"The Man on County Road 19":
I was cruising along a deserted Texas backroad in my old RV, the kind of road where the horizon stretches forever and the only signs of life are tumbleweeds and the occasional buzzard circling overhead. The trip was my chance to unplug, to escape the noise of the city and find some peace. The RV, a beat-up rental I’d nicknamed “The Beast,” rattled with every mile, but I trusted it to get me through. Then, with a deafening bang, the whole thing lurched hard to the left, nearly throwing me out of the driver’s seat. My heart slammed against my ribs as I wrestled the wheel, pulling onto the gravel shoulder. The front left tire was gone—shredded into strips of rubber dangling like torn flesh. I sat there, hands shaking, staring at the mess. This was not part of the plan.
I stepped out, my boots crunching on the loose gravel, the air thick with the smell of hot rubber and dust. I walked around the RV, inspecting the damage. The rim was bent, and the tire was beyond repair. I pulled out my phone, hoping for a signal, but the screen mocked me with zero bars. Of course. I’d read about these dead zones in Texas, but I didn’t think I’d be stuck in one. Digging through the glovebox, I found the satellite phone the rental company had insisted I take. It felt clunky in my hand, like something from a 90s sci-fi movie. I dialed the roadside assistance number taped to the dashboard.
It rang for what felt like forever before a woman answered, her voice flat and tired. “Roadside assistance. What’s the problem?”
“My tire blew out,” I said, trying to sound calm. “I’m on some backroad in Texas, near mile marker 247. No cell service out here.”
She sighed, like I was the tenth stranded idiot she’d talked to that day. “Alright, we’ll send someone. Could be two, maybe three hours. Stay with the vehicle. Got a name for the road?”
I glanced at the crumpled map on the passenger seat. “It’s County Road 19, I think.”
“Got it. Stay put,” she said, and the line went dead.
I climbed back into the RV, locking the door behind me. The interior was cramped but familiar—worn leather seats, a tiny kitchenette with a coffee-stained counter, and a fold-out bed in the back. The dashboard lights cast a faint green glow, making the space feel smaller, more claustrophobic. I checked my watch: 6:47 p.m. The sun was dipping low, and shadows were creeping across the road. I sipped water from a plastic bottle, trying to shake the uneasy feeling settling in my chest. Being stuck out here, alone, with no way to call for help except that clunky satellite phone, made my skin crawl.
An hour dragged by. I kept glancing at the side mirrors, half-expecting something to appear. Then I heard it—a low, throaty rumble, like an engine growling in the distance. Headlights flashed in my rearview mirror, and a beat-up pickup truck pulled up behind me, its paint chipped and rusted. My stomach knotted. The roadside assistance woman said two hours at least. This was too soon.
A man stepped out of the truck, tall and wiry, with a tangled mess of hair and a beard that looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in years. His flannel shirt was stained, and his jeans hung loose on his frame. He walked toward my RV, his boots scraping the gravel with slow, deliberate steps. My pulse quickened. I double-checked the lock on the door, my fingers fumbling. He stopped at the driver’s side window and knocked—three sharp raps that made me jump.
I cracked the window an inch, just enough to hear him. “You okay in there?” he asked, his voice low, with a drawl that felt too calm, too practiced. His eyes were locked on mine, unblinking, like a predator sizing up prey.
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Roadside assistance is coming.”
He leaned closer, his fingers gripping the edge of the window frame, dirt caked under his nails. “That so? This road’s no place to be stuck, you know. Lonely spot. Bad things happen out here.” His lips twitched into a smile, but it was all teeth, no warmth.
“I’m good,” I said, sharper this time. “Thanks for checking.”
He didn’t budge, just stood there, his gaze drilling into me. “Sure you don’t need a hand? I got tools in my truck. Could fix that tire real quick.” His voice was smooth, but it sent a shiver down my spine.
“No, really, I’m fine,” I said, my hand hovering near the window crank, ready to shut it. “They’re on their way.”
He tilted his head, like he was studying me. “Alright, suit yourself. I’ll be right over there if you change your mind.” He jerked his thumb toward his truck and walked back, but he didn’t get in. Instead, he leaned against the hood, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. The orange glow flickered in the growing darkness, and he just stood there, watching my RV.
