"The Far End of the Lot":
I’d spent the entire day at the beach, lounging on my faded blue towel, the sand warm and gritty beneath my feet. The waves rolled in with a steady rhythm, and I’d let the sound pull me into a lazy haze, my sunscreen-smeared skin tingling from hours in the sun. My backpack sat beside me, stuffed with a half-empty water bottle, a squished peanut butter sandwich wrapped in foil, and a dog-eared paperback I’d barely cracked open. The parking lot was huge, a sprawling slab of cracked asphalt bordered by tall, swaying dunes that blocked the view of the coastal road. I’d parked my little blue hatchback at the far end, near the sandy path to the shore, figuring it’d save me a few steps to the water. That choice felt fine in the morning, but now, as I trudged back, it seemed like a mistake.
The lot was nearly deserted. Only a handful of cars remained, scattered like forgotten toys, and a rusty white van sat a few spaces from mine, its side door slightly ajar. My flip-flops slapped loudly against the pavement, the sound echoing in the quiet. My towel, still damp, hung over my shoulder, dripping cold water down my back. My keys jingled in my hand, and I clutched my phone in the other, its battery at 20%. The air felt heavy, and a knot formed in my stomach, though I couldn’t place why. I scanned the lot, my eyes landing on a man leaning against the van’s hood. He was tall, lanky, his greasy hair tucked under a faded baseball cap. His flannel shirt was stained, sleeves rolled up to reveal bony arms. He held a cigarette, its tip glowing as he took a slow drag, smoke curling upward. His gaze locked onto me, unblinking, and I felt a chill crawl up my spine. I told myself he was just waiting for someone, maybe a friend still at the beach. But his stare didn’t waver.
I quickened my pace, the asphalt rough under my sandals. My car was maybe twenty steps away, but it felt like a mile. The man flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his boot, and called out, “Hey, you got the time?” His voice was rough, like he’d smoked a pack a day for years. I froze, my fingers tightening around my keys until the metal bit into my palm.
“Uh, it’s probably around six,” I said, glancing at my wrist even though I wore no watch. My voice sounded thin, unsteady. I took a step toward my car, hoping he’d stay put.
He didn’t. He pushed off the van and walked toward me, his boots scuffing the pavement. “You need a ride somewhere?” he asked, his lips twisting into a smirk that showed yellowed teeth. He smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke, a sour mix that made my stomach turn.
“No, I’m good,” I said, forcing the words out. I tried to sound firm, but my heart was hammering so loud I thought he might hear it. I stepped closer to my car, but he moved faster, planting himself between me and the driver’s side door. His shadow fell over me, long and dark, and I noticed a smudge of dirt on his cheek, like he hadn’t washed in days.
“You sure?” he said, leaning in closer. His breath was hot, reeking of alcohol. “It’s getting late. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out here all alone.” His eyes flicked over me, lingering on my damp swimsuit, my bare legs. I felt exposed, like I was standing there naked.
“I said no, thank you,” I snapped, my voice sharper now. I sidestepped, trying to reach the door handle, but he shifted too, his hand resting on my car’s roof, caging me in. My sandals scraped the pavement as I backed up, my backpack slipping off my shoulder and hitting the ground with a soft thud. The lot was dead silent—no voices, no car engines, just the distant hum of waves. The dunes loomed behind us, blocking any chance of someone on the road seeing me.
He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that made my skin crawl. “Just trying to be nice,” he said, but his tone was mocking, his smirk wider now. His fingers tapped on my car’s roof, a slow, deliberate rhythm. I glanced at the van, noticing a dented license plate and a cracked side mirror. The open side door revealed a mess inside—empty cans, a rolled-up sleeping bag, a pair of work gloves tossed on the floor. My mind raced with stories I’d read online, about women approached in parking lots, about vans and strangers who weren’t just passing through.
