"Nowhere to Run":
My friend Anna and I had planned this trip for months. We wanted to escape the city noise in Houston and head south to the coast for some quiet time at a little beach rental in Galveston. It was just the two of us, no big group, no rush. We packed snacks, playlists, and drove off in my old sedan, laughing about work and old memories as the highway stretched out.
The drive started smooth. Anna fiddled with the radio, switching between stations until she found one playing old country tunes. "This fits the vibe," she said, turning it up. "Open road, no worries." I nodded, gripping the wheel, watching the flat land roll by. Billboards for gas stations and fast food dotted the sides, but as we got farther from the city, things thinned out. Fewer cars, more empty spaces. We talked about stopping for food soon.
About halfway, the engine made a weird sputtering sound. I glanced at the dash— the gas gauge looked fine, but something felt off. "Pull over?" Anna asked, her voice casual but with a hint of concern. I eased onto the shoulder, a narrow strip beside the interstate. Tall grass waved on one side, and beyond that, open fields that seemed to go on forever. No houses in sight, just distant oil rigs like silent guards.
We popped the hood, but neither of us knew much about cars. Anna pulled out her phone. "No signal," she muttered, holding it up. Mine was the same—dead bars. "Great. We're in the middle of nowhere." She tried to laugh it off, but I saw her glance around. The road was quiet now, only the occasional truck rumbling past without slowing.
We waited maybe twenty minutes, hoping someone would stop. Then a pickup truck appeared in the distance, slowing as it approached. It pulled up behind us, and a man got out. He looked middle-aged, wearing worn jeans and a faded shirt, his face rough from sun or hard living. "Need help?" he called, walking over.
"Yeah, the car just died," I said, trying to sound calm. Anna stood close to me.
He peered under the hood. "Looks like the alternator or something. I can give you a tow to the next exit. Got a shop there."
We exchanged looks. Anna whispered, "What do you think?" I shrugged. Options were slim. "Okay, thanks," I told him.
He hooked up a chain from his truck to my bumper. "Hop in my cab. Safer that way." His tone was flat, no smile. We climbed in, Anna in the middle, me by the door. The cab smelled like old cigarettes and something metallic. Tools rattled in the back as he started driving, towing my car behind.
"Where you headed?" he asked after a bit.
"Galveston," Anna said. "Just a quick trip."
He nodded slowly. "Nice area. Quiet. Lots of space out here." He kept his eyes on the road, but I noticed how he gripped the wheel tight.
The exit he mentioned didn't come. We passed a sign for League City, but he kept going, turning off onto a smaller road that led away from the highway. "Shortcut," he explained when I asked. The pavement turned to dirt, bumping us around. Fields spread out on both sides, empty and wild.
"This doesn't feel right," Anna whispered to me, her hand on my arm.
The man glanced over. "Problem?"
"No," I said quickly. But doubt crept in. Why take us this way? No shops in sight, just endless grass and patches of woods.
He pulled over suddenly, near a cluster of trees. "Let me check the chain." He got out, and we sat there, tense. Anna reached for her phone again—no signal still. "We should get out," she said softly.
Before we could, he came back to the window. "Chain's loose. Come help hold it while I fix." His voice had an edge now.
I hesitated. "We can wait here."
"Need an extra hand," he insisted, staring.
Anna opened her door first. "Fine, let's just get this done." I followed, my legs shaky. We walked to the back, where my car sat hitched. He bent down, tinkering, then stood up fast, holding a wrench like a weapon. His face changed—no more helpful stranger. "Get in the field," he said, low and mean.
"What?" Anna backed up.
He lunged at her, grabbing her arm. She screamed, pulling away, but he swung the wrench, hitting her shoulder. She fell, crying out. I grabbed a rock from the ground and threw it at him, hitting his side. He turned to me, eyes wild. "Run!" Anna yelled, scrambling up.
I bolted into the tall grass, hearing him chase. Branches scratched my face, mud sucked at my shoes. Anna's footsteps pounded behind me, then a thud—she tripped. I looked back; he was on her, dragging her by the hair toward the trees. "Help!" she gasped.
