"A Slice of Fear":
I’d been chatting with this guy on Tinder for a couple of weeks. His name was Jack, a truck driver who spent most of his life crisscrossing the country. He had a rugged charm in his messages, sharing stories about late-night drives and small-town diners he’d found along the way. His profile showed a guy with a scruffy beard, leaning against a massive rig, a wide grin on his face. I thought it was kind of cool, different from the usual city guys I matched with. When he suggested meeting at a truck stop just off the highway, I hesitated for a second. It wasn’t exactly romantic, but he said it was convenient since he was passing through. “They’ve got a great diner,” he texted. “Best pie you’ll ever taste.” I figured a public place like that was safe enough, so I agreed.
When I pulled into the truck stop, the lot was nearly empty. A few big rigs loomed in the shadows, their engines giving off a low, steady hum. The diner’s neon sign flickered, casting a weak glow over the cracked pavement. My headlights caught a figure standing near a black truck, and I recognized Jack from his photos. He was taller than I expected, broad-shouldered, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. He waved me over, his smile warm and welcoming. “Hey, you made it!” he called out, his voice deep and gravelly. I parked my car and walked over, my sneakers crunching on the gravel. We hugged, and I caught a whiff of diesel mixed with cheap aftershave. “Ready for that pie?” he asked, gesturing toward the diner.
Inside, the diner felt stuck in time. The air smelled of stale coffee and fried onions, and the linoleum floor was scuffed and faded. A jukebox in the corner sat silent, its lights dim. The waitress, an older woman with tired eyes and a nametag that read “Doris,” poured coffee at the counter. A lone trucker sat in a booth, hunched over a plate of eggs, his cap pulled low. We slid into a red vinyl booth by the window, the seat creaking under us. Jack ordered coffee and apple pie for both of us, his voice easy and confident. “You’re gonna love this place,” he said, leaning back. “It’s got character.”
We started talking, and at first, it felt normal. He told me about hauling freight through the Midwest, the long hours, the sunrises he’d seen from his cab. His stories were vivid, full of details about greasy spoons and quirky roadside stops. But as he talked, I noticed his eyes—dark and intense, like they were studying me. He’d pause mid-sentence, his gaze lingering on my hands, my neck, my hair. It wasn’t flirty; it felt like he was sizing me up. “You okay?” I asked, forcing a smile to keep things light. He blinked, like I’d snapped him out of a trance. “Yeah, just thinking how you’re even prettier in person,” he said, but his tone was flat, almost mechanical. My stomach twisted, a small knot of unease forming, but I pushed it down. Maybe he was just nervous, I told myself.
The pie arrived, warm and golden, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting into the crust. I took a bite, trying to focus on the sweet, cinnamon flavor, but Jack barely touched his. He kept glancing out the window toward his truck, his fingers tapping the table. “You ever been inside a rig?” he asked suddenly, his eyes locking onto mine again. I laughed, trying to shake off the growing tension. “No, but I bet it’s like a little apartment on wheels.” His smile returned, but it didn’t feel right—it was too wide, too sharp. “Exactly,” he said. “I’ll show you after we eat. It’s my home away from home.”
I nodded, but the knot in my stomach tightened. The diner felt safe, with Doris wiping down the counter and the trucker in his booth, but the idea of going out to his truck, alone in the dark lot, made my pulse quicken. I tried Roswell, I was scared. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. “Let go of me!” I shouted, my voice cracking with fear. I twisted with all my strength, driving my knee into his groin. He grunted, doubling over, his grip loosening just enough for me to wrench free. I stumbled out of the cab, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grab the door handle. I hit the pavement running, my sneakers slapping against the gravel, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The diner’s lights glowed ahead like a beacon, and I didn’t dare look back to see if he was following.
I burst through the diner door, nearly colliding with a table. Doris looked up from the counter, her eyes wide. “Call the police!” I gasped, my voice trembling. “He’s dangerous! He’s got a knife!” The trucker in the booth turned, staring at me, but I didn’t care. Doris didn’t hesitate; she grabbed the phone behind the counter and dialed 911, her hands steady as she spoke to the operator. “Yes, ma’am,Hobbes, I collapsed into a booth, my chest heaving, trying to catch my breath. Doris handed me a glass of water and told me to sit tight, her voice calm but firm. “Police are on the way, hon. You’re safe now.”
