On most nights, Coast Highway through Encinitas feels familiar even when it is nearly empty. The restaurants go dark one by one. The ocean turns black beyond the bluff. A few headlights drift past from Cardiff or Leucadia, and the traffic signals cycle for nobody.
But drivers who stay out too late sometimes talk about a red light.
Not a traffic light.
A bicycle light.
The First Driver
Maya first saw it a little after 12:30 a.m. while driving north from Cardiff. She had finished closing a restaurant and was thinking only about getting home.
Near the edge of downtown Encinitas, a tiny red light appeared ahead of her in the bike lane.
It blinked steadily.
On. Off. On. Off.
Maya slowed because she could not see the cyclist attached to it.
The street was well lit. She should have seen a helmet, a jacket, the outline of a person.
There was only the light.
It moved north at exactly the speed of a bicycle.
The Stretch Nobody Remembers
Maya followed it past storefronts she knew. Then past intersections she knew. Then, somehow, the town began to look wrong.
The buildings seemed farther apart.
The streetlights were older.
The ocean was suddenly much closer, though the road had not turned.
Her phone lost service.
The red light kept blinking.
On. Off. On. Off.
She glanced at the clock.
12:43 a.m.
When she looked back up, the light was directly in front of her windshield.
Maya hit the brakes.
There was nobody there.
The Missing Eleven Minutes
The next thing Maya remembered was sitting in her parked car in front of her house.
The engine was running.
The headlights were on.
Her hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her fingers hurt.
The clock read 12:54.
Eleven minutes were gone.
She checked her phone’s map history the next morning.
The route ended abruptly on Coast Highway.
Then resumed at her house.
No road connected the two points.
The Rule Locals Pass Along
Maya told a coworker what happened. He did not laugh.
Instead he asked one question.
“Did you pass the light?”
She said no.
He nodded slowly.
“Good.”
According to him, the red light had been seen for years. Always late. Always heading north. Usually by people driving alone.
The advice was simple: if you see it, do not pass it.
Do not honk.
Do not pull alongside it.
And if it stops blinking, stop looking at the road ahead.
The Night It Stopped
Maya avoided Coast Highway after midnight for almost a year.
Then one rainy night she had no choice.
At 12:41 a.m., the red light appeared again.
On. Off. On. Off.
She felt her stomach tighten.
This time she slowed immediately.
The light continued north.
Then it stopped blinking.
Maya remembered the warning.
She looked down at the dashboard.
For ten seconds she stared at the glowing speedometer and listened to rain tap against the roof.
Then something knocked on the passenger window.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She did not look.
What She Saw in the Mirror
When the knocking stopped, Maya waited another full minute before raising her eyes.
The red light was gone.
The road looked normal again.
She drove home without stopping.
Only when she pulled into her driveway did she check the rearview mirror.
There, in the back seat, a tiny red bicycle light was blinking.
On.
Off.
On.
This story is fiction. The setting is real; the haunting is ours. Browse the full collection at Yawnder Night Stories.