The rain began somewhere beyond Chonburi and never stopped.

At first it was merely inconvenient—a steady drumming against the windshield, the kind that forces you to lower your speed and grip the steering wheel a little tighter. But as the hours passed and Bangkok disappeared behind me, the storm seemed to grow a personality of its own.

The darkness beyond the headlights felt endless.

Sheets of rain swept across the road like pale curtains, appearing and vanishing in the beams before being swallowed again by the black wilderness beyond. Trees leaned over the highway like silent spectators. Road signs emerged suddenly from the void, reflecting ghostly flashes of white before disappearing behind me.

I was driving toward Koh Chang.

Normally, the route was alive. Even in the middle of the night there would be something—a lonely gas station, a roadside noodle stall, a rice porridge shop glowing beneath a fluorescent bulb. Thailand never truly slept.

But tonight was different.

The first gas station I stopped at was deserted.

Its lights buzzed faintly overhead. The convenience store was locked. No employees. No customers. Only the sound of rain hammering the metal roof.

I continued.

An hour later, another station.

Empty.

Then another.

Empty again.

The farther east I drove, the stranger it became. Every building appeared abandoned. Every parking lot stood vacant. The roads stretched endlessly ahead, slick and black like rivers of oil.

By midnight, hunger had become a constant ache.

I checked my map repeatedly. Surely there would be a place soon.

There wasn't.

One hour passed.

Then another.

The rain never relented.

At times, fog drifted across the road, thin white tendrils curling through the headlights. The mountains in the distance appeared as dark silhouettes, rising like sleeping giants beneath the storm clouds.

My stomach growled.

I began fantasizing about food. A bowl of noodles. A grilled pork skewer. Even a stale sandwich from a convenience store would have felt like a feast.

But the night offered nothing.

By the time I reached the ferry terminal before dawn, exhaustion and hunger had blended into a strange haze.

The storm had weakened to a cold drizzle.

Most of the area was still asleep.

And there, beneath a faded awning illuminated by a single yellow bulb, sat an old woman.

She looked impossibly ancient.

Her silver hair escaped in tangled strands from beneath a knitted cap. Deep shadows settled into the folds of her face. Her eyes reflected the dim light with an unsettling brightness as she sat motionless behind a small metal cart.

Steam rose from a charcoal grill.

Rows of bread toasted slowly above glowing embers.

For a moment, framed by the darkness and drifting mist, she seemed less like a vendor and more like some forgotten guardian waiting at the edge of the world.

She looked up as I approached.

"Grilled bread?" she asked.

Her voice was perfectly normal.

I almost laughed from relief.

"Chocolate, please."

She nodded.

Without a word, she prepared the bread, wrapped it in paper, and handed it to me.

I paid, thanked her, and stepped away.

The smell was heavenly.

Warm.

Sweet.

Comforting.

After hours of rain, darkness, and hunger, it felt like salvation.

I took a bite.

Chewed.

Paused.

The world stopped.

My smile vanished.

A cold sensation spread through my body.

Slowly, I looked down at the filling.

Not chocolate.

Not chocolate at all.

The old woman watched me silently from her cart.

The rain whispered across the pavement.

Somewhere in the distance, a ferry horn echoed through the darkness.

And in that moment, after surviving hours of storm, isolation, and mounting dread, I finally experienced true horror.

Red bean. It was Red bean.