My heart was hammering now. I slammed the window shut and locked it, my hands shaking so bad I dropped the crank. I checked the door again, then the back entrance, making sure every lock was secure. The satellite phone sat on the passenger seat, useless unless I needed to call again. I turned off the interior lights, hoping he’d think I was asleep or not paying attention. The darkness inside the RV felt suffocating, but I didn’t want him seeing me.
Minutes crawled by. I sat in the driver’s seat, barely breathing, listening for any sound. Then I heard it—footsteps, slow and heavy, crunching on the gravel. They weren’t coming from the road. They were circling the RV, moving from the back toward the side. My chest tightened. I grabbed the flashlight from under the seat, its weight cold and solid in my hand. The footsteps stopped near the back door, and then I heard something else—a low, guttural growl, like a dog or maybe a coyote. My blood ran cold. I didn’t know what was worse: the man or whatever was out there with him.
I crept to the side window, pulling the curtain back just a sliver. The flashlight beam shook in my hand as I aimed it outside. Nothing. Just darkness and the faint outline of cacti. The footsteps started again, closer now, right by the door. The growl came again, louder, more aggressive. I flicked off the flashlight and sank to the floor, my back against the driver’s seat, trying not to make a sound. The footsteps paused, then faded, like he’d walked back to his truck. I waited, counting my breaths, praying he was gone.
Another hour passed, or maybe it just felt like it. Headlights lit up the road again, and a tow truck rolled up, its yellow beacon flashing like a lifeline. A man climbed out, stocky, with a grease-stained jumpsuit and a toolbox in hand. “You the one with the tire?” he called, his voice gruff but not threatening.
I opened the door, relief flooding through me. “Yes, thank you,” I said, stepping out. My eyes darted to the pickup truck. The creepy man was still there, leaning against his hood, the cigarette glow pulsing like a heartbeat.
The tow truck guy noticed my glance. His name tag read Joe. “That fella bother you?” he asked, keeping his voice low as he set up a jack under the RV.
“He offered to help,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “But he’s just… standing there. Watching.”
Joe’s jaw tightened as he worked the jack. “Yeah, well, keep your doors locked. Guys like him hang around these roads, looking for folks like you. Stranded. Easy targets.” He grabbed a wrench, his movements quick and practiced. “Heard stories ‘round here. People go missing sometimes. RVs, cars, doesn’t matter. Cops find the vehicles later, empty. No trace.”
My stomach lurched. “Missing?” I asked, my voice shaking.
He nodded, not looking up from the tire. “Yeah. Last year, a couple in an RV like yours vanished ‘bout twenty miles from here. Found their rig, but no sign of them. Folks say there’s people out here who know these roads better than the cops do.” He glanced at the pickup truck. “Just watch yourself, alright?”
I nodded, my eyes locked on the man. He hadn’t moved, just stood there, staring. Joe finished the tire in under twenty minutes, wiping his hands on a rag. “You’re good to go,” he said. “Get outta here fast. Don’t stop for anyone, no matter what they say.”
“Thanks,” I said, climbing back into the RV. My hands were still trembling as I started the engine. The pickup truck’s headlights flicked on as I pulled away, and in my rearview mirror, I saw it start to follow. My heart raced. I pressed the gas harder, the RV groaning as it picked up speed. The truck stayed behind me, its lights never fading, a constant shadow in my mirrors.
Fifteen miles down the road, the engine sputtered. A sharp, chemical smell hit my nose—gasoline. I glanced at the fuel gauge, and my heart sank. The needle was dropping fast, way too fast. I pulled over, my hands shaking as I grabbed the flashlight and stepped out. Under the RV, a dark puddle spread across the gravel, the stench of fuel overwhelming. A leak. I cursed, kicking the gravel, and grabbed the satellite phone again.
“It’s me,” I said when the roadside assistance woman answered. “The RV’s leaking fuel now. I’m maybe fifteen miles from where I was, still on County Road 19.”