I froze for a second, then ran at him, kicking his leg hard. He stumbled, letting go. Anna got up, and we both sprinted deeper into the field. He followed, cursing, but slower now. We hid behind a thick bush, breathing hard, listening. His footsteps crunched closer, then stopped. "Come out," he called. "I know you're here."
We stayed still, minutes dragging. My mind raced—stories I'd heard about this stretch of road, girls vanishing, bodies found later in places like this. Was this one of those killers? The thought made me shake.
Anna whispered, "We have to move." We crept low, toward what looked like lights far off. He must have heard; footsteps started again. We ran, weaving through the grass. He caught up to Anna, tackling her. She fought, scratching his face. "Get off!" she shouted.
I picked up a branch and swung it at his head. It connected with a crack. He groaned, rolling off. "Run, Anna!" We dashed away, him staggering behind.
We reached a ditch, jumped it, and kept going until we hit a fence. Beyond was another road, a car passing. We climbed over, waving wildly. The car stopped—a woman inside. "Please help!" I yelled. "He's after us!"
She let us in, locking doors. "What's wrong?" As we sped away, I looked back—he stood at the fence, watching, then turned back to the field.
At the police station, we told everything. They searched, found my car abandoned, but no sign of him or his truck. Days later, they mentioned similar cases—girls picked up on that highway, never seen again, bodies dumped in fields. One officer said, "You're lucky. Most don't make it out."
Anna and I don't talk much now. The fear lingers, especially at night. I drive different routes, avoid empty roads. But I wonder about the others, the ones who didn't escape. What happened to them out there in those fields?
"The Border Road":
I had just crossed into Texas from Mexico, heading north on a backroad near Laredo to avoid the crowded highways. My old pickup truck was loaded with camping gear for a solo off-grid trip through the brush country. I planned to camp in the remote spots along the Rio Grande, fish a little, and clear my head after a rough year at work. The sun was dipping low, turning the flat land orange, when my engine started coughing. I pulled over on a dirt track off Highway 83, miles from any town. No signal on my phone. Just scrub brush and silence all around.
I popped the hood and stared at the mess of wires and hoses, not knowing much about fixes. After a few minutes of poking around, I heard tires crunching on gravel. A white SUV with green stripes pulled up behind me – Border Patrol. The driver stepped out, a tall man in uniform, badge shining. He looked about forty, clean-shaven, with a serious face.
"Having trouble?" he asked, walking over slow.
"Yeah, engine died. No idea why," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead.
He nodded and looked under the hood. "Let me see. Name's David. I patrol these roads all day. Seen a lot of breakdowns out here."
"I'm Alex," I replied. "Thanks for stopping. I'm on a road trip, trying to stay off the main paths."
He fiddled with a few things, then straightened up. "Might be the fuel pump. Hard to say without tools. Nearest garage is back in Laredo, but it's getting dark. You got anyone coming?"
"No, phone's dead out here." I felt a bit uneasy, but he seemed official, helpful even.
David glanced around, like he was checking for something. "These backroads can be dangerous. People go missing sometimes. Coyotes, smugglers, you name it. Hop in my truck. I can give you a ride to town, call a tow from there."
I hesitated. My truck had all my stuff, but leaving it alone felt risky too. "Appreciate it, but maybe I can wait it out."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Suit yourself. But last week, a guy like you broke down nearby. Never made it home. Folks found his car empty."
That made me pause. "What happened to him?"
David leaned against my truck. "Who knows? This border area's full of bad types. Women mostly, but men too. They vanish quick." He paused, staring at me hard. "You armed?"
"Just a knife in the glove box," I said, trying to sound casual.
He chuckled low. "Knife won't do much against what's out here at night." He walked back to his SUV and grabbed a flashlight, shining it around the brush. "Tell you what, I'll stay a bit, see if we can jump it or something."
We talked while he worked. He asked about my trip, where I was from – Austin, I told him. He shared stories about his job, catching crossers, the long hours. But something felt off. His questions got personal: Was I traveling alone? Did anyone know my route? I answered vague, but my gut twisted.
After twenty minutes, he slammed the hood. "No luck. Come on, get in. I'll drive you."
By now, the light was almost gone. No other cars had passed. I grabbed my backpack and knife, locked the truck, and climbed into his passenger seat. The SUV smelled like bleach, sharp and clean. We drove slow down the dirt road.
