When I taught first grade in a NJ public school, the teachers were given a few days off in November, allowing them to attend the teachers' convention in Atlantic City. It was a two-hour drive from where I lived at the time. I had stayed in a hotel with other teachers several times over the years, but one year I decided just to drive down for the day and come home in the evening.
I got into my trusty six-cylinder 1971 Chevy Nova (no air-conditioning, plastic upholstery, and a stick shift) and headed south. However, it began to rain--a lot. It became a deluge and turned out to be a horrible day for driving. The rain came down in sheets. For safety, I drove slower. New Jersey was a lot less developed in those days. Once I passed the Asbury Park tolls there wasn't much to see. Besides, the dismal weather kept most people home.
As I rounded a curve, I saw a man on the side of the road. He was rather tall and wore a trench coat. He did not have an umbrella or even a hat on his head--despite the flood pouring from the sky. He also did not have a car. He was waving his arms in a strange manner, but he wasn't looking at me. He seemed to be looking at the opposite side of the road--where there wasn't anything to see.
It was very, very odd. I had mixed feelings about stopping--so I didn't. But my conscience bothered me, so I slowed down further and glanced in the rear-view mirror.
He wasn't there anymore. That was chilling.
It wasn't until years later I figured out I must have seen the Parkway Phantom. Yipes!