She sighed again. “Alright, we’ll send someone. Stay inside. Lock the doors. Could be another hour.”
I hung up, my chest tight with panic. I locked the doors and checked the windows, my eyes scanning the darkness. That’s when I saw it—the pickup truck, parked a hundred yards back, its lights off but its shape unmistakable. My blood ran cold. I turned off all the RV’s lights, crouching low in the driver’s seat, clutching the flashlight like it could save me.
Minutes passed, maybe ten, maybe twenty. Then I heard the footsteps again, slow and deliberate, crunching closer. A shadow moved outside the driver’s side window, tall and lean. The door handle jiggled, just once, soft but unmistakable. My heart stopped. I gripped the flashlight tighter, my knuckles white.
“Go away!” I shouted, my voice cracking with fear.
The shadow froze, then shifted. I heard the crunch of gravel as he stepped back, but he didn’t leave. I could feel his eyes on the RV, like a weight pressing down. I stayed low, barely breathing, waiting for him to try again. The satellite phone sat useless in my lap. I didn’t dare move to call again, not with him so close.
Another set of headlights finally appeared, cutting through the darkness. A new tow truck pulled up, and a woman stepped out, her flashlight sweeping the area. “You okay in there?” she called, her voice firm but kind.
I opened the door, nearly sobbing with relief. “Yeah,” I said, my voice shaky. “There’s a guy—he’s been following me. He tried the door.”
Her name tag read Lisa. She glanced at the pickup truck, which was pulling away now, its taillights fading into the night. “You’re lucky,” she said, her face grim as she knelt to check the fuel line. “We got a call last month, same road. Guy like that was involved. Cops think he’s been targeting RVs, waiting for breakdowns. They’ve been trying to catch him, but he knows these roads too well.”
My knees felt weak. “Targeting?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
She nodded, her hands moving fast with a wrench. “Yeah. Last one was a family. RV broke down, and they were gone by morning. Found the vehicle, nothing else. You don’t wanna know the rest.” She patched the fuel line, her movements quick and precise. “This’ll hold till you get to a town. There’s a gas station twenty miles up, well-lit, lots of people. Go straight there and don’t stop.”
I nodded, my hands still trembling as I climbed back into the RV. “Thank you,” I said, my voice barely holding together.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Lisa said, standing up. “If you see that truck again, call the cops. And I mean right away.”
I started the engine, the RV rumbling to life. The pickup truck was gone, but I kept checking my mirrors, expecting those headlights to reappear. I drove faster than I should have, the patched fuel line holding just enough to get me to the gas station. When I pulled into the lot, surrounded by bright lights and a few late-night truckers, I finally let myself breathe. I parked and sat there, gripping the wheel, my heart still pounding.
I never saw the man again, but Lisa’s words burned in my mind. People vanish on these roads, their vehicles left behind like ghosts. I don’t know if I escaped a bad tire and a fuel leak or something far worse. All I know is I’ll never drive that stretch of Texas again, not for anything.
"The Man in the Desert":
I was cruising along a desolate stretch of Nevada desert in my old RV, the kind with faded stripes and a creaky frame, heading for a small town I’d seen on the map. The road was a ribbon of cracked asphalt, cutting through endless sand and scrub. Everything felt calm until a deafening bang jolted me. The RV lurched hard to the right, tires screeching. My heart slammed against my ribs as I wrestled the steering wheel, barely managing to pull onto the gravel shoulder. Dust clouded around me as I stopped. I climbed out, legs shaky, and saw the back tire in ruins—rubber shredded, rim bent, pieces strewn across the road like a crime scene. I had no spare. The nearest town was 50 miles away. I checked my phone: no signal, just a blank screen mocking me. My stomach knotted up, tight and cold.
Back inside the RV, I locked every door and checked the windows twice. The silence out there was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the cooling engine. I decided to wait for a passing car, someone who could help or at least point me to a signal. I sat at the little dinette table, sipping warm water from a bottle, staring at the curtains. Hours crawled by. Not a single headlight broke the darkness. The desert felt alive, watching me. Every creak of the RV’s frame or rustle outside made my pulse spike. I kept the lights off, not wanting to draw attention, but my eyes darted to every shadow. My mind churned with stories I’d heard—people stranded, never seen again. I pushed the thoughts away, but they clung like damp cloth.
