True Story: The Midnight Drive Near Simpang Ampat

It was a late Friday night when my brother and I had just finished work in Kuala Lumpur. Like every other weekend, we planned to drive back to our hometown in Melaka after dinner. To avoid the usual highway congestion, we waited until about 11pm — when traffic would usually be smooth.

The first part of the drive felt normal, just another quiet night on the road. But as we got closer to Simpang Ampat, somewhere near Alor Gajah, something strange started happening.

I was sitting in the front passenger seat, and out of nowhere, my eyes started getting watery. I rubbed them, thinking it was just fatigue or the cold air blowing from the A/C. My brother, who was driving, noticed and decided to switch off the air conditioning and wind down the windows. Since it was a cool night, the breeze felt alright — and I assumed it was just me being too tired.

But after a few more minutes, we both noticed something off:
The road — which usually has at least one or two cars passing by no matter how late — was suddenly dead silent. Not a single vehicle in sight.

And then, this strong scent of flowers filled the car. Not the faint kind, but as if we were sitting right in the middle of a flower field. The weird part was, looking around, there were no flowers. Just open grass and the usual roadside shrubs.

At that moment, both of us turned to look at each other — no words, just a silent exchange of understanding. Our parents always taught us: if you ever sense something unnatural, don’t acknowledge it — act normal.

So my brother wound up the windows and casually said, “Let’s put on some music.” He switched on the radio and we started singing along to upbeat songs, forcing ourselves to stay cheerful. We kept that up for about 30 minutes, trying to shake off the uneasiness, but when we finally settled back into silence... the weirdness wasn’t over.

A slow, sad Korean ballad came on. The song was called "Lies, Lies, Lies."^[1]
At first, it played normally, but as it got to the chorus, the words “Lies, Lies, Lies” kept repeating — but the sound started to distort, like the radio was glitching.

That’s when I felt it.
The coldness crawling up my spine.

I glanced at my brother, but he looked calm, still focused on driving. I was too afraid to turn around, so I checked the side mirror instead, trying to see if anything was behind me. Nothing.

I convinced myself it was probably exhaustion, until...

The song on the radio suddenly shifted — from the broken chorus to the sound of a woman laughing.
Soft at first, then slowly rising, until it turned into a sharp, blood-curdling shriek.

In that exact moment, I felt it.
Like icy fingers brushing through my hair and gliding past my head.

Before I could react, a motorcycle suddenly sped past us on my side. It overtook our car at high speed. My brother, startled, muttered:

"Youngsters these days... so reckless. Riding that fast, with a passenger somemore."

That’s when my heart dropped.
Because I clearly saw only one person on that bike.

I kept quiet for the rest of the drive. Only when we finally reached home and felt safe did I ask him:

"When you saw the motorcyclist... how many people were on the bike?"

He replied casually:
"Two lah. The rider and a lady in a long white dress sitting behind him."

I told him, “I only saw one.”
And I shared what I had felt, the song, the cold fingers brushing through my hair.

That night, we both couldn’t sleep.

Later on, we found out something even more chilling:
A day before our trip, at that exact stretch near Simpang Ampat, there had been a fatal accident. A lorry had crashed into a few cars — some people lost their lives.

Since then, I’ve always believed in what our parents taught us.
When something feels wrong — don’t ask, don’t talk about it in the moment, just quietly leave.
Sometimes, not acknowledging the unknown is the only way to stay safe.

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[1] "Lies, Lies, Lies." is a song from a Korean singer called Lee Juck. This song is from his album "The Meaning Of Solitude".