Minutes dragged like hours. I kept my eyes on the door, my body tense, expecting Jack to come charging in. Finally, sirens wailed in the distance, and red and blue lights flashed across the lot. Two officers approached the truck, their guns drawn, shouting orders. I watched from the diner window, my heart in my throat, as they climbed into the cab. One of them emerged a few minutes later, leading a woman—gagged, her hands bound, her eyes wide with terror. Another officer had Jack in handcuffs, his face blank, his eyes cold as they passed mine through the glass. He didn’t struggle, didn’t look at me, just walked with his head down.
An officer came inside to talk to me, his face grim. “You’re lucky you got out,” he said, sitting across from me. “There was a woman in that box, tied up and beaten. She’s alive, but she’s in bad shape. He’s done this before.” My knees buckled as I sank back into the booth, the reality of it hitting me. I’d been inches from being his next victim. Later, I learned from the news that Jack was a serial kidnapper, targeting women through dating apps, luring them to isolated places like truck stops. The woman in the photo on his dashboard was another victim, one who hadn’t escaped. I couldn’t sleep for weeks, haunted by the sound of that whimper, the sight of that bloodstain, and the memory of his cold, predatory stare. I’d trusted him, ignored my instincts, and nearly paid the ultimate price.
Every time I pass a truck stop now, my chest tightens, my hands shake, and I hear that faint, desperate sound from the box in my mind. I don’t use Tinder anymore. The thought of another date, another stranger, makes my skin crawl. I was lucky, but I’ll never forget how close I came to disappearing into the dark.
"Trapped in the Cab":
I’d been on Tinder for a few months, swiping through profiles, hoping to find someone who clicked. Most guys were either boring or too forward, but then I matched with a man I’ll call Tom. His profile stood out—rugged, with a warm grin under a worn trucker hat, and his bio was simple: “Road warrior, love a good story and a good meal.” We messaged back and forth for weeks. He was funny, asking about my favorite books and telling me tales of his life as a truck driver—long nights on the highway, quirky diners, and sunrises over empty roads. When he suggested meeting at a truck stop just off the interstate near my town, I thought it was odd but not a dealbreaker. It was a public place, with a 24-hour diner and plenty of people around. I figured it was safe enough.
I drove to the truck stop, my car’s tires crunching on the gravel lot. The place was massive, a sprawling maze of eighteen-wheelers parked in neat rows, their chrome glinting under the lot’s floodlights. The diner sat at the center, its neon sign buzzing faintly, casting a warm glow through the windows. The air carried the heavy scent of diesel mixed with fried onions from the kitchen. I parked near the entrance, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror before heading inside. My stomach fluttered with nerves, but I brushed it off as first-date jitters.
Tom was already there, sitting in a vinyl booth near the back, his flannel shirt rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. He looked up from his coffee and smiled, standing to greet me. “Hey, you made it!” he said, his voice warm as he pulled me into a quick hug. He smelled faintly of leather and soap.
“Yeah, this place is hard to miss,” I said, sliding into the booth across from him. The table was slightly sticky, and a jukebox in the corner played an old country song, barely audible over the clink of dishes and low chatter from other diners—mostly truckers in caps and work boots.
We ordered food—pancakes with extra syrup for me, a meatloaf special with mashed potatoes for him. The waitress, a woman with tired eyes and a name tag reading “Doris,” scribbled our order and shuffled off. Tom leaned forward, elbows on the table, and asked about my job at the bookstore. I told him about helping customers find obscure novels and how I loved the smell of old books. He listened intently, nodding, his eyes crinkling when he laughed at my story about a customer who insisted on finding a book by its cover color.
“You’re passionate about it,” he said, cutting into his meatloaf. “That’s cool. Not many people love what they do.”
“What about you?” I asked. “You like driving trucks?”
He shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s freedom, you know? Just me, the road, and the radio. But it gets lonely sometimes.” His eyes met mine, and I felt a spark—maybe this was going somewhere.
We kept talking, swapping stories. He told me about a tiny diner in Nevada with the best pie he’d ever tasted and a time he broke down in the desert with no cell service. I shared how I’d once gotten lost on a hiking trail and had to backtrack for hours. The conversation flowed easily, and I started to relax, sipping my coffee as the diner’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
But as we finished eating, the place started to clear out. Doris and another waitress began wiping down counters, flipping chairs onto tables. The jukebox went silent. Tom glanced at his watch. “Want to take a walk outside? Stretch our legs?”
I hesitated for a split second but nodded. “Sure, sounds good.”