It must’ve been near midnight when I heard it: a slow crunch of gravel, deliberate, like someone stepping carefully. My breath caught. I froze, listening. Another crunch, closer. Then a beam of light sliced through the curtains, sweeping across the interior. A sharp knock on the door made me jump, my water bottle tipping over, spilling across the table. I didn’t move. Another knock, harder. “Hey, you in there?” a man’s voice called, rough but steady, like he was used to talking over engines. I stayed silent, heart pounding so loud I thought he’d hear it. “Saw your RV from the road,” he said. “You need help?”
I crept to the door, gripping the edge of the counter. My phone was useless, and no one else was coming. I cracked the door an inch, just enough to see him. He was tall, maybe six-foot-two, wearing a stained denim jacket and jeans that looked like they’d seen better days. His face was half-hidden in the glow of his flashlight, but his eyes caught me—dark, restless, flicking from me to the RV’s interior. “Flat tire, right?” he said, not really asking. I nodded, throat tight. “I can fix it,” he said, “got tools and a spare in my truck.” I hadn’t heard a truck pull up. That made my skin prickle.
“You with roadside assistance?” I asked, voice barely steady. He shook his head, smiling a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just passing by. I help out sometimes.” He gestured to a beat-up pickup parked a ways off, half-hidden in the dark. I hadn’t seen it before, and that made my chest tighten. “Okay,” I said, not sure I had a choice. “How long will it take?” He shrugged. “Couple hours, maybe. Gotta jack it up, swap the tire.” I nodded, keeping the door barely open. “Stay inside,” he said. “Safer that way.” The way he said it, like he knew something I didn’t, made my stomach twist.
I locked the door again and sat by the window, peeking through a slit in the curtain. He moved slowly, setting up a jack and pulling tools from a rusty box. His flashlight bobbed, casting long shadows that danced across the sand. I kept a kitchen knife under the table, my fingers brushing its handle for comfort. “Where you headed?” he called out, not looking up as he worked the lug nuts. His voice carried an edge, like he was testing me. “Just a town up the road,” I said, keeping it vague. He chuckled, low and dry. “Smart. Folks get lost out here. Not a good place to be alone.” My mouth went dry. I didn’t answer.
He worked for what felt like forever, the clank of tools and his low humming filling the night. Every so often, he’d stop, stand straight, and stare into the darkness, like he heard something. Once, he turned toward the RV, his eyes locked on the window where I sat. I ducked back, heart racing, sure he’d seen me. “You ever hear stories about this road?” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. “People say things happen out here. Folks stop, then… poof. Gone.” He laughed, but it wasn’t funny. I gripped the knife tighter, my knuckles white.
The longer he was there, the worse it felt. His truck’s cab was dark, but I swore I saw movement inside once, like someone else was there. I blinked, and it was gone, but the thought wouldn’t leave. He kept glancing around, not just at the RV but beyond it, into the desert. “Almost done,” he called, but his tone was off, like he was stalling. My mind raced. Was he really fixing the tire? Was he waiting for something—or someone? I checked the locks again, my hands sweaty, the knife now in my lap.
Finally, he stood, wiping his hands on a rag. “All set,” he said, walking to the door. I opened it a crack, staying behind it. “How much?” I asked, voice shaking. He named a price—high, but I didn’t care. I shoved cash through the gap, avoiding his eyes. He counted it slowly, one bill at a time, his fingers smudged with grease. “You’re lucky I came by,” he said, looking at me too long. “Lots of types out here. Not all of ’em are good.” His smile was thin, like he knew a secret. I mumbled thanks and shut the door, sliding the deadbolt hard.
He walked back to his truck, but before he climbed in, he stopped, staring at the RV. His flashlight clicked off, and for a second, I thought I saw another figure in the dark, just beyond his truck. My breath stopped. Was someone else out there? He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did and didn’t care. His engine roared, and his taillights faded into the night. But the feeling of eyes on me stayed.
