"The Girl Who Refused to Die":
I was only fifteen years old when it happened. It was September 1978, the air thick with the last traces of summer heat, the sky a dull, washed-out blue over the dusty road where I stood. My worn-out sneakers scuffed against the gravel as I shifted my weight, my stomach twisting with nerves and excitement. I held up a cardboard sign with shaky hands—“Heading South”—each letter scrawled in bold, uneven strokes. My home life had crumbled into a warzone of screaming matches and slammed doors. My parents were tearing each other apart, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to escape, to leave behind the constant fights, the bitterness that seeped into every corner of our house. Los Angeles was my salvation. I dreamed of being a dancer, of standing on a stage bathed in golden light, spinning weightlessly, free.
The highway stretched long and empty, the occasional rumble of a distant engine making my heart leap with hope. Finally, after what felt like hours, a blue van rolled up beside me, its tires crunching against the gravel shoulder. The driver leaned over and swung the passenger door open. He looked older, maybe in his fifties, with deep wrinkles carved into his tanned face and hair that had gone mostly gray. His smile was warm, the kind of smile that made you think of someone’s grandfather, kind and familiar.
“Where you headed, young lady?” His voice was smooth, calm, like he had all the time in the world.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to sound confident. “Los Angeles,” I said, gripping the strap of my backpack.
He nodded, still smiling. “That’s a big city. Name’s Lawrence Singleton. I’m heading that way—why don’t you hop in?”
Something about him seemed safe. Harmless. He reminded me of the old man who lived down the street from us when I was little, the one who used to bring over baskets of oranges from his backyard tree. People like that weren’t dangerous. So I climbed into the van, pulling the door shut behind me.
The inside smelled faintly of motor oil and cigarette smoke, but it wasn’t unpleasant. My seat creaked as I settled in, the upholstery cracked and worn. The van rumbled back onto the highway, and soon we were speeding south, the landscape blurring past in dry, sun-baked tones.
As we drove, we talked. He asked about my plans, and I told him about my dream to dance. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he listened, nodding along. “That’s a big dream,” he mused, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Takes a lot of heart. I like fishing myself—got a daughter about your age.”
Hearing that made me feel even safer. A man with a daughter wouldn’t hurt a girl. He was probably just being nice, helping me out like a father might. I let myself relax. The hum of the engine, the steady motion of the van, the warmth of the sun filtering through the window—it all made my eyelids heavy.
I didn’t mean to fall asleep.
When I woke, something was wrong.
The first thing I noticed was the sun. It was lower now, dipping toward the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and red. The second thing I noticed was the road. We weren’t on the highway anymore. The pavement had given way to rough dirt, lined with dry, lifeless bushes. There were no street signs, no headlights from other cars. Just emptiness.
Panic began to bubble in my chest.
“Where are we?” I asked, my voice tight, my mouth suddenly dry.
He didn’t answer right away. His hands were firm on the wheel, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its warmth. “Taking a shortcut.”
It was flat. Cold.
A sick feeling curled in my stomach. My fingers dug into the seat, and I forced myself to keep my voice steady. “I need to pee,” I said quickly, hoping he’d stop, give me a chance to run.
He exhaled through his nose, then pulled over. The tires crunched to a stop on the loose dirt. My heart pounded as I reached for the door handle. I bent down, pretending to tie my shoe, stalling for time. Maybe I could bolt, run into the trees, hide until he gave up looking for me.
That’s when I felt it.
A sharp, brutal impact against my head.
A flash of white-hot pain exploded behind my eyes, and the world tilted violently. My body crumpled forward, and the last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed me was the ground rushing up to meet me.
I woke to agony.
Rough hands were on me, pressing me into the dirt. The sharp scent of earth filled my nose, mixing with the salty tang of blood. I couldn’t breathe right—his weight pinned me down.
I tried to scream, but my voice came out broken, muffled. Tears burned down my face as I fought, as I begged. “Please,” I sobbed, my body shaking uncontrollably. “Please stop.”
But he didn’t.
Pain tore through me, shattering me into pieces. It felt endless, like I was being ripped apart, lost in a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. And when it was over, I thought—hoped—it would end there.
But then I saw the hatchet.
The blade caught the fading light, gleaming like something out of a horror movie. My breath came in frantic gasps, my body frozen in terror.
“No,” I whimpered. “Please—”
He raised it high, and then it came down.
Searing, blinding pain shot through my arm as the blade bit deep. I screamed, a sound so raw and animalistic that I barely recognized it as my own. Blood gushed, warm and thick, drenching my skin. He lifted the hatchet again and swung. My other arm. More pain. More blood. My world spun, my body shaking violently as I teetered on the edge of consciousness.