We stepped into the parking lot, where the air was cooler, filled with the low hum of idling trucks and the faint chirp of crickets. The lot was quieter now, with fewer rigs than when I’d arrived. We walked along the edge, passing trailers stacked with crates and tarps. Tom pointed out a few, telling me what they might be hauling—lumber, produce, maybe car parts. His knowledge impressed me, but I noticed he kept glancing around, his eyes darting to the shadows between trucks. I told myself he was just checking his surroundings, but a knot formed in my stomach.
We reached the far end of the lot, where the lights were dimmer, and he stopped by a dark blue rig, its cab towering over us. “This is mine,” he said, patting the door. “Want to see inside? I’ve got some souvenirs from my routes—pretty neat stuff.”
My instincts screamed no. The truck was parked far from the diner, isolated, with no other people nearby. But he was smiling, his tone so casual, I didn’t want to seem paranoid. “Maybe we can just stay out here,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Come on, it’s more comfortable inside,” he said, his hand brushing mine as he stepped closer. “Just for a minute.”
My heart raced, but I didn’t want to offend him. Against my better judgment, I nodded. He opened the passenger door, helping me climb the high step into the cab. The interior was spotless—too spotless for a trucker’s life. No coffee cups, no maps, not even a stray receipt. Just a faint chemical smell, like bleach or cleaning spray, that made my nose wrinkle. A small black bag sat on the floor, its zipper half-open, revealing something metallic inside. My pulse quickened.
Tom climbed in on the driver’s side, shutting the door with a heavy thud. The tinted windows made the outside world feel distant, like we were in a bubble. He turned on the overhead light, casting harsh shadows across his face. “So, what do you think?” he asked, gesturing to the cab.
“It’s… clean,” I said, my voice tighter than I meant it to be.
He laughed, but it sounded forced. “Yeah, I like to keep it tidy.” He leaned back, watching me. “So, you live close by, right? You said you’re in that little apartment complex off Route 17?”
I hadn’t told him that. I’d only mentioned living in town. My skin prickled. “Uh, yeah, something like that,” I said, lying. “I’ve got roommates, though. They’re probably waiting up for me.”
His smile faded slightly, and his eyes narrowed, like he was studying me. “Roommates, huh? That’s nice. Must be cozy.”
The air felt thick, and that black bag on the floor seemed to stare at me. I shifted, my hand inching toward my pocket where my phone was. “I should probably head out soon,” I said, trying to sound calm.
“What’s the rush?” he said, his voice low. He reached over, his hand brushing my knee. “We’re having fun, aren’t we?”
I pulled away, my back pressing against the door. “I just have an early morning,” I said, my fingers closing around the door handle.
Then I saw it clearly—the metal in the bag was a knife, its blade glinting under the cab’s light. My heart stopped. “I need to go,” I said, yanking the handle, but the door was locked.
Tom’s hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. “Stay,” he said, his voice no longer friendly. “We’re not done.”
“Let go!” I shouted, twisting free, but he lunged, pinning me against the seat. His face was inches from mine, his breath hot. “You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed, his other hand reaching for the black bag.
I screamed, the sound trapped in the cab’s tight space. My hands scrambled, finding the unlock button on the door panel. I hit it and shoved the door open, tumbling out onto the gravel. Pain shot through my knee as I landed, but I scrambled to my feet, running toward the diner. Behind me, the truck’s engine roared to life, headlights blinding me as Tom gunned it.
I dove behind a nearby trailer, my breath ragged, as his truck screeched past, tires kicking up dust. I fumbled for my phone, realizing I’d dropped it in the cab during the struggle. My only hope was to reach the diner. I sprinted, my shoes slipping on the gravel, the neon sign growing closer. I burst through the door, nearly colliding with Doris, who was sweeping the floor.
“Help!” I gasped, my voice shaking. “He’s trying to hurt me!”
Doris dropped her broom, her eyes wide. “Who? What’s going on?”
“The guy I was with—Tom! He’s got a knife!” I pointed toward the lot, my hands trembling.
She grabbed a phone from behind the counter and dialed 911, her voice steady as she explained. Minutes later, sirens wailed, and police cars flooded the lot, their lights flashing red and blue. I stayed inside, wrapped in a blanket Doris gave me, watching as officers searched the area.
They found Tom’s truck abandoned a mile down the highway. My phone was inside, along with the black bag—containing a hunting knife, zip ties, duct tape, and a roll of plastic sheeting. The police told me Tom had a record: multiple arrests for stalking and assault, using Tinder to target women at truck stops where he thought no one would notice. Some women hadn’t made it out like I did.