"You ever hear about the killings around here?" David asked after a quiet stretch.
"No, what killings?"
"Women found shot, dumped on roads like this. Four in the last couple weeks. Police think it's random."
I shifted in my seat. "That's awful. You think it's safe?"
He glanced over, eyes narrow. "For most. But out here, alone... easy to disappear."
The road got bumpier, heading away from the highway instead of toward it. "Isn't town the other way?" I asked.
"Shortcut," he said flat. "Trust me."
I didn't. My hand slipped to my pocket where the knife was. He noticed. "Nervous?"
"Just tired," I lied.
He pulled over sudden, in a dark patch of mesquite. "Need to check something." He got out, walked around back. I heard him open the trunk. My mind raced – why stop here? I quietly opened the door, slipped out, and ducked into the brush.
"Alex?" he called, voice calm but edged. "Where'd you go?"
I crouched low, heart racing, thorns scraping my arms. I saw him with a flashlight, sweeping the area. In his other hand, a gun glinted.
"Come out. It's not safe."
I stayed still, barely breathing. He searched for minutes, cursing soft. Then he got back in the SUV and drove off slow, lights scanning.
I waited an hour in the dark, shaking, before hiking back to the highway. Flagged down a trucker who called the cops. Turns out, David was Juan David Ortiz, a Border Patrol supervisor. He'd killed four women that month, picking them up, shooting them execution-style on rural roads. I was lucky – the fifth potential victim who got away.
"The Killing Fields":
Jake and I had been arguing a lot lately, mostly about small things like work stress and not spending enough time together. One weekend, we figured a quick getaway might fix that. We packed light, just some clothes and snacks, and jumped in his old pickup truck. The plan was simple: drive south from Houston, stick to the quieter roads, maybe find a spot by the coast to relax. No big itinerary, just us and the open highway.
We left early, cruising down I-45 at first, but Jake wanted to avoid the traffic. "Let's take the back ways," he said. "See the real Texas, you know? Farms, fields, that kind of thing." I agreed. It sounded peaceful. We turned off onto smaller roads, the kind with long stretches of nothing but grass and occasional oil pumps bobbing up and down. The radio played country songs, and for a while, it felt good. We talked about our future, laughed about old memories.
About an hour in, the truck started making a weird noise, like a rattle under the hood. Jake pulled over to check. We were in the middle of nowhere, no houses in sight, just flat land and a ditch running alongside the road. He popped the hood, tinkered around, but couldn't figure it out. "Must be the belt or something," he muttered. "We'll need a tow." My phone had no bars, and his was the same. We waited, hoping someone would drive by.
Time dragged on. A few cars passed, but none stopped. Then, after maybe half an hour, we heard the low rumble of a big rig approaching. It slowed down, pulled up behind us. The driver hopped out, a tall guy in his forties, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. He had a mustache, looked like any regular trucker. "Having trouble?" he called out, walking over.
"Yeah," Jake said, wiping his hands. "Engine's acting up. No signal out here either."
The man nodded, glanced under the hood. "Looks like your alternator might be shot. I can give you a lift to the next town, League City ain't far. Got a CB in the cab, can call for a tow from there."
I looked at Jake, and he shrugged. "Sounds good, man. Thanks."
"I'm Bill," the trucker said, shaking Jake's hand. He glanced at me, smiled politely. "Hop in. Cab's big enough for three."
We grabbed our bags and climbed up. The inside was clean, but something felt off right away. There were little things: a faint smell, like old sweat mixed with something metallic. Tools scattered on the floor, chains and hooks hanging from the wall behind the seats. Bill noticed me looking. "For securing loads," he explained. "You never know what you'll pick up on the road."
We started driving. Bill chatted easily at first. "What brings you two out this way?" he asked.
"Just a little trip," I said. "Getting away from the city."
He nodded. "Smart. City's full of noise. Out here, it's quiet. Real quiet." He asked about our jobs, where we were from. Jake told him we lived in Houston, and Bill said he passed through there a lot. "Pick up hauls all over. Been driving these roads for years."
As we went, the conversation shifted. Bill started talking about hitchhikers. "See a lot of 'em," he said. "Young folks, runaways mostly. They think the road's freedom, but it's dangerous. You hear stories."
