"The Fake Order":
I had been driving for the local Chinese takeaway for about six months, covering the small towns and farms around County Durham. The pay was decent, and most nights were easy—drop off the food, collect the cash, head back. But that night, everything changed.
My boss, Mr. Chen, was wiping down the counter when the phone rang. It was getting late, around nine o'clock, and we were about to close.
"Golden Flower," he answered. He listened, nodded, and scribbled on a pad. "Chicken chow mein, egg fried rice, spring rolls. Address? Blue House Farm, Shotley Bridge. Okay, twenty minutes."
He hung up and looked at me. "Last one for you, Tom. Out in the countryside. Be quick, roads are empty this time."
I grabbed the insulated bag, checked the order, and headed out to my old Peugeot. The farm was about fifteen miles away, down winding lanes that cut through fields and woods. I knew the area a little—isolated spots where people lived off the main grid, no neighbors for miles. I turned on the radio to fill the quiet, some old pop song playing softly.
The drive felt longer than usual. The headlights picked out hedges and the occasional gate, but no other cars passed. I turned onto the unpaved track leading to the farm, the car bouncing over ruts. Up ahead, the house lights glowed faintly through the windows.
I parked at the end of the lane, grabbed the bag, and walked to the door. Knocked twice. A woman in her fifties opened it, peering out.
"Delivery from Golden Flower," I said, holding up the bag.
She frowned. "We didn't order any food."
I checked the slip again. "Blue House Farm? Chicken chow mein and the rest?"
"That's us, but no, we haven't called anyone." She called over her shoulder, "John, did you order takeaway?"
A man came to the door, shaking his head. "Not me. Must be a mistake."
I sighed. "Sorry about that. I'll take it back to the shop."
"No problem," the woman said. "Drive safe."
I turned and walked back down the lane toward my car. The air was still, no sounds except my footsteps crunching on gravel. That's when I heard it—a rustle from the bushes off to the side. I stopped, squinted into the dark. Nothing. Probably an animal, I thought. Fox or something.
I reached the car, opened the door, and tossed the bag inside. As I slid into the seat, a shadow moved in the rearview mirror. Before I could react, the back door flew open, and a hand clamped over my mouth. A strong arm wrapped around my neck, pulling me back.
"Give me the money," a low voice growled in my ear. "All of it."
I struggled, elbows flailing, but he was big, heavier than me. His grip tightened, cutting off my air. I tasted blood where my lip split against his palm.
"Stop fighting," he said. "Or it'll get worse."
Panic surged through me. I fumbled for the keys, but he yanked me out of the car, slamming me against the side. The impact knocked the wind out of me. He had a mask over his face, dark eyes glaring.
"The cash from the deliveries," he demanded. "Hand it over."
I had about fifty pounds in my pocket from the night's runs. "Okay, okay," I gasped, reaching for it.
But as I pulled it out, he snatched it and shoved me hard. I stumbled, falling to the ground. He loomed over me, pulling something from his jacket—a heavy metal bar, like a tire iron.
"Please," I said, scrambling back. "Take it and go."
He raised the bar. "You saw my face."
No, I hadn't—he was masked—but that didn't matter. He swung down, and I rolled just in time. The bar hit the gravel with a thud. I kicked out, catching his knee. He grunted, staggering.
I got to my feet and ran, not toward the car, but toward the farm house. "Help!" I shouted. "Someone help!"
He came after me, footsteps pounding. The lane was long, maybe a hundred yards. I could see the house lights ahead. He was closing in—I felt his hand grab my jacket.
I twisted, swung my fist, connecting with his shoulder. He swung the bar again, grazing my side. Pain exploded, but I kept running.
"Stop!" he yelled.
The door of the farm house opened. The man, John, stepped out. "What's going on?"
The attacker hesitated, then turned and bolted into the fields.
I collapsed on the doorstep, breathing hard. The woman helped me inside, calling the police.