And then he dragged me.
I felt the rough pull of his hands on my ankles, the cold scrape of dirt against my skin as he hauled me to the edge of a steep drop. The wind rushed past my face, and then—I was falling.
I hit the ground hard, my body a mass of broken, burning pain. The world faded in and out. The night stretched on forever, cold and merciless. I should have died. I should have given up.
But I didn’t.
I clawed my way through the dirt, my stumps pressing into the mud, desperate to stop the bleeding. Every movement was agony, but I forced myself forward. I had to live. I had to find help.
I don’t know how long it took, but I made it back to the road. I stumbled, barely able to stand, holding my ruined arms against my chest. Headlights flashed past—two cars, speeding by without stopping.
Then, a red convertible.
The woman’s scream pierced the night as the car skidded to a stop. A man jumped out, his face pale, his hands shaking. “Oh my God,” he breathed. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
They saved me.
At the hospital, they worked to keep me alive, pumping blood back into me, stitching up what remained of my arms. When I was strong enough, I told the police everything. They found him. Lawrence Singleton. They put him on trial.
He only got 14 years. He served eight. Eight years for what he did to me.
But I lived. I learned to use prosthetic arms, to write, to paint. I got married. I had kids. I rebuilt my life.
The nightmares still come. His face, his voice, the glint of the hatchet. But I survived. And I will never stop fighting.
"The Night I Should Have Said No":
The air that night smelled of fresh rain, the kind that clung to the pavement and carried the scent of blooming flowers. It was warm but breezy, the sky still streaked with the last hints of pink from the setting sun. Everything about that evening should have been perfect. Liz and I had been floating on a high, the kind that only comes with knowing you’re about to graduate high school and leave your childhood behind.
We had just come from our choir banquet, our voices still hoarse from singing and laughing. Liz had worn a simple blue dress, the fabric clinging to her every movement, and I had chosen something similar—nothing too fancy, but nice enough to make us feel like we belonged in a moment worth remembering. We felt invincible. We had the whole summer ahead of us, and nothing could ruin the excitement bubbling between us.
When we pulled into the video store parking lot, I barely noticed the sound of my old car rattling as I shifted it into park. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly above us, casting a dull glow over the shelves of VHS tapes. We wandered through the aisles, giggling over the covers of different movies, debating which one had the cutest actor. Liz held up a copy of 10 Things I Hate About You and waggled her eyebrows at me.
“Okay, but Heath Ledger or Freddie Prinze Jr.?” I teased, holding up another tape.
She scoffed. “You already know it’s Heath. No competition.”
We laughed, oblivious to the fact that this was the last normal moment we would ever have together.
It wasn’t until we were at the counter, money in hand, that he approached us.
At first glance, he looked ordinary. A man in his mid-to-late 20s, unshaven, with dark, messy hair and tired eyes. He had a roughness to him, a kind of wear-and-tear look that made it seem like life had already chewed him up and spit him back out. His clothes were wrinkled, and there was a faint staleness to his scent, like cigarette smoke clinging to old fabric.
“Hey, girls,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in a while. “I need a ride home. My car broke down. I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
Something about the way he spoke made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. His eyes were empty, void of anything warm or human. They stayed locked on us, unblinking, studying.
Liz hesitated, grabbing my arm. Her nails dug into my skin. “I don’t know, Brandi. Maybe we shouldn’t.”
I should have listened to her.
I should have taken one look at that man and walked away.
But I was 18. I thought I was in control. I thought nothing bad could happen with two of us there.
“Come on, Liz, it’s fine,” I said, waving off her concern. “There’s two of us. What’s the worst that could happen?”
She bit her lip, her blue eyes clouded with doubt, but she nodded. “Okay, but let’s make it quick.”
We paid for the movies, and when we stepped outside, the air had turned cooler. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few other late-night moviegoers. The man followed us out, slipping into the back seat of my car without another word.
“Thanks,” he muttered, barely audible. “Just head down Route 39. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
I started the engine, and the radio crackled to life with some pop song Liz and I usually sang along to. But neither of us sang this time. Liz kept glancing over her shoulder, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.
“So, uh, what’s your name?” I asked, trying to cut through the heavy silence.
“Matt,” he said, short and clipped. “Just keep driving.”
As we drove, the town lights grew distant, swallowed by the darkness of the countryside. The road stretched ahead, empty and endless, flanked by thick trees and fields. Every turn took us further away from civilization. My stomach twisted.
Then I felt it. Cold. Hard. Pressed against the back of my head.
A gun.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Pull over,” he commanded, his voice no longer quiet or uncertain. It was cold. Sharp.