“I have to go,” I said, ducking under his arm to grab the door handle. My hands shook as I yanked it open, the hinges squeaking loudly. I slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door so fast it caught the edge of my towel. I hit the lock button, the click echoing in the car. My heart was a drum in my chest, each beat loud and fast. Through the window, he tapped on the glass, his knuckles leaving greasy smudges. “Come on, don’t be like that,” he said, his voice muffled but still too close. His face was inches from the window, his eyes boring into mine.
I didn’t look at him. I jammed the key into the ignition, my fingers fumbling so badly I nearly dropped it. The engine sputtered, then roared to life. I threw the car into reverse, tires screeching as I backed out, nearly clipping the van. In my rearview mirror, I saw him saunter back to his van, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. My chest was tight, my breaths shallow and ragged. I sped toward the lot’s exit, my hands gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles ached.
Then I heard it—a low, rumbling engine. I glanced in the mirror. The van’s headlights flicked on, harsh and bright, and it pulled out, following me. My stomach dropped. I turned onto the coastal road, my car rattling over a speed bump. The van stayed behind, keeping pace, its headlights glaring like eyes in the dark. My phone was buried in my backpack on the passenger seat, next to my soggy towel. I reached over, digging through sunscreen tubes, a granola bar wrapper, and a pair of sunglasses until my fingers closed around it. The battery was at 18% now. I swiped to my contacts and called my friend Lisa, my eyes darting between the road and the mirror.
“Pick up, pick up,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the engine. The van was still there, maybe two car lengths back. Lisa answered on the third ring.
“Hey, what’s up?” Her voice was light, like she was halfway through a snack.
“Lisa, I’m freaking out,” I said, words spilling out in a rush. “There was this guy in the beach parking lot. He was acting so weird, blocking my car, saying creepy stuff. And now his van’s following me.”
“What?” Her tone shifted, sharp and urgent. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m on the coastal road, heading toward the highway,” I said. My voice cracked as I checked the mirror again. The van was closer now, its rusty grille filling the frame. “He asked if I needed a ride, kept getting in my way. I barely got in my car.”
“Oh my gosh,” Lisa said, her voice tight. “I heard something about a creep hanging around that beach. Some guy in a van, bothering people. You need to get somewhere safe, like a gas station or something. I’m staying on the phone with you.”
My hands were sweaty, slipping on the wheel. I took a sharp turn onto a side street, hoping to shake him. The van followed, its engine growling louder. My heart felt like it was going to burst through my chest. “Lisa, he’s still behind me,” I said, my voice shaking so bad I could barely get the words out. “What do I do?”
“Keep driving,” she said, her voice steady but tense. “Head to the police station. It’s maybe ten minutes from there, near the old pier. I’m looking up the address now. Just stay calm and keep going.”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. The street was narrow, lined with shuttered beach houses and overgrown hedges. No one was around—no dog walkers, no joggers, just me and the van. I took another turn, then another, weaving through the maze of quiet roads. My tires squealed as I rounded a corner too fast, the car lurching. The van stayed close, its headlights flooding my car with light. I could almost feel his eyes on me, that same smirk from the parking lot.
“Lisa, he’s not stopping,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “He’s right there.”
“Okay, listen,” she said. “There’s a busy intersection up ahead, near the gas station. Get there, blend into traffic. I’m not hanging up until you’re safe.”
I spotted the intersection, a cluster of cars and streetlights up ahead. I gunned the engine, merging into the flow of traffic, cutting off a pickup truck that honked angrily. The van was still behind but got stuck behind a slow-moving SUV. I took a sharp left at the light, then a right, my heart pounding as I checked the mirror. The headlights were gone. I held my breath, waiting for them to reappear, but the road behind me stayed dark.
“I think I lost him,” I said, my voice trembling. My hands were still shaking, my palms slick against the wheel.
“Good,” Lisa said, exhaling. “But don’t stop. Get to the police station. I’m staying on.”
I drove straight to the station, my eyes flicking to the mirror every few seconds. When I pulled into the lot, I parked under a bright floodlight, its harsh glow washing over my car. I sat there, engine still running, scanning for that rusty van. It didn’t show up. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold the phone. Lisa stayed on until I caught my breath, her voice a lifeline in the quiet.