"Are you all right?" she asked, pressing a cloth to my bleeding lip.
"I think so," I said. "He came out of nowhere."
The police arrived within half an hour. They searched the area, found footprints leading into the woods, but no sign of him. The order had been fake, placed from a public phone box a few miles away. They figured he planned to rob me in that isolated spot, knowing no one would hear.
Days later, they told me my car had been tampered with before—scratches, like warnings. Maybe he had been watching me.
I quit the job after that. Couldn't face those lonely roads again. Every time I drive past a farm now, I wonder if he's still out there, waiting for the next one.
"Blocked Road":
I had been working as a delivery driver for Amazon Flex for about two years, picking up extra shifts to pay off some bills. The job sent me all over, from city streets to back roads, but I always felt okay as long as I stuck to the app's directions. One afternoon in late 2021, I got an assignment for a package going to a spot way up in the San Diego County mountains. The address was at the end of a long dirt road, past a broken gate that looked like it had not been fixed in ages. The delivery notes said to leave the box at a small trailer behind the main house, not at the front door. That seemed odd, but I figured it was just some eccentric customer who liked privacy.
I loaded the box into my car and headed out. The drive took longer than expected. The road twisted through thick trees, and my phone signal started fading after a while. I called my friend Lisa from the car to let her know where I was going, just in case. "Hey, Lisa, I'm heading up to this remote place for a drop-off. If I don't text you in an hour, send help," I said, half joking. She laughed and replied, "Be careful out there. Those mountain folks can be weird. Call me when you're done." I promised I would and kept driving. The path got narrower, rocks crunching under my tires, and soon I saw the place. There was a big house that looked fancy but run-down, with windows covered in dust. Behind it sat the trailer, old and rusty, like something from a junkyard.
I parked near the trailer and grabbed the box. It was heavy, full of what felt like tools or supplies. As I walked up the steps, the door creaked open slowly. A man stepped out. He was tall, with messy hair and clothes that looked like he had slept in them for days. His eyes fixed on me right away, and he smiled in a way that made my skin crawl. "You're here," he said, his voice low and excited. "Just in time. We were waiting for the supplies." I set the box down quickly and scanned the app to mark it delivered. "Here's your package, sir. Have a good day," I said, turning to leave.
He blocked the step a bit, leaning forward. "No, stay. We're about to start, and we need you here with the supplies." Start what? I thought, but I kept my voice steady. "I have more deliveries to make. Sorry, I can't." He chuckled, a sound that echoed strangely in the quiet. "But we need a woman for this. Come inside. The others will be happy to see you." Others? I glanced at the trailer window and saw shapes moving behind the dirty curtain—two more men, watching us. One of them nodded at the first guy. My mind raced. This did not feel right. Was this some kind of setup? I backed away, saying, "No, thank you. I really have to go." He reached out, grabbing at my arm lightly. "Don't be like that. It's important. Come on in."
I yanked my arm free and ran to my car. My hands shook as I started the engine. He stood there, watching, and called out, "You'll regret leaving!" I sped down the dirt road, dust flying up behind me. My phone had no signal, so I could not call Lisa or anyone. The gate was ahead, but as I got closer, I saw something new—a small tree lying across the path. It had not been there when I drove in. Who put that there? I stopped the car and got out to move it, but it was heavier than it looked. As I struggled, I heard footsteps crunching on gravel from the trees nearby. "Hey!" a voice shouted—the same man from the trailer? Or one of the others?
I dropped the tree and jumped back into my car. The footsteps got louder, closer. I locked the doors and reversed, then turned around in a panic, scraping the side of my car on a rock. I drove back up the road a little, looking for another way out. There was a narrow path off to the side, maybe an old trail. I took it, branches scratching the windows. The car bounced over roots, and I gripped the wheel tight. Behind me, I heard an engine roar—someone starting a truck? I pushed the gas harder, the path opening up to another road. Finally, my phone beeped with signal. I called 911 right away. "Help, please. I think someone tried to grab me at a delivery," I gasped to the operator. "I'm in the mountains near San Diego. They blocked the road." She asked for details, and I gave the address while driving fast toward the highway.