Liz let out a small, choked whimper.
I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. “Matt, please,” I whispered, barely able to get the words out. “Don’t hurt us.”
“Shut up and pull over!” he barked.
I did as he said. The car rolled to a stop on a dirt road surrounded by nothing but tall grass and darkness. The trees cast long, eerie shadows, the only sounds the faint chirping of crickets and the distant rustling of wind.
“Get out,” he ordered.
My legs felt like they didn’t belong to me as I opened the door. Liz was trembling beside me, her fingers clutching my wrist like a lifeline.
Then he pulled out a length of shoelaces and tied my wrists to the steering wheel. The rough string bit into my skin, cutting off circulation.
“Please,” I begged, tears slipping down my face. “Just let us go.”
He ignored me.
He grabbed Liz’s arm.
She screamed.
“Brandi! Help me!” she cried, thrashing against his grip.
I struggled, yanking at the shoelaces so hard they cut deep into my skin, but I couldn’t break free. I could only watch as he dragged her into the darkness, her screams growing more desperate.
Then silence.
The world stood still.
My breathing came in sharp, painful gasps. My mind refused to accept what had just happened.
Minutes passed.
Then he returned. Alone.
His shirt was stained dark, the metallic scent of blood hitting me before he even spoke.
“Your friend’s dead,” he said, his voice empty, void of remorse. “Now it’s your turn.”
I sobbed, shaking so violently that my entire body ached.
He untied me and dragged me through the overgrown grass toward an abandoned railroad car. The air smelled of rust and damp earth. I fought him, clawing at his arms, but he was too strong. He struck me across the face, the impact sending bright flashes of light through my vision.
Then he—he did things I can’t even speak of.
It hurt. It hurt so badly that I thought I might die right then and there. I begged, pleaded, but he only laughed.
When he was done, he wrapped the shoelaces around my neck.
I felt my windpipe close. My legs kicked out, my body fighting, but I was losing. My vision blurred. Black spots danced before my eyes.
And then—I had an idea.
I went limp.
I let my body sag, let my breathing slow.
He checked my neck, his fingers brushing against my skin. “Good,” he muttered.
Then he lifted me and threw me off the edge of the railroad car.
I hit the water hard, my body barely conscious, but my foot caught on something. I didn’t sink all the way. I floated, my mind slipping in and out of awareness.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, pretending to be dead.
But when I was sure he was gone, I crawled out of the water, dragging myself through the mud, my body screaming with pain.
I reached the road. Waved down the first car I saw.
A man stopped, running toward me.
“Oh my God,” he gasped. “What happened to you?”
I could barely whisper, my throat raw and broken.
“Help,” I croaked. “He killed my friend.”
The police found him. Matthew Vaca.
He got 96 years.
Liz didn’t get justice.
And I—I lost everything. My innocence. My peace.
All because I said yes to a ride.
"The Girl in the Box":
I’ll never forget how it started. It was May 19, 1977. I was twenty years old, restless, and hungry for adventure. I’d been living in Eugene, Oregon, for a while, working odd jobs, scraping by, dreaming of something bigger. When a friend invited me to a birthday party in California, I figured, why not? It was only a few hundred miles. I didn’t have a car, but hitchhiking was common back then. Everyone did it. I’d hitched before, and nothing bad had ever happened.
I packed a small bag—just a change of clothes, some money, and a paperback novel—and walked to the highway. The afternoon sun was warm on my skin, and the wind carried the scent of damp pine from the forest. Standing there, thumb out, I felt free. Like nothing could touch me. Like I had the whole world in front of me.
A few cars slowed down, but something about them felt off. I couldn’t explain it—just a bad feeling deep in my gut. So I waved them on, waiting for the right ride. And then, it came.
A blue Dodge Colt rumbled to a stop, kicking up dust. The driver leaned out—a man in his twenties, shaggy hair, friendly smile. His wife sat in the passenger seat, cradling a baby. They looked safe. Normal. Like any young family.
“Need a lift?” the man asked.
“Yeah, thanks!” I said, smiling as I threw my bag in the back and slid onto the seat.
The car smelled like baby powder and stale coffee. As we pulled onto the road, I settled in, trying to shake the nervous energy that always came with hitchhiking. The driver introduced himself as Cameron, his wife as Janice. Their baby, a tiny thing with wisps of blonde hair, cooed in her mother’s arms.
We chatted as we drove. Cameron did most of the talking—asked about where I was going, what kind of music I liked, if I had a boyfriend. His tone was easygoing, but something about it put me on edge. Maybe it was the way he glanced at me in the rearview mirror, studying me like I was more than just a passenger.