Inside the station, I spilled everything to a tired-looking officer behind a cluttered desk. I described the man’s greasy hair, his stained flannel, the way he’d blocked my door, the van’s dented license plate, the open side door with its pile of junk. My voice wobbled as I recounted how he’d followed me, his headlights like a predator’s eyes. The officer scribbled notes, her pen scratching loudly in the silent room. “We’ve had a few reports like this around that beach,” she said, her face grim. “Sounds like the same guy. We’ll send a patrol to check the lot and keep an eye out for that van.”
I drove home, my hands still trembling, checking my mirrors every few seconds. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing his smirk, hearing his gravelly voice, smelling that stale beer. I left my bedside lamp on, its soft light pushing back the shadows. The beach used to be my escape, a place to unwind, but now it felt tainted, like his presence had seeped into the sand and waves. I don’t park near the dunes anymore. I leave long before the lot empties, my keys always in hand, my phone fully charged. I walk fast, scanning for vans, for men who linger too long. That man’s still out there somewhere, and every time I drive by that beach, I feel his eyes on me, waiting.
"Rearview":
I parked my minivan in the Town Center mall parking lot, just a short drive from the Boca Raton beaches where the ocean’s salty breeze always seemed to linger. It was August 2007, and my two-year-old son was strapped in his car seat in the back, clutching a shiny red toy truck I’d bought him at the mall’s toy store. His giggles filled the car, a small comfort after a long day of shopping. The trunk was stuffed with bags—new school clothes for him, a pair of sandals for me, a few groceries. Nothing out of the ordinary. The lot had been packed when I arrived hours ago, cars lined up in every row, but now, as the stores neared closing time, it was eerily quiet. Only a handful of vehicles remained, scattered far apart under the dim glow of the lot’s streetlights. My keys jingled as I unlocked the driver’s door, slid into the seat, and started to buckle my seatbelt, ready to head home to our small apartment.
A faint click sounded from the backseat. My heart stuttered. I thought it was my son, maybe dropping his truck or playing with the car seat straps. I glanced in the rearview mirror, expecting his chubby cheeks and bright eyes. Instead, a man’s face stared back at me. He was sitting right behind me, next to my son’s car seat, his pale skin almost glowing in the dim light. A thin, jagged scar ran across his left cheek, puckered and angry, like it had been carved years ago. His eyes were dark, cold, unblinking, and a small black handgun rested in his lap, pointed at me through the gap between the front seats. My breath caught in my throat, and my hands froze on the steering wheel.
“Don’t scream,” he said, his voice low and sharp, like a blade cutting through the air. “Start the car and drive.”
My hands trembled so badly I could barely turn the key. My son babbled happily, waving his truck, oblivious to the man sitting inches from him. I wanted to turn around, to scoop him up and run, but the gun’s barrel glinted in the mirror, pinning me in place. My mouth went dry, and my voice came out as a whisper. “Please, don’t hurt us. He’s just a baby.”
“Shut up,” he snapped, leaning closer. I could smell him now—cigarettes and something sour, like old sweat. “Drive to the ATM across the street. Do it now, or I start with the kid.”
My stomach lurched. I fumbled with the gearshift, my fingers clumsy, and pulled out of the parking space. The lot stretched out around us, vast and nearly empty. The streetlights cast long, flickering shadows that seemed to shift as I drove, like they were alive, watching. A few cars were parked far off, their windows dark, no one inside. I scanned the lot desperately for a security guard, a late-night shopper, anyone who might notice something was wrong. But the mall’s glass doors were dark, the storefronts shuttered. It was just us, trapped in this concrete desert.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice shaking as I turned onto the main road. I kept my eyes on the mirror, watching his face, watching the gun.
“Don’t talk,” he said, his tone flat but heavy with threat. “You ask questions, you make this worse. Just drive.”
