The Uber Ride That Made Me Quit Driving in Colorado Springs

It was a cold, foggy Tuesday night, the kind that makes the mountains disappear into the clouds. I had just dropped off a couple of Air Force Academy cadets near North Gate Boulevard and was cruising down I-25, thinking about calling it a night. Then, the ping came. A pickup request from Garden of the Gods. Weird spot for this late, but hey, tourists do strange things.

I pulled into the parking lot near Balanced Rock, expecting to see some Instagram influencer trying to squeeze one last photo op out of the day. Instead, there was no one. Just the eerie glow of my headlights bouncing off the red rocks. I was about to cancel the ride when I saw him: a tall, thin man in a black suit, standing perfectly still at the edge of the parking lot.

“Well, this is weird,” I muttered, but I rolled down the window. “Hey, are you the one who called for an Uber?”

He nodded and got in without a word. The guy didn’t look like your typical Colorado Springs local. No Patagonia jacket, no hiking boots. Just that black suit and an unsettling calm. He didn’t even give me a destination—just said, “Drive south.”

Alright, buddy, I thought. As long as you’re paying. I merged back onto I-25, heading south toward the city. The car was silent except for the soft hum of the engine. I tried to make small talk—asked if he was visiting, what brought him to Garden of the Gods so late. Nothing. He just stared out the window at the empty highway.

We passed downtown Colorado Springs, and I figured he’d tell me to stop somewhere near Tejon Street or maybe one of the motels off South Nevada. But he didn’t. “Keep going,” he said in a voice so quiet I almost didn’t hear it.

Now I was starting to feel a little uneasy. There’s not much south of the Springs except Fort Carson and some sketchy stretches of road. But whatever, a fare’s a fare. We drove past the World Arena, and then the lights of the city started to fade behind us. It was just me, my silent passenger, and the open road.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Hey, man, where are we going? This meter’s running pretty high.”

He turned to me for the first time, and his face was pale, like he hadn’t seen the sun in years. “I need to go home,” he said, pointing toward Cheyenne Mountain.

“Cheyenne Mountain?” I laughed nervously. “You mean NORAD? I can’t exactly drop you off at a top-secret military installation.”

“No,” he said, his voice low and almost mechanical. “Not NORAD. Below it.”

“Below it? Like, the mountain? Is this some kind of prank? Did someone put you up to this?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he just stared ahead as the mountain loomed larger in the windshield. I thought about pulling over and kicking him out, but something about him—the way he sat so still, the way his eyes seemed to glow faintly in the dark—made me keep driving.

When we reached the turnoff near the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, he suddenly said, “Stop here.” He pointed to a small, overgrown path leading into the woods. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

I wasn’t about to argue. I stopped the car and watched as he stepped out, disappearing into the trees without another word. The air felt heavier, like something was pressing down on my chest. I didn’t wait around to see what would happen next. I peeled out of there and didn’t stop until I hit downtown.

But here’s the thing: when I checked my app to see how much I’d made from that ride, there was no record of it. No trip logged, no fare collected. Just a gap in time—an hour and twenty minutes I couldn’t explain.

I told myself it was just a glitch. But when I went to clean the car the next day, I found something on the back seat: a single, black feather.

I haven’t driven near Garden of the Gods since.