The police met me at a gas station down the mountain. I told them everything—the man's words, the shapes in the window, the tree across the path. An officer named Officer Ramirez listened and said, "We'll check it out. Sounds like it could be dangerous. Stay here while we go up." I waited in my car, calling Lisa. "Oh my God, what happened?" she asked. I explained, my voice shaking. "He said they needed a woman. And there were more people inside. I think they were going to hurt me." She stayed on the line until the police came back.
Officer Ramirez returned later that evening. "We found the place. The trailer was empty, but there were signs people had been there recently—food wrappers, a few tools from your delivery box. The main house was locked up, belongs to some out-of-town owner. No one around, but we'll keep an eye on it." He paused. "You did the right thing getting out fast. We've had reports of strange activity in those hills—people squatting, maybe running illegal stuff. Could have been bad."
I quit deliveries after that. Now I work in an office, but I still think about what might have happened if I had stayed. What were they starting? Why did they need a woman? And who put that tree there to stop me from leaving? Every time I see a dirt road, I wonder if places like that are waiting for the next person to show up alone.
"Tip of the Trap":
I started doing DoorDash gigs after losing my office job, figuring it would be easy money driving around at night. Most deliveries went fine, dropping off burgers or tacos at apartments or houses in the city. But one evening in late fall, I got an order that took me way out past the suburbs, into a stretch of empty land where the roads turned narrow and unpaved. The app showed the address as some place off a county highway, about twenty-five minutes from the pickup spot at a fast-food joint. The tip looked decent, twelve bucks, so I accepted without thinking much.
As I drove, the streetlights faded away, and soon it was just my headlights cutting through the dark. Trees lined both sides, thick and close, like walls closing in. My phone signal dipped to one bar, but the GPS kept guiding me. "Turn left in half a mile," it said. I followed, bumping onto a gravel path that led to what looked like an old farmhouse set back from the road. No other buildings around, no neighbors, nothing but fields stretching out. The house sat there, completely blacked out—no porch light, no glow from windows. I pulled up, grabbed the bag with the two burgers and fries, and stepped out. My car engine ticked as it cooled.
I walked up to the door, knocking twice. No answer. I checked the app instructions: "Leave at door if no one home." But something felt off. I messaged the customer: "Hey, I'm here with your order. Anyone home?" A minute passed, then my phone buzzed. "I see you. Come around back." The words made me pause. Why around back? But tips paid the bills, so I started walking along the side of the house, the gravel crunching under my shoes.
"Hello?" I called out softly. No response. The back yard opened up to more darkness, with a shed in the distance and what looked like an old barn. I held up my phone flashlight, scanning around. "Your food's getting cold," I said louder. Then a voice came from somewhere near the trees, low and calm. "Over here. Bring it over." I stopped. It was a man's voice, but I couldn't see him. "Where are you? I can leave it on the porch." He laughed, short and sharp. "Nah, come closer. I got your tip right here."
I turned back toward my car, deciding to bail. That's when I heard footsteps, multiple sets, coming from different directions. Before I could run, a figure stepped out from behind the house—a guy in a dark hoodie, face hidden under a cap. "Give me the keys," he said, his voice flat. Another man appeared from the trees, holding something that glinted like a knife. "And the phone. Wallet too." A third one came from the shed, blocking my path back. They had planned this, waiting in the shadows.
"Look, take the food, but let me go," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. The first guy shook his head. "We want the car. Hand over everything, or it gets bad." I backed up slowly, my mind racing. My keys were in my pocket, phone in hand. The second man lunged forward, grabbing at my arm. I swung the food bag hard, hitting him in the face, fries spilling everywhere. He stumbled, cursing under his breath. "Get him!" the third one yelled.