I gripped the wheel tighter, my knuckles white. My son started singing to himself, a garbled little tune about his truck, and each note felt like a knife in my chest. I wanted to tell him it was okay, to comfort him, but I was afraid to speak, afraid to move wrong. The ATM was just across the street, a standalone machine in a gas station lot, its blue glow cutting through the darkness. I pulled up and stopped, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.
“Get out,” he said, nudging the gun against the back of my seat. “Take out five hundred dollars. All of it. And don’t try anything stupid.”
I nodded, my hands shaking as I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat. My debit card was buried in my wallet, and I fumbled to find it, my fingers slipping. The machine’s screen lit up my face as I punched in my PIN, every beep sounding too loud, like it was announcing us to the world. I kept glancing around, praying for someone to pull into the lot, for a cashier to step outside the gas station. A police car cruised by on the main road, its red and blue lights flashing, and for a moment, hope surged in my chest. I thought about waving, screaming, anything to get their attention. But the man’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said, his eyes locked on mine in the mirror. “You signal them, and your kid pays for it.”
My hope crumbled. The police car disappeared around a corner, and I was alone again. I withdrew the cash, the machine spitting out bills that felt dirty in my hands. I climbed back into the car and handed them over, my fingers brushing his. His skin was cold, clammy, like touching something dead. He counted the money slowly, deliberately, then stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
“Drive back to the mall,” he said, the gun still steady. “Park in the far corner, by the dumpsters.”
I did as he said, my mind racing for a way out. The mall lot was even darker now, the lights flickering like they were about to die. The corner he chose was the worst part—hidden from the main road, far from the mall’s entrance, where the dumpsters sat in a shadowy cluster. No one would see us here. No one would hear us. My throat tightened as I remembered the news stories, whispers of women who vanished from this same mall. A young woman last spring, found dead miles away. Another mother and her daughter, just months later, tied up and gone. Was this him? The one the police were hunting? The thought made my skin crawl.
“Stop here,” he said as we reached the corner. He pulled something from his pocket—zip ties, the kind you can’t break. “Hands behind your back.”
“Please,” I begged, tears streaming down my face. “We did what you wanted. Just let us go.”
“Quiet,” he said, his voice like ice. He reached over the seat, yanking my wrists together. The plastic ties dug into my skin, sharp and tight, cutting off circulation. My son started to whimper, his truck forgotten on the seat. “Mama?” he said, his voice small and scared.
“It’s okay, baby,” I said, my voice breaking. “Mama’s here. We’re okay.” But I wasn’t sure I believed it. The man tied my hands so tightly I could feel my pulse throbbing against the plastic. He leaned back, his scar catching the faint light from a distant streetlamp, making it look like it was moving, alive.
“Now listen,” he said, his face so close I could see the stubble on his jaw, the faint twitch in his lip. “You’re going to stay quiet. You tell anyone about this—cops, your husband, anyone—and I’ll know. I’ll be watching. I’ll find you. And I’ll find him.” He nodded toward my son, and my heart stopped. I pictured his tiny body, his trusting eyes, and a sob caught in my throat.
He opened the back door and stepped out, his boots crunching on the loose gravel. For a moment, I thought he might turn back, might decide we weren’t worth letting go. But he just stood there, staring at me through the window, his eyes boring into mine. Then he turned and walked away, his figure blending into the shadows until he was gone, like he’d never been there at all.
I sat frozen, my wrists burning, my son crying softly beside me. The parking lot was silent, but every sound—a creaking dumpster lid, a distant car engine—made my heart race. Was he really gone? Or was he hiding, watching, waiting for me to move? I imagined him behind every car, in every shadow, his scarred face lurking just out of sight. My breaths came in shallow gasps, and I fought the urge to scream.
I twisted my hands, the zip ties cutting deeper with every move. My fingers went numb, but I kept pulling, desperate to get free. After what felt like hours, one tie loosened just enough for me to slip a hand out. My wrists were raw, bleeding, but I didn’t care. I reached back and unbuckled my son, pulling him into my lap. His little arms wrapped around me, his face buried in my chest, and I held him so tight I thought I’d never let go.