"What kind of stories?" Jake asked, trying to keep it light.
Bill's eyes flicked to the rearview. "Girls gone missing. Bodies turning up in fields. You know about that stretch along I-45? They call it the Killing Fields. Over thirty women dumped there since the seventies. Unsolved, most of 'em."
I shifted in my seat. "That's awful."
"Yeah," Bill said, his voice dropping. "Some say it's one guy, others think more. Truckers see things, you know? Lonely spots, easy to hide."
Jake tried to change the subject. "So, how long till League City?"
"Not long," Bill replied. But he didn't speed up. Instead, he turned off the main road onto a narrower path, gravel crunching under the tires. "Shortcut," he explained. "Saves time."
The landscape got emptier. No lights, no signs. My stomach tightened. "This doesn't look right," I whispered to Jake.
Bill heard. "Relax. I know these roads like my own hand." He chuckled, but it didn't sound friendly.
We drove in silence for a bit. Then Bill started again. "Ever wonder why people disappear? Sometimes they just want to start over. Other times... well, someone makes 'em." He glanced at me, his eyes lingering too long.
Jake tensed. "Hey, man, maybe pull over. We can walk from here."
Bill ignored him. "Nah, we're almost there." But we weren't. The truck slowed near a patch of overgrown field, the kind with tall grass and abandoned oil rigs in the distance.
I grabbed Jake's arm. "Something's wrong."
Bill stopped the truck, turned off the engine. "End of the line," he said quietly.
Jake reached for the door, but Bill moved fast, pulling a handgun from under the seat. "Don't," he warned. "We can do this easy or hard."
My mind raced. This couldn't be happening. "What do you want?" I asked, voice shaking.
Bill smiled, cold now. "Company. It's lonely out here." He told us to get out, pointed the gun. We did, hands up. The field was dark, isolated. No one around for miles.
He marched us toward the grass. "Been doing this a while," he said, like it was casual talk. "Pick up strays, have some fun. Then... gone. Like those girls in the fields."
Jake lunged at him, grabbing for the gun. They fought, rolling on the ground. I froze for a second, then ran to the truck, searching for something—anything. I found a wrench on the floor, heavy and cold.
Behind me, a shot rang out. Jake yelled in pain, clutching his leg. Bill stood over him, gun aimed.
I swung the wrench as hard as I could, hitting Bill in the back of the head. He stumbled, dropped the gun. I hit him again, and he went down.
"Jake!" I screamed, running to him. Blood soaked his pants, but he was alive. "Come on, we have to go."
I helped him up, got him to the truck. Bill groaned on the ground, starting to move. I jumped in the driver's seat, keys still there. The engine roared to life, and I floored it, gravel flying.
We made it to a gas station, called the cops. They came quick, took Jake to the hospital. Turned out Bill was wanted—real name Robert, a trucker with a history. They'd found photos in his rig, evidence linking him to missing girls from Texas. Regina, a teen from Pasadena, one of them. Her picture, taken before he killed her, haunted me.
Jake recovered, but we never took another road trip. Those fields, those roads—they hide monsters. And sometimes, you barely escape.
"Lost on Calder Road":
I always loved the idea of getting lost on purpose. Alex and I had been together for two years, and we needed a break from the city noise in Dallas. We packed our old SUV with snacks, a tent, and a map that promised hidden spots off the main highways. "Let's skip the interstates," I said one morning over coffee. "Find some real Texas, the quiet parts." He grinned and agreed, his hand squeezing mine. We headed south toward the Gulf, planning to camp in rural areas where stars filled the sky and no one bothered you.
The first day went fine. We drove through flat lands dotted with oil pumps and small towns where folks waved from porches. By afternoon, we were on I-45, the long stretch between Houston and Galveston. Signs warned of construction, so we took a detour onto a smaller road, Calder Road, according to the map. It wound through League City, a place I'd never heard of, with houses giving way to empty fields and thick woods. The pavement turned rough, then gravel. "This is off-grid alright," Alex joked, turning down the radio. Our phones lost signal soon after.