I ran toward the car, but when I got there, all four tires were flat, slashed deep. They must have done it while I was at the door. Panic hit me as they closed in. The first guy tackled me from behind, pinning me to the ground. "Stop fighting," he growled, pressing the knife against my side. It cut through my shirt, stinging sharp. I twisted, elbowing him in the ribs, and managed to roll free. The second man swung a punch, connecting with my jaw, sending pain exploding through my head. I tasted blood but kept moving, scrambling to my feet.
"Give us the keys now!" the third one demanded, circling around. I faked throwing them into the bushes, and when he turned to look, I bolted past him toward the road. They chased, footsteps pounding behind me. "You're dead!" one shouted. My legs burned as I ran down the gravel path, lungs aching. The highway was maybe a quarter mile away, but in the dark, it felt endless. I heard them getting closer, breathing heavy.
Then lights appeared—a pair of headlights coming down the county road. I waved my arms wildly, yelling, "Help! Stop!" The car slowed, an older woman behind the wheel, her face surprised. The men stopped chasing, melting back into the trees. I banged on her window. "Please, call the police. They tried to rob me." She locked eyes with me for a second, then nodded and dialed on her phone. "Stay in the car with me," she said through the glass, unlocking the passenger door.
The police arrived fifteen minutes later, two officers with flashlights searching the property. The house was vacant, they said, foreclosed months ago. The DoorDash order came from a burner account, paid with a stolen card. They found footprints and tire marks, but no one. I had bruises, a cut on my side that needed stitches, and my car got towed. The officers told me it wasn't the first time—groups targeted delivery drivers in isolated spots, luring them with fake orders to steal cars or worse.
Days later, I couldn't shake it. Every time my phone pinged with a new gig, I saw that dark house, heard those voices. I quit DoorDash, got a day job stocking shelves. But at night, when I'm alone, I wonder if those men are still out there, waiting in some other remote spot for the next driver to show up.
"Trapped by a Fugitive":
I had been driving for the parcel company for about two years, mostly sticking to the city routes where houses were close together and people were always around. But that day, my boss assigned me a special delivery to a far-out spot in the Kern County foothills. The address was for a cabin way off the main roads, the kind of place where folks lived without power lines or neighbors. I loaded the box into my van—it was heavy, labeled with some tools or supplies—and set off early in the morning. The GPS led me through twisting dirt paths, and soon the signal faded. I figured it was just one of those remote drops, hand it over and head back.
After bumping along for what felt like miles, I spotted the cabin nestled against a rocky hill, surrounded by scrub brush and tall pines. It looked run-down, with a small pond nearby and an old ATV parked out front. No one came out when I honked, so I grabbed the package and walked up to the door. "Hello? Delivery for Mr. Johnson," I called out, knocking lightly. No answer. I set the box down and turned to leave, but then I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind me.
A man stepped out from the trees, carrying a shotgun slung over his shoulder and a rifle in his hands. He was thin, with wild eyes and dirty clothes, like he hadn't seen a shower in days. "That's my land," he said, his voice rough and low. "The government dropped me here in a body bag from space. This is all mine now."
I raised my hands slowly, trying to stay calm. "I'm just delivering a package, sir. It's for the owner. I'll leave it and go."
He shook his head, pacing back and forth. "No, you won't. You're with them, aren't you? The ones chasing me." He raised the shotgun, pointing it right at my chest. "Get inside the cabin. Now."
My mind raced. The area was so isolated—no cars passing, no sounds but the wind in the trees. I thought about running, but he was too close, and that gun looked ready. "Please, I have a family waiting for me," I said, backing toward the door. "I'm not with anyone. Just doing my job."
"Shut up and move," he snapped, jabbing the barrel forward. I opened the door and stepped in, the air inside musty and filled with the smell of old food. The place had a few rooms, bunk beds, and piles of trash bags stuffed with cans and bottles. He followed me in, locking the door behind us. "Sit down on that bed. Don't try anything."