I didn’t move for hours. Every sound—a scrape, a rustle, a faint tap on the RV’s side—made me jump. I kept the knife close, imagining him coming back, or worse, someone he’d called. My mind played tricks: was that a footstep? A hand brushing the window? I checked the locks again, my hands trembling so bad I dropped the knife once. The new tire held, but I didn’t trust it—or him. What if he’d done something to it? What if he was waiting down the road?
When the sky finally lightened, I started the RV, my hands still shaking. The engine coughed but caught, and I drove fast, eyes glued to the rearview mirror. Nothing followed, but I couldn’t shake the fear, like the desert itself was holding its breath. I reached the town, found a mechanic, and had every inch of that tire checked. It was fine, but I wasn’t. His words echoed: “Not all of ’em are good.” I never drove that road again, and I never forgot how close I felt to something I couldn’t name.
"Red X":
My husband, David, and I had been crisscrossing the country in our RV, "Wanderer," for three weeks, chasing the open road. We’d seen mountains, deserts, and forests, but we craved something quieter—a secluded beach in Texas, far from crowded campgrounds. The GPS led us down a narrow, unpaved road to a stretch of coastline near Padre Island, where the sand stretched endless and empty. It felt perfect, until the RV coughed, shuddered, and died. I turned the key again and again—nothing. David popped the hood, cursing softly. “Battery’s dead,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. We checked our phones. No bars. The satellite phone we’d bought for emergencies? Left on our kitchen counter back home. My stomach twisted as the sky darkened, shadows creeping over the dunes.
We stood by the RV, debating what to do. No cars had passed in hours. The beach was a mile from the nearest road, and walking in the dark felt like asking for trouble. Headlights flickered in the distance, growing brighter. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. An old pickup truck, rusted and rattling, pulled up. A heavyset man climbed out, his flannel shirt stained with grease. “Y’all stuck?” he called, his voice friendly but loud. A woman, thin and pale, stayed by the passenger door, her eyes scanning us. He introduced himself as Tom; she was Anna. Something about her stare—sharp, unblinking—made my skin crawl. “Battery’s gone,” David said, gesturing to the hood. Tom ambled over, peering at the engine. “Yup, dead as can be. I got a CB radio in the truck. Can call for a tow, but ain’t nobody coming out here till morning.”
“Morning?” My voice cracked. Anna spoke up, her tone flat, almost bored. “Roadside folks don’t drive these parts at night. Too far out.” Tom nodded, scratching his beard. “Y’all can wait in your RV, but it’s safer at our camp. Got a fire, food. Just up the beach.” David squeezed my hand, his eyes asking what I thought. I didn’t trust them, but staying alone, exposed, felt worse. “Okay,” I said, forcing a smile. “Thanks.” We grabbed our backpacks, locked the RV, and followed their truck, its taillights glowing red through the dust.
Their campsite was a quarter-mile away, tucked behind a dune. A small fire crackled, surrounded by a sagging tent, a cooler, and two folding chairs. A tarp covered a pile of gear—boxes, ropes, and what looked like a gas can. Tom tossed a log on the fire, sparks snapping into the air. “Sit,” he said, pointing to the chairs. Anna pulled out a pot and started heating canned beans, her movements quick and mechanical. “This beach has stories,” Tom said, settling into a chair with a creak. “Folks come here, camp, and poof—gone. Locals say it’s cursed.” Anna shot him a glance, her lips tight. I forced a laugh. “Just stories, right?” Tom’s grin widened, showing crooked teeth. “Sure. Just stories.”
We ate the beans in silence, the fire’s heat doing little to ease the chill in my bones. Anna barely spoke, her eyes flicking between us and the darkness. Every rustle in the dunes made me jump. Tom kept talking, his voice too loud, about campers who vanished, their RVs found empty, wallets and gear missing. “Probably wandered off, got lost,” he said, but his eyes lingered on us, like he was testing our reactions. Anna stood abruptly, muttering about checking the tent. Her shadow moved inside, and I caught her glancing back, her face half-lit, expressionless.