I fumbled for my phone in my purse, my hands shaking so badly I dropped it twice. When I finally dialed 911, my voice was barely a whisper. “Help us,” I said. “Please, someone was in our car. He had a gun. We’re in the Town Center mall parking lot.”
The police arrived, their flashing lights cutting through the darkness. They searched the lot, their flashlights sweeping over the dumpsters, the empty cars, the shadows. But he was gone. They asked me to describe him—pale, dark hair, that scar like a cruel signature across his face. I told them everything, even though he’d warned me to lie, to say he was someone else entirely. The officers exchanged looks, and one mentioned other cases, women who didn’t make it home from this same lot. “You’re lucky,” he said. The word felt like a slap. Lucky? I didn’t feel lucky. I felt like I’d stared into the eyes of death and barely escaped.
Weeks later, I couldn’t stop seeing his face. I read about the others—Randi, a young woman taken from this lot in March, found dead in a ditch. Nancy and her little girl, Joey, bound and shot just months after my night. The police thought it was the same man, but they had no name, no face, just sketches that didn’t quite match. They never caught him. Every time I drove past a parking lot, I checked my mirrors, my heart racing. I locked my doors twice, three times, even in broad daylight. I saw him in every stranger’s glance, every flicker of shadow. My son forgot that night, his toy truck still on the floor of the car, but I never will. I still hear his voice, low and cold: I’ll be watching. And I wonder if he is.
"After the Storm":
I pulled my rental car into the beach parking lot at Magen’s Bay, St. Thomas, the tires grinding against the loose gravel and sand. The lot was nearly deserted, a stark contrast to the usual crowds this beach drew. Hurricane Maria had torn through the U.S. Virgin Islands just days ago, leaving behind a mess of broken palm trees, scattered debris, and a heavy silence that pressed against my chest. I was here for my friend Hannah, who had vanished without a trace. Her car was found in this lot, and I couldn’t just sit at home waiting for news. I had to find her.
Stepping out of the car, my sneakers sank into the sandy gravel, and a faint breeze carried the sharp scent of salt and seaweed. Hannah’s sedan sat alone, its silver paint dulled by a layer of dust and salt spray. The driver’s door was slightly ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry. I approached it cautiously, my heart thumping. Inside, her purse slumped on the passenger seat, its strap tangled around a water bottle. Her phone was still plugged into the charger, the screen dark but showing a faint crack across the corner. A half-eaten granola bar lay in the center console, wrapper crinkled. Why would she leave all this behind?
“Hannah?” I called, my voice thin against the steady crash of waves from the beach beyond. No answer came, just the distant cry of a seagull and the rustle of palm fronds in the breeze. The lot felt too empty, too quiet, like it was holding its breath. I scanned the area, noting a few abandoned cars at the far end, their windows fogged with condensation. A single streetlamp flickered, casting weak shadows that seemed to shift when I wasn’t looking.
I decided to search the beach. The path down was narrow, overgrown with weeds and littered with storm debris—splintered wood, clumps of seaweed, a child’s sandal half-buried in the sand. The water looked murky, churning with bits of plastic and branches, as if the hurricane had stirred up the ocean’s secrets. I walked along the shoreline, my shoes sinking into the wet sand, calling Hannah’s name every few steps. “Hannah! Are you here?” My voice echoed, unanswered, and the vastness of the beach made me feel small, exposed.
Then, about fifty yards down, I spotted something caught in a pile of driftwood. My pulse quickened as I jogged toward it, kicking up sand. It was a piece of fabric, partially buried. I knelt, my fingers brushing away the gritty sand to reveal a woman’s shirt, pale blue, torn at the sleeve and stained with something dark—maybe mud, maybe something worse. My breath caught. It was Hannah’s shirt; I recognized the small embroidered flower near the collar, something she’d pointed out proudly when she bought it. Beside it, half-covered by sand, was her wallet. I dug it out, my hands trembling, and opened it to find her driver’s license, her face smiling back at me, frozen in time.