I sat, watching him rifle through my delivery vest pockets. He found my keys and tossed them aside. "Why are you here really?" he asked, leaning in close. His breath was sour. "Tell me the truth, or I'll end this quick."
"I'm telling the truth," I replied, my voice steady as I could make it. "The box is outside. Tools or something. I don't know what's in it. Let me go, and I won't say a word."
He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "You think I'm stupid? I've been out here for days, hiding from the cops. They think I killed that old guy at the other house, but he had it coming." He paced the room, muttering to himself about helicopters and trackers. Then he stopped and looked at me. "I could kill you right now. No one would find you for weeks."
The words hung in the air. I glanced around the room, spotting a small window high up, but it was too small to climb through. "What do you want from me?" I asked, buying time. "I can help you if you let me."
He sat across from me, the shotgun across his knees. "Help? Like how? You got food in that van?"
"Some snacks, water," I said. "Let me get them. We can talk."
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No tricks. Stand up slow." He marched me outside at gunpoint, and I handed him the water bottle and energy bars from the van. Back inside, he ate one, still watching me. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood," he said. "I like you. You're not like the others. They raped me, you know? In prison. But you seem decent."
His stories got stranger. He talked about being a drifter, breaking into houses for food, and how the police were closing in. "I spared those kids last time," he muttered, but I didn't ask what he meant. The more he spoke, the more I realized he was unstable, swinging from friendly to angry in seconds. "You my friend now," he said at one point, smiling oddly. "I love you like a brother. But if you lie, I'll have to do it."
Hours passed. He locked me in a small storage room with bunk beds and a tiny restroom, barring the door with a board. "Stay quiet," he warned through the wood. "I'll be back."
I pushed against the door, but it held. Through a crack, I saw him gathering things, loading the rifle. He seemed paranoid, peeking out windows. Then I heard the ATV start up, the engine roaring as he drove away, the sound growing fainter.
This was my chance. I rammed the door with my shoulder until the board cracked, then squeezed out. The cabin was empty, but I grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter for protection. Outside, the light was fading, the hills turning dark. I ran toward the trees, my boots sinking in the soft dirt. The terrain was rough—steep drops, rocks everywhere. I hid behind a boulder when I heard the ATV return, its motor echoing through the valley.
He was back, shouting my name. "Come out! I know you're here!" Lights from the ATV swept the area as he drove in circles, stopping to listen. I held my breath, gripping the knife. He got closer, the beam almost catching me. I backed away, but my foot slipped on loose gravel, and I tumbled down a slope, scraping my arms on branches.
The fall saved me—he didn't hear over the engine. I landed in a dry creek bed, bruised but okay. Staying low, I crawled along the creek, putting distance between us. The night came fast, making every rustle sound like footsteps. I thought of my wife and kids, how I had to get home. After what seemed like forever, I reached a dirt road and flagged down a passing truck—a local farmer heading to town.
The police came quickly. They said the man's name was Benjamin Peter Ashley, wanted for murder at another cabin. He had been squatting there, and my delivery put me in his path. They launched a manhunt, and days later, he was cornered and took his own life. I still drive routes, but I avoid the remote ones now. That day taught me how fast a simple job can turn into a nightmare.
"Bait Package":
I took a job as a package delivery driver about six months ago, figuring it would pay the bills while I looked for something better. The work was straightforward—load the van in the morning, follow the GPS, drop off boxes, and move on. I covered a mix of city streets and country roads, but nothing too far out until that one afternoon in late spring.
The order came in around noon. It was a small box, nothing heavy, addressed to a place way outside town. The map showed a narrow road leading into thick woods, no neighbors for miles. I checked the notes: "Leave at front door if no answer. Customer prefers contactless." Fine by me. I grabbed a quick lunch at a gas station and headed out. The drive started easy, but soon the pavement gave way to gravel, then dirt. Trees closed in on both sides, blocking most of the light. My phone signal dropped to one bar, then nothing. I kept going, bumping along for what felt like forever.