We stopped at a gas station on the edge of town, an old building with flickering lights and a single pump. The clerk, a thin man with a faded tattoo on his arm, filled our tank while staring at the horizon. "You two heading far?" he asked, his voice low and flat.
"Just exploring," I replied, handing him cash. "Any good camping spots around?"
He paused, wiping his hands on a rag. "Fields out there are quiet. But stick to the road. People go missing sometimes." His eyes met mine for a second too long. Alex laughed it off as local flavor, but I felt uneasy as we drove away.
The sun dipped low, turning the sky orange. We found a pull-off near a wooded area, a spot that looked perfect for our tent. No one around, just tall grass swaying and distant refineries glowing like distant fires. We set up camp quickly, built a small fire, and shared sandwiches. "Hear that?" Alex said after a while. Crickets chirped, but something else rustled in the brush, like footsteps circling. "Probably deer," he muttered, but he added more wood to the fire.
Night fell hard. We climbed into the tent, zipping it tight. I lay awake, listening. The rustling came again, closer. Then a low whistle, almost human. Alex sat up. "What was that?" We waited, hearts pounding. It stopped. He grabbed the flashlight and unzipped the door a crack. The beam swept the field—nothing. But in the distance, headlights flashed on the road, then vanished.
Morning brought relief. We packed up, ready to move on. But the SUV wouldn't start. The engine clicked uselessly. "Battery?" I suggested. Alex popped the hood, tinkering. No luck. We were miles from anywhere, no signal. "We'll flag someone down," he said. The road was empty, though. Hours passed. A truck finally appeared, slowing as it approached. An older man in overalls stepped out, his face weathered and expressionless.
"Need help?" he called, walking over. His truck was rusty, tools scattered in the bed.
"Yeah, won't start," Alex explained. "Mind giving us a jump?"
The man nodded slowly. "Happens out here. Fields eat cars sometimes." He hooked up cables from his battery. While waiting, he leaned against his truck. "You folks from up north?"
"Dallas," I said. "Just passing through."
He glanced at the woods. "Pretty girls like you shouldn't wander alone. Lots of stories 'round here." His tone was casual, but his eyes lingered on me.
"What kind of stories?" Alex asked, trying to sound light.
"Missing ones. Women, mostly. Found in fields like this." He pointed to the tall grass beyond our camp. "Dogs dig 'em up sometimes. Skulls and such." I swallowed hard. The engine roared to life then. "There you go," he said. "Follow me to town if you want. Safer."
We thanked him and pulled out behind his truck. But something felt wrong. He drove slow, too slow, glancing back in his mirror. The road narrowed, veering away from the main path into denser woods. "Where's he going?" I whispered. Alex frowned. "Maybe a shortcut."
The man's brake lights flashed. He stopped ahead, got out, and waved us over. "Problem?" Alex yelled through the window.
"Road's bad up here. Come see." He stood by the edge, peering into the brush.
Alex hesitated, then turned off the engine. "Stay here," he told me. I locked the doors as he walked up. The man pointed at something in the grass, talking low. Alex leaned in, then stiffened. I couldn't hear, but his face changed—pale, eyes wide. He backed away, shaking his head.
"Get in the car!" Alex shouted, running back. The man followed, slow at first, then faster. "What's wrong?" I yelled, unlocking his door.
"Just drive!" Alex jumped in. I hit the gas, tires spinning on gravel. In the rearview, the man stood watching, a strange smile on his face.
"What happened?" I demanded as we sped away.
"He showed me bones. In the grass. Said they were from 'the last ones who got stuck.' Like it was funny." My hands shook on the wheel. We didn't stop until we hit a real town, Webster, with lights and people. At a diner, we asked about the area. The waitress leaned in. "Calder Road? That's the Killing Fields. Bodies turn up there. Women, vanished off the highway. Cops think it's one guy, maybe more. Never caught."
We reported it to the police—a sketchy encounter, the bones. They took notes, said they'd check, but their faces said it all: happens too often. No follow-up came. We ditched the off-grid plan, stuck to interstates home.
That night haunts me. The rustling, the whistle, the man's eyes. What if we hadn't started the car? What if we'd followed him deeper? Texas hides dark places, and we brushed one. I don't drive rural roads anymore. The quiet isn't peaceful—it's waiting.