“Hannah!” I shouted, spinning around, my eyes darting across the empty beach. The bushes lining the path rustled, and I froze, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. “Who’s there?” I called, but the only response was the waves. I clutched the shirt and wallet, my mind racing. Had she been hurt? Taken? I couldn’t just stand here.
I hurried back to the parking lot, my footsteps loud in the quiet. As I neared Hannah’s car, I saw a man standing beside it, his silhouette tall and imposing. He wore a faded security uniform, the kind you’d see at a resort, with a badge pinned crookedly to his chest. His face was shadowed, but his eyes caught the dim light, watching me closely.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the shake in my hands. “Do you know anything about this car? Or the woman who owns it?”
He turned slowly, his boots scuffing the gravel. “I’m just checking the lot,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “There’s been looting since the hurricane. Dangerous to be out here alone.”
“I’m looking for my friend,” I said, holding up the wallet. “Her name’s Hannah. This is her car, and I found her shirt and wallet on the beach.”
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, his eyes flicked to the wallet, then back to me. “Hannah? Yeah, I heard about her. She was at the shelter up the road, volunteering. Haven’t seen her since the storm hit.”
“Do you know where she might’ve gone?” I asked, my voice cracking.
He shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Hard to say. The storm messed everything up. But I heard a report of a woman screaming near here during the hurricane. Couldn’t get to her with the winds. By the time anyone checked, no one was there.”
A scream? My stomach lurched. “Was it her? Did anyone see anything?”
He shook his head. “No one knows. Look, you shouldn’t stay here. People are desperate now, doing things they wouldn’t normally.”
His words sent a chill through me, colder than the evening air. “I have to find her,” I said, my voice firm despite the fear clawing at me.
He studied me for a long moment, then sighed. “I can take you to the shelter. Someone there might know more. I’ve got a golf cart for patrols.”
I hesitated, glancing at his uniform, the badge glinting faintly. He seemed legitimate, but something about his stillness made me uneasy. Still, I needed answers. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We climbed into his golf cart, the seats creaking under our weight. As we drove along the coastal road, the headlights cut through the growing darkness, revealing cracked pavement and fallen branches. He spoke, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. “The hurricane was chaos. Winds over a hundred miles an hour, no power, no phones. People were stealing, fighting. Some just disappeared.”
I gripped the edge of the seat, the wallet and shirt in my lap. “Did you see Hannah at all? Before she went missing?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Saw her once, at the shelter. She was handing out water bottles, talking to everyone. Seemed like she cared. But then the storm hit, and things got crazy.”
We reached the shelter, a concrete community center packed with people. Cots lined the walls, covered with blankets and sleeping bags. The air smelled of sweat and instant coffee. Families huddled together, some whispering, others staring blankly. I found the woman in charge, Maria, standing near a table stacked with canned food.
I showed her Hannah’s wallet. “Do you know her? She was volunteering here.”
Maria’s face lit up with recognition, then clouded with worry. “Yes, Hannah! She was helping with food and blankets. Such a kind soul. But she left during the storm, said she needed to check her car—thought the windows were down. She never came back.”
“Did anyone look for her?” I asked, my voice tight.
Maria’s shoulders sagged. “The storm was too strong. Winds were tearing roofs off. We couldn’t go outside. When it passed, we searched the beach, the lot, everywhere. Nothing.”
I swallowed hard, the shirt’s stains flashing in my mind. “I found her things on the beach. Her shirt was torn.”
Maria gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, no. That’s awful. We need to tell the police again, but they’re so busy with the recovery.”
“I’m going back to the lot,” I said. “I might’ve missed something.”
Maria grabbed my arm, her grip firm. “Please, be careful. There are bad people out there, taking advantage of the chaos.”
I nodded, but my mind was already racing. Back at the parking lot, the sky had darkened to a deep indigo, the streetlamp now casting a sickly yellow glow. The lot felt like a trap, the shadows too deep, the silence too heavy. I searched Hannah’s car again, my flashlight beam bouncing off the dashboard. In the glove compartment, I found a folded map of the island, a red pen marking a route from the shelter to the beach, then to a spot deep in the hills. My hands shook as I traced the line. Why would she go there?