Finally, I spotted the house—or what was left of it. It looked like an old cabin, boards weathered gray, windows dirty and cracked. No car in sight, no lights on inside. I pulled up close, killed the engine, and scanned the box again. The label said "Fragile—Handle with Care," but no name, just the address. I stepped out, box in hand, and walked to the door. The porch creaked under my feet. I knocked twice, waited. No sound from inside. "Hello? Delivery," I called out. Still nothing. I set the box down and pulled out my scanner to mark it delivered.
That's when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned fast. A man stood at the edge of the porch, tall and thin, wearing faded jeans and a stained shirt. He had a beard that looked like it hadn't been trimmed in weeks, and his eyes fixed on me like he was sizing up a meal.
"You the delivery guy?" he asked, his voice low and rough.
"Yes, sir. Just dropping this off."
He nodded slow, stepping closer. "Appreciate you coming all this way. Not many folks make it out here."
I forced a smile. "No problem. Have a good day."
As I turned to leave, he spoke again. "Wait. You thirsty? Long drive like that, bet you could use some water."
I paused. Company rules said keep interactions short, but he seemed polite enough. "I'm okay, thanks. Got to get back."
He chuckled, a dry sound. "Come on, just a minute. My brother's inside. He ordered that package. Wants to thank you proper."
Something felt off. The cabin looked empty, no signs of life. But the man blocked the steps now, his hand resting on the railing. I glanced at my van, maybe twenty feet away. "Really, I can't. More stops to make."
His smile faded. "You sure? We don't get visitors often. Makes a man lonely out here."
I backed up a step. "Positive. Enjoy your package."
That's when the door behind me swung open. Another man stepped out, shorter but built solid, with a scar across his cheek. "What's the holdup, Earl?" he said to the first guy.
"This here's the delivery man. Says he don't want water."
The shorter one eyed me. "That so? Polite to accept when offered."
My mouth went dry. No phone signal, no one around. I kept my voice steady. "Look, I just deliver. Nothing else."
Earl leaned in. "We know. Saw you coming up the road. Been waiting."
The shorter one—let's call him the brother—picked up the box and shook it lightly. "What's in here, anyway?"
"Beats me. I don't open them."
He set it down and stepped closer. "You should. Might be something good."
I edged toward the steps. "I need to go."
Earl grabbed my arm, grip like iron. "No rush. Come inside. We got questions."
I yanked free, heart racing now. "Let me go."
The brother laughed. "Ain't nobody out here to hear you."
I bolted for the van. Footsteps pounded after me. I reached the door, fumbled the keys. Earl slammed into me from behind, pinning me against the side. "Told you to stay," he growled.
I elbowed him hard, caught him in the ribs. He grunted, loosened his hold. I spun, shoved him back, and dove into the driver's seat. The brother lunged for the door, but I slammed it shut, locked it. Keys in ignition—turn, engine roared. Gravel flew as I peeled out.
In the mirror, I saw them running after, shouting. Earl picked up a rock, hurled it. It cracked the back window. I didn't stop, bouncing down that dirt road, branches scraping the sides. Miles later, pavement appeared. Signal came back. I pulled over, hands shaking, and called the police.
They met me at the station. I told them everything—the address, the men, the grab. Officers went out there that night. Found the cabin empty, box gone. No sign of anyone. But they dug around. Turns out, that spot had a history. Locals said drifters used it sometimes, luring people with fake orders. A year back, a hiker went missing nearby, body found weeks later in the woods, beaten bad. Police thought it was random, but now they wondered.
They never caught those two. I quit delivering after that. Switched to warehouse work, no roads involved. But sometimes, when I'm alone, I think about what might have happened if I went inside. If they got me in there, with no one to hear.
The cops said I was lucky. The order was probably bait, placed with a stolen card. Those men waited for someone like me—alone, far from help. I still check my mirrors on long drives. You never know who's watching from the trees.