After dinner, Tom offered us sleeping bags to crash by the fire. “Safer than walking back,” he said. David nodded, but I saw the tension in his jaw. We lay down, the fire’s glow fading to embers. I couldn’t sleep, my heart pounding. David’s breathing slowed, but I stayed alert, staring at the stars. Then, whispers drifted from the tent. I held my breath, straining to hear. “...too nosy,” Tom hissed. “They saw the map.” Anna’s voice was low. “Get it done before the tow comes. Clean.” My blood ran cold. Map? What map? I nudged David, my hand shaking. His eyes snapped open. “Listen,” I whispered, barely audible. “They’re planning something.”
We waited, pretending to sleep, until the whispers stopped. The tent zipper rasped, and Anna’s silhouette slipped out, heading toward the truck. I grabbed David’s arm. “We need to check the RV. Now.” We crept away, using the dunes for cover, the sand muffling our steps. The RV loomed ahead, its door slightly ajar. My heart sank. Inside, our bags were torn open—wallets gone, clothes scattered. I swept my flashlight across the floor and froze. Under the driver’s seat, a hunting knife glinted, its blade etched with scratches. Not ours. Tucked beside it was a folded map, marked with red Xs along the coast. A newspaper clipping slipped out, its headline screaming: “Couple Vanishes from Texas Beach, RV Found Abandoned.” My hands shook so hard I dropped the flashlight.
“They did this,” I whispered, voice breaking. David’s face was pale, his eyes wide. “The battery—it wasn’t dead. They cut the cables.” He pointed to the frayed wires under the dash. Footsteps crunched outside, heavy and deliberate. “Y’all okay in there?” Tom’s voice, too close, sent ice down my spine. We ducked behind the counter, my pulse hammering. The door creaked wider, and Tom stepped in, his boots scuffing the floor. A pistol gleamed in his hand, catching the moonlight. “Come out,” he said, his tone no longer friendly. “We need to talk.” Anna appeared behind him, holding a flashlight, her face a mask of calm.
David gripped a wrench from the toolbox, his knuckles white. I fumbled in a drawer, my fingers closing around our flare gun. “Stay back,” I shouted, aiming it at Tom. He laughed, a low, ugly sound. “You ain’t got the guts, lady.” He stepped closer, raising the pistol. David lunged, swinging the wrench. It cracked against Tom’s forearm, and the gun skidded across the floor. Anna screamed, rushing me, her nails clawing at my arm. I stumbled back, aimed the flare gun skyward, and pulled the trigger. A red streak roared into the sky, bursting like a scream.
Tom tackled David, fists slamming into his ribs. I grabbed a frying pan from the counter, swinging it at Anna’s shoulder. She yelped, falling back, her flashlight rolling across the floor. David wrestled Tom to the ground, pinning his arms. Headlights flashed outside—a park ranger’s truck, tires crunching sand. “Freeze!” a voice bellowed. A ranger burst in, gun drawn, his flashlight blinding. Tom and Anna froze, their faces twisting in rage. “Drop the wrench!” the ranger ordered. David obeyed, hands up. I spilled everything—the cut cables, the stolen wallets, the knife, the map, the clipping. The ranger’s eyes narrowed as he cuffed Tom and Anna, radioing for backup.
At the ranger station, we learned the truth. Tom and Anna were wanted for a string of robberies along the coast, targeting RVers in remote spots. Their truck held stolen gear—jewelry, cash, even a watch matching a missing camper’s description. The map’s red Xs marked their hits, and the clipping was one of many they kept, like trophies. The ranger confirmed our battery cables were sliced clean, a trap to keep us stranded. “You’re lucky,” he said. “That flare saved your lives. Another hour, and…” He didn’t finish.
David and I don’t camp remote anymore. We got Wanderer fixed, but every creak of its frame reminds me of that night—their fake smiles, the whispers, the glint of that knife. I still see Anna’s cold stare in my nightmares, hear Tom’s laugh. We were minutes from becoming another headline, another X on their map. Now, we stick to crowded campgrounds, keep a charged satellite phone, and trust no one offering help on a lonely road. Freedom’s not worth that kind of fear.
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