Always the same words.

“Would you mind walking me home? You know, in case I get stuck again.”

She touches her leg as she says it, a small, almost absent gesture, fingertips brushing the smooth fabric of her stockings.

“It’s not far, I swear. There’s a shortcut.”

And who wouldn’t?

Who would ever question a woman like her?

They follow her, every time. Down the quieter street, toward the shadow where the city forgets itself. The air turns heavy there. The neon doesn’t reach. Her voice changes, lower, slower, like silk soaked in smoke.

“You like helping, don’t you?” she murmurs.

Sometimes she rolls closer, her perfume growing thicker... floral at first, then metallic. Her hands rest on her lap, pale against the red frame. Her smile sharpens.

“You really are sweet,” she whispers. “I knew you’d help me.”

After that, nobody knows what happens. Some say she leans forward and thanks them with a kiss colder than ice. Others swear they saw her bite, that her lips went dark and her eyes turned hollow.

But every story ends the same.

They never find them.

They never find her.

By morning, there’s nothing left, just the mark left by a set of wheels.

So if you ever hear the soft sigh of wheels behind you on an empty Street,

if a gentle voice says, “Could you help me for a second?”

keep walking and DON'T stop.

Because she doesn’t need your help...

She just needs your blood.