Janice, on the other hand, barely spoke. She sat stiffly, eyes fixed on the road, hands gripping the baby a little too tightly. I caught her looking at me once or twice, but she quickly looked away. Something about her silence unsettled me.
About thirty minutes into the drive, Cameron suddenly veered off the highway onto a narrow, bumpy road lined with trees.
“Where are we going?” I asked, forcing a laugh. “This doesn’t look like the main highway.”
“Shortcut,” Cameron said. His voice had changed—no more friendly chatter. Now it was clipped, almost irritated.
My stomach tightened. The trees pressed in around us, their shadows stretching long in the setting sun. The road twisted and turned, deeper into nowhere. I glanced at Janice, hoping for reassurance, but she didn’t meet my eyes. Her knuckles were white against the baby’s blanket.
Something was wrong.
I shifted in my seat, trying to act casual while my heart pounded. Should I ask him to stop? Should I jump out? My fingers itched toward the door handle.
Then, without warning, Cameron slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a halt, tires kicking up dirt.
Before I could react, he spun around, his face twisted with something dark and terrifying. A knife glinted in his hand.
“Don’t move,” he growled. His voice was sharp, full of a violence that sent cold terror flooding through me. “If you scream, I’ll kill you.”
My breath caught in my throat. The world around me seemed to blur, everything slowing down. My body refused to move, frozen in shock.
Cameron lunged, grabbing my arms, twisting them behind my back. Rough rope burned against my wrists as he tied them tight. The pressure cut off my circulation almost instantly.
Janice didn’t move to stop him. She didn’t scream or plead. She just sat there, staring straight ahead, rocking the baby like nothing was happening.
The betrayal hit me like a slap.
I thrashed, kicking at the seat, trying to scream, but Cameron was stronger. He shoved a cloth into my mouth, muffling my cries.
I didn’t know where they were taking me. But I knew, deep in my bones, that I wasn’t going to that party in California.
Hours later, we arrived at their house in Red Bluff. A small, nondescript home in a quiet neighborhood—so normal it made me sick. No one would ever suspect what was inside.
Cameron dragged me inside, down a set of stairs into a basement that smelled of mildew and something worse. The walls were bare concrete. Against one wall sat a large wooden box, roughly built, with a few air holes drilled into the sides.
It looked like a coffin.
Cameron yanked the gag from my mouth. “Get in,” he ordered.
I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. “Please—”
He raised his hand, and I flinched. His grip was iron as he shoved me forward. My legs buckled, and I fell into the box, my knees scraping against the rough wood. Before I could beg again, he slammed the lid shut.
Darkness swallowed me.
I screamed, kicking at the sides, but the space was too small to move. The air grew hot and stale, pressing against my lungs. I gasped, trying to force in a breath, but panic tightened my chest.
Above me, I heard Cameron’s footsteps retreating. The sound of a waterbed creaking. Then silence.
That box became my prison for the next seven years.
I was let out once a day. Just long enough to eat whatever scraps they gave me—cold soup, stale bread—and to use the bathroom under their watchful eyes.
The rest of the time, I was locked away.
Cameron tortured me in ways I can barely speak of. He used whips, wires, anything that would make me hurt. The pain became a constant, a dull throb that never left. But worse than the pain was the fear.
He told me about The Company—a secret organization that watched everything. If I tried to escape, they’d kill my family. He whispered it like a promise, his breath hot against my ear.
“You belong to me now,” he’d say.
And after a while, I believed him.
The only thing that kept me sane was the memory of my family. I’d close my eyes and picture my mother’s face, my father’s laugh. I held onto them like a lifeline.
But even hope fades after seven years.
Then, one night, Janice changed. Maybe she’d finally had enough. Maybe she saw too much. But she leaned in, whispering words that shattered everything I thought I knew.
“There’s no Company,” she said. “It’s a lie. You can leave.”
I stared at her, disoriented. “What?”
“Go,” she urged. “Before he makes you his second wife for real.”
My hands shook. Could I trust her? Was this another game?
But something inside me—the part that refused to die—told me to run.
That night, when Cameron was gone, Janice led me outside. The air was cold and sharp, so different from the suffocating heat of my box. My legs were weak, but I forced them to move.
We found a payphone. My fingers trembled as I dialed home.
“Mom?” My voice cracked.
A sob. “Oh my God—Colleen?”
I barely remember the police arriving. The lights. The questions. The way my mother held me so tight I could hardly breathe.
Cameron was arrested. He got 104 years in prison.
And me? I learned how to live again.
I got married, had kids. Now I’m a grandmother. The past still lingers, but I don’t let it define me.
I survived. And I’ll never forget why.
Because even in the darkest places, there’s always a way out.