I got into my car and followed the map, the road narrowing as it climbed into the jungle. Vines scraped the car’s sides, and the air grew thick with the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves. My headlights barely pierced the darkness, catching glints of animal eyes in the underbrush. After twenty minutes, I reached a crumbling house, its wooden walls sagging, windows boarded with splintered planks. The front door hung open, swaying slightly.
I stepped out, my flashlight trembling in my hand. “Hannah?” I called, my voice barely above a whisper. The house loomed, its shadows swallowing the light. I pushed the door open, and it groaned, revealing a dusty interior. Furniture sat under moldy sheets, and cobwebs draped the corners like curtains. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of decay.
A creak came from upstairs, slow and deliberate, like footsteps. My heart pounded, my mouth dry. “Hannah? Is that you?” I called louder, my voice echoing off the walls.
No answer, but the footsteps moved again, heavier now, heading toward the stairs. I backed up, my flashlight beam darting across the room, catching glints of broken glass on the floor. Then, a faint voice, barely audible: “Help… me…”
It was Hannah. I bolted up the stairs, my shoes thudding on the creaking wood. At the top, in a small room lit only by my flashlight, I found her—sprawled on the floor, wrists bound with rough rope, a dirty cloth gag hanging loose around her neck. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear, her clothes torn and streaked with dirt.
I dropped to my knees, fumbling with the ropes. “Hannah, I’m here,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re okay now.”
She coughed, her voice hoarse. “He… he tricked me. Said his wife was hurt. I followed him here, but he tied me up, left me.”
“Who?” I asked, freeing her hands. “Who did this?”
“A man,” she whispered, her eyes darting to the doorway. “Wore a mask. He’s been watching me, I think. Since the shelter.”
“We’re leaving,” I said, helping her stand. Her legs wobbled, and I supported her as we stumbled down the stairs, the house creaking around us like it was alive. Outside, I got her into my car, my eyes scanning the darkness. The jungle felt too close, the shadows too alive.
As I started the engine, headlights flared behind us, bright and sudden. A car was parked at the edge of the clearing, silent until now. My stomach dropped. “Hold on,” I said, slamming the gas pedal.
The car roared after us, its engine growling as it closed the gap. Hannah gripped the seat, her breathing ragged. “Is that him?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said, my hands tight on the wheel. The road twisted, branches scraping the car. The pursuing headlights grew brighter, the car swerving dangerously close. I caught a glimpse of the driver—a man, his face scarred, eyes gleaming with rage in the rearview mirror.
He pulled alongside us, his car inches from mine. “Get down!” I shouted to Hannah as he jerked his wheel, trying to force us off the road. The drop on my left was steep, a black void into the jungle below. I swerved, tires screeching, but he rammed us, metal grinding against metal. The car lurched, skidded, and then we were falling, tumbling down the hillside. Glass shattered, the world spun, and everything went black.
Pain woke me, sharp and throbbing in my ribs. I was slumped against the steering wheel, the dashboard lights flickering. Hannah was beside me, unconscious, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead. The car was tilted, wedged against a tree. Above us, flashlights swept the darkness, and voices shouted, “Over here! They’re down there!”
Police and paramedics descended, their faces grim as they pried open the door. They lifted Hannah onto a stretcher, her eyes fluttering open as they worked. I stumbled out, my legs weak, the world tilting around me.
At the hospital, a detective told me the man was a local criminal, known for targeting women during the hurricane’s chaos. Hannah’s description of his scarred face and the mask led to his arrest. She recovered slowly, her memory of that night fragmented, lost in the fog of fear and trauma.
I still see those headlights in my dreams, feel the car lurching over the edge, hear the crunch of gravel under that man’s tires. The beach parking lot haunts me, its emptiness a reminder of how close we came to never coming back. But Hannah’s alive, and that’s the thread I hold onto, even as the terror lingers, sharp and unshakable, in the quiet corners of my mind.
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