I haven’t opened Tinder since. I can still hear the thud of that truck door, smell that chemical scent, see the glint of that knife. Now, I meet people in busy places—coffee shops, malls, never anywhere remote. I tell my friends exactly where I’m going, and I listen to that gut feeling when it tells me to run. It saved my life that night.
"Rest Easy":
I never thought a Tinder date could turn into a nightmare, but sitting in my car at this truck stop, my heart’s pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. His name on the app was Jake, and he seemed perfect—witty messages, a warm smile in his photos, and a job as a trucker that gave him this rugged, adventurous vibe. We’d been texting for a week, and when he suggested meeting at this truck stop, halfway between our towns, I thought it was bold, maybe even romantic. A story to laugh about later with friends over coffee. But now, parked here in the dark, I’m starting to question everything.
The truck stop is unsettling, like it’s stuck in a forgotten corner of the world. The neon sign above the diner blinks “Rest Easy,” but half the letters are out, and it buzzes like an angry insect. The parking lot stretches wide, dotted with a handful of massive trucks, their engines rumbling low, like a warning. The gas pumps are lit by flickering fluorescent lights that cast long, twitching shadows across the cracked pavement. Beyond the lot, there’s nothing but darkness, the highway’s hum faint and far away. It feels like the edge of nowhere, and I’m alone in it.
I check my phone again—9:25, and Jake was supposed to be here at 9. My fingers hover over the screen, debating whether to text him or just drive away. My stomach churns with nerves, a mix of embarrassment for being stood up and a growing unease about this place. The diner’s windows glow faintly, but the light doesn’t feel welcoming. Maybe I should go inside, wait there instead of sitting in my car like a target. But before I can decide, I see movement near one of the trucks—a tall figure stepping out from the shadows.
It’s a man, walking toward me with a slow, deliberate stride. My heart skips as I squint through the windshield. He’s not what I expected. The Jake in the photos was clean-shaven, maybe 30, with bright eyes and a confident grin. This man looks older, closer to 45, with a scruffy beard and a faded trucker hat pulled low over his eyes. His plaid shirt is worn, sleeves rolled up to reveal a long, jagged scar across his forearm. He waves, calling my name in a voice that’s rougher than the smooth texts I’d read.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he says as he reaches my car. “Got caught up with a delivery.”
I force a smile, my hand lingering on the door handle. “No worries,” I say, stepping out. My voice sounds too high, too shaky. I tell myself it’s just nerves, that maybe he’s just not photogenic. But something feels off, like the air itself is heavier around him.
“Let’s head inside,” he says, nodding toward the diner. “Get some food, talk a bit.”
I nod, clutching my purse as we cross the lot. The gravel crunches under my shoes, and I notice how quiet it is—no birds, no chatter, just the low drone of the trucks. Inside, the diner smells like burnt grease and stale coffee. The linoleum floor sticks to my soles, and the booths are old, with cracked red vinyl seats that squeak when we sit down. A couple of truckers are at the counter, one hunched over a plate of eggs, the other scrolling on his phone. They don’t look up. The waitress, a woman with tired eyes and a messy bun, hands us menus that are sticky to the touch.
“So, how long you been a trucker?” I ask, trying to fill the silence as we wait for our drinks—coffee for him, a soda for me.
“About 15 years,” he says, but his eyes keep flicking to the door, like he’s expecting someone. “Long hauls, mostly. Keeps me moving.”
I nod, but his answers feel rehearsed, like he’s reading from a script. He’s nothing like the guy who sent me funny memes and long stories about life on the road. This Jake is tense, his fingers tapping the table, his coffee mug trembling slightly in his hands. I notice his nails are dirty, bitten down to the quick. The scar on his arm seems to catch the light, almost like it’s alive.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice barely steady. “You seem… distracted.”
“Just tired,” he says quickly, his smile tight. “Long day. You know how it is.”
I don’t, but I nod anyway, sipping my soda to hide my unease. The waitress brings our food—a burger for me, fries and coffee for him. He barely touches his plate, just picks at a fry, his eyes darting around the diner. I try to keep the conversation going, asking about his favorite places to drive, but his stories are all over the place. He says he was in Texas yesterday, then mentions a job in Ohio the same day, like he forgot his own lie. When I point it out, his laugh is sharp, almost angry.
“Got my wires crossed,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “You’re real curious, aren’t you?”
My heart skips. “Just making conversation,” I say, my voice smaller than I want it to be. I glance at the clock above the counter—10:05. I’ve been here too long.
He leans forward, his voice low. “You know, this place has a reputation. Truckers talk about it. People come here, and sometimes… they don’t leave.”
