It was half past midnight when the Dice n’ Nic Pub finally began to empty out.
The place had been alive for hours with pounding bass, strobing lights, and a haze of cigarette smoke curling above the heads of drunken dancers. Inside, neon signs glowed on walls plastered with decades of band posters, and the bar was sticky with spilled beer. The air was heavy with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and the faint bitterness of burnt tobacco.
Three women, friends since their university days, stumbled out through the pub’s worn glass doors into the cool night air. The sudden quiet of the street felt strange after the deafening music inside. They were laughing, their voices ringing out into the near-empty road, their words slurred, the kind of laughter that came from exhaustion and intoxication in equal measure.
The street was dimly lit by a handful of flickering lamps. The orange light seemed to pool on the cracked pavement in uneven patches, leaving deep shadows between each glow. The town had long since gone to sleep; even the hum of passing traffic was absent. Their heels clicked unevenly against the concrete, echoing far too loudly in the stillness.
They were in no condition to drive. Even if they’d had their car, one look at their weaving steps and clumsy hand gestures would have made it obvious they were better off leaving the keys far away from their hands. Their apartment was across town—too far for walking, especially in shoes that pinched their feet and streets they didn’t know well after dark.
One of them, the tallest, pulled out her phone, blinking to focus her vision on the screen. With slightly shaking hands, she ordered an Uber. The app chirped cheerfully, Driver arriving in 8 minutes. They huddled together on the edge of the curb, the glow from the phone casting a pale light on their faces.
The wind carried the faint rustle of distant leaves and the smell of damp asphalt. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once, then went silent. They chatted idly about the night’s chaos—the songs that had played, the strangers they’d danced with, the drinks they probably shouldn’t have ordered.
Less than two minutes after ordering the ride, a car pulled up to the curb. Same make, same color as the one shown on the app. The headlights glared into their faces, momentarily blinding them. The engine idled low, and the faint hum of it filled the quiet street.
At first, they didn’t think twice. The shortest of the group stepped forward, reaching for the backseat handle. Her laugh was still bubbling from their conversation, spilling into the air. But before her fingers touched the door, the friend who had ordered the ride caught her arm. Her grip was tight—surprisingly so for someone drunk.
A strange tension prickled between them. The one holding the phone glanced down at the app. The little car icon on the screen was still four minutes away.
The driver leaned out of his window. His face was partially hidden in shadow, the glow from the dashboard illuminating his chin and a faint smirk. His voice was low, almost impatient, as he insisted,
“Come on, it’s me. You’re too drunk to even recognize your own ride.”
Something in his tone didn’t match the casual banter of a rideshare driver. It wasn’t friendly it was forceful, like a demand disguised as reassurance. His words were too quick, too eager.
The women exchanged glances. Their earlier laughter faded into unease. The friend holding the phone stepped back, keeping her distance. The man leaned a little farther out the window, his eyes catching the light just enough to glint. His hand tapped the side of the car in a slow rhythm, as though trying to hurry them along.
The night seemed to grow colder. The streetlamp above them buzzed faintly, its light dimming for a fraction of a second. A cold trickle of instinct whispered that something wasn’t right.
They hesitated, not moving toward the car. The app still showed their driver approaching from the opposite end of town.
The man’s voice sharpened slightly, frustration slipping through.
“Look, it’s late. Do you really want to stand out here? Just get in.”
But before any of them could answer, another set of headlights appeared at the far end of the street. A car rounded the corner, its beams cutting through the shadows. The timing was almost unnerving like the universe had just rolled a coin onto the table and it landed on their side.
The new car slowed as it approached, pulling up alongside the curb. The license plate gleamed under the streetlamp, matching exactly what was on the app. The man behind the wheel was middle-aged, wearing a baseball cap, and his expression was calm but alert. He looked at them through the open passenger window, recognition flashing in his eyes.
The women moved instantly. Without speaking, they stepped away from the first car, the sound of their heels quick and sharp on the pavement. They slid into the backseat of the correct ride, their movements clumsy but urgent.
As they closed the doors, the driver glanced in his rearview mirror, eyebrows raising slightly at their obvious tension. Behind them, the first car lingered for a moment, the man inside watching. Then, with a sharp rev of the engine, he turned the wheel and sped away into the darkness.
The women didn’t speak for several minutes. The ride home was quiet except for the hum of the engine and the occasional whisper of tires on asphalt. Each of them was lost in thought, the adrenaline slowly wearing off, replaced by the dull, unsettled feeling that follows a brush with something dangerous.
When they reached their apartment building, they thanked the driver more earnestly than usual before hurrying inside. None of them mentioned the incident again that night, but sleep came slowly. The image of the man’s shadowed face, the pushy insistence in his voice, and the way he’d sped off lingered behind their closed eyes.
In the days that followed, they avoided walking alone after dark. The incident became an unspoken reminder that not all dangers came in obvious forms. The streets looked different now. Emptier, and yet somehow full of the unseen.
What unsettled them most was the thought they didn’t say aloud:
Whoever that man was, he had been close enough to know the car make and color of their actual ride.
And if the real Uber had taken just one minute longer, they might have gotten in.
UBER FISHING
Uber Fishing is a real scam where criminals pretend to be ride-share drivers to trick passengers especially those who are drunk, distracted, or in a hurry. The Fake Driver Lurks and wait near busy bars, clubs, or event venues watching for people who look like they’ve ordered a ride.
