Crashed by a Rolls-Royce, I Sent Him Straight to Hell

Fresh out of high school, I inherited my father Gabriel Hale’s mantle and became a Soul Ferryman—a psychopomp guiding the dead.

Because the job required me to roam late at night, I disguised myself as a ride-share driver.

That night, I received an order straight from the Underworld.

The message urged me to act quickly: I had to deliver the soul before the Gate of the Underworld closed, or else the deceased might turn into a vengeful spirit.

I picked up the target’s spirit, but on the way back, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom suddenly shot out from a corner.

I didn’t have time to brake—I slammed right into it.

“You blind, kid? Don’t you know how to drive?”

Time was pressing, so I didn’t bother arguing over whose fault it was. I was ready to pay compensation just to settle it.

But the other driver refused to let it go.

“You broke loser! Do you even know what car this is? Ten grand? You think you can fob me off with that pocket change?”

I pulled out my phone, ready to call the police—but the female spirit in my back seat spoke up, her words chilling me to the bone.

“I’m the one he killed in that crash…”

In my line of work, money was never the problem.

A standard Rolls-Royce Phantom? My family’s garage wouldn’t even bother parking it. What was he so proud of?

“Hey, young man, I’m talking to you! Why do you keep glancing at the back seat?”

Seeing the spirit’s aura glowing hotter and redder, my own temper spiked.

“Shut up! If I lose time here, neither of us will make it through the night alive!”

My warning didn’t faze him.

“There’s nobody in your back seat, kid. Quit trying to spook me.”

He yanked open my door and dragged me out.

“Look at this car properly. You hit a Rolls-Royce Phantom worth over a million dollars! And you think ten grand cuts it? Dream on!”

He took me for just another broke driver in my twenties and dismissed me completely.

“Sir, I had the right of way. I was going straight—you swerved. I’m already being generous offering you money. What more do you want?”

“Call the cops? Ha! Kid, even if they show up, it’ll all fall on you.”

He leaned in closer, breath thick with alcohol.

“You really don’t know whose car you hit. Around all of Chicago, everyone knows Tony Moretti’s ride.”

Just then, a scantily dressed woman stepped out of his passenger seat.

“Baby, don’t waste time on him. Look at him—probably doesn’t even recognize our hood ornament.”

“Guys like him, running rides at night, wouldn’t know the name Tony Moretti—the Midwest kingpin.”

I narrowed my eyes, smiling coldly.

“You won’t let me call the cops… Could it be you were drunk driving—and already killed someone tonight?”

My words struck home. Tony snapped, shoving me hard.

“Whether I drank or not is none of your damn business. Call your insurance and pay up. If you keep yapping, I’ll make sure you can’t survive in Chicago.”

I’d spent years dealing with the dead. I’d never even heard of this so-called Tony Moretti.

If I weren’t pressed for time, I’d have shown him what a psychopomp could really do.

“I don’t care if you’re Tony, Vince, or whoever. I don’t give a damn.”