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but my pulse is racing.
He smirks, his eyes glinting in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Just stories. Missing people, weird stuff at night. You hear things on the road.”
“That’s not funny,” I say, pushing my plate away. My appetite’s gone.
“Who said I was joking?” he says, his smirk fading into something darker.
I feel a chill, like the air in the diner just dropped ten degrees. “I think I should go,” I say, reaching for my purse.
“Let’s take a walk first,” he says, standing up before I can argue. “Clear our heads.”
I hesitate, my instincts screaming to stay put, but he’s already heading for the door. I don’t want to seem scared, so I follow, cursing myself for not trusting my gut. Outside, the parking lot feels even darker, the shadows between the trucks thicker, like they’re hiding something. The air smells of diesel and something metallic I can’t place. Jake walks ahead, his steps quick, leading me toward the far end of the lot where the trucks are parked in a tight row.
“You ever seen inside a rig?” he asks, glancing back at me. “Mine’s right over there. Pretty cool setup.”
“No, I’m good,” I say, slowing down. My keys are in my hand now, the sharp end pressed against my palm. “I really need to get home.”
“Come on,” he says, his voice sharper now. “Just a quick look. You’ll like it.”
My heart’s pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. “I said no,” I say, stepping back toward the diner.
He turns, his face half-lit by the flickering pump lights. “Don’t be like that,” he says, closing the distance between us. “We’re having a good time, right?”
“I’m leaving,” I say, turning toward my car. But before I can take another step, his hand clamps onto my wrist, his grip like iron.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, his voice low and cold, his eyes locked on mine.
I try to pull away, panic flooding my chest. “Let go!” I shout, my voice echoing in the empty lot.
He tightens his grip, pulling me closer. “Stop making a scene,” he hisses. “Just come with me.”
“Hey!” a voice cuts through the darkness. I whip my head around to see a man—an older trucker with a gray beard and a heavy jacket—standing near one of the pumps. He’s holding a flashlight, its beam slicing through the shadows, pointed right at us. “What’s going on here?”
“He’s not letting me go,” I say, my voice trembling so much I barely recognize it.
Jake’s grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go completely. “We’re just talking,” he says, his tone flat, like he’s daring the trucker to argue.
The trucker steps closer, his flashlight steady. “Let her go. Right now,” he says, his voice calm but firm, like he’s not afraid of Jake.
Jake glares at him, then at me, his jaw tight. Finally, he releases my wrist, muttering something under his breath. “You’ll regret this,” he says softly, just for me, before turning and disappearing into the shadows between the trucks.
I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand. The trucker walks me back to my car, his flashlight lighting the way. “You okay?” he asks, his voice kinder now.
“I think so,” I say, my throat tight. “Thank you. I don’t know what he was going to do.”
“I’ve seen him around,” the trucker says, frowning. “He hangs out here a lot, always talking to girls. Heard rumors about him—shady stuff. You’re lucky I was out here checking my rig.”
I nod, tears stinging my eyes as I reach my car. I fumble with my keys, but when I turn the ignition, nothing happens. The engine clicks, dead. My heart sinks. “No, no, no,” I mutter, trying again.
“Car trouble?” the trucker asks, peering through my window.
“Battery’s dead,” I say, my voice cracking. I glance around, half-expecting Jake to step out from the shadows.
“I can give you a jump,” the trucker says. “Got cables in my rig. Stay here, lock your doors.”
I nod, locking myself in as he walks to his truck. Every sound makes me jump—the creak of a trailer, the hum of an engine, a distant door slamming. I keep my eyes on the shadows, waiting for Jake to reappear. My phone’s at 10%, and I’m too scared to call anyone, worried it’ll die before I’m safe.
The trucker returns with cables and pops my hood. As he works, he talks to keep me calm. “This place gets weird at night,” he says. “Lots of stories—girls going missing, guys like him causing trouble. Stick to coffee shops for dates, kid.”
“I will,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. I’m kicking myself for ever thinking this was a good idea.
Finally, my car roars to life. I thank him over and over, my hands still shaking as I grip the wheel. “Get out of here,” he says, stepping back. “And don’t stop till you’re home.”
I pull onto the highway, the truck stop shrinking in my rearview mirror. My heart’s still racing, my mind replaying Jake’s cold eyes, his whispered threat. I don’t know what he wanted, but I know I got lucky. That night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how close I came to not making it home. I delete Tinder at dawn, my hands still trembling. No more truck stops. No more Jakes. Never again.
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