"Help Wanted":
My friend Anna and I had always talked about taking a big road trip together. We were both in our early twenties, fresh out of college, and we wanted to see more of the world before settling into jobs. That fall, we picked Australia because it seemed exotic and full of open spaces. We planned to drive from city to city, stopping at small towns, maybe finding some short-term work to stretch our money. Halloween was coming up, and we thought it would be fun to celebrate it somewhere remote, like at a farm or a quiet spot where we could have our own little party with costumes and stories around a fire. We packed our car with bags, snacks, and a couple of silly masks we bought at a discount store. Little did we know that trip would turn into something that still wakes me up at night.
We started in Sydney, driving north along the coast at first, then cutting inland toward the drier parts. The roads got emptier the farther we went, with long stretches where we saw no one. Anna drove most of the time because she liked being in control, and I handled the map and music. We laughed a lot, singing along to old songs and sharing secrets. After a week, our cash was running low, so we checked online ads for quick jobs. That's when we found the posting on a site like Gumtree. It said a family on a remote property needed help with household tasks. Free room and board, easy work, perfect for backpackers. The ad mentioned it was for one person, but when I called the number, the woman on the phone said her neighbors could use an extra hand too. Her voice was soft, almost shy. "You and your friend can both come," she said. "My husband can pick you up from the nearest town."
"Sounds great," I told her. "We're looking for something simple, maybe a week or two."
She paused, then added, "It's quiet out here. No distractions. Just bring what you need."
Anna and I high-fived each other. We figured it was our lucky break. We drove to the meeting spot, a dusty gas station in a tiny town with barely any buildings. A man pulled up in an old truck right on time. He was tall, with rough hands and a quiet stare. "I'm Tom," he said, not smiling. "Get in. It's a long drive."
We climbed into the back seat with our bags. He didn't say much at first, just focused on the road. The path turned from pavement to dirt, bouncing us around. "How far is it?" Anna asked after a while.
"Far enough," he replied. "No one bothers us out there."
I glanced at Anna, but she shrugged. We tried to make small talk. "Do you celebrate Halloween on the farm?" I asked, trying to lighten things.
He grunted. "Not really. Too busy."
The silence grew after that. The landscape changed to flat, empty land with scattered trees and no signs of other houses. My phone lost signal about an hour in. Tom's hands gripped the wheel tighter, and he kept checking the mirrors, like he expected someone behind us. I felt a knot in my gut, but I told myself it was just the isolation playing tricks. Anna whispered to me, "He's a bit odd, but probably harmless."
After what seemed like forever, we arrived at his place. It was a low house with a few outbuildings, all faded and worn. His wife came out to greet us—a thin woman with tired eyes. She showed us around quickly. "You'll stay upstairs," she said to me. "Anna, the neighbors are just down the way. Tom will drop you there."
"Down the way?" Anna asked. "How far?"
"Not far," Tom said. "Let's go."
He drove Anna off while the wife gave me a quick tour of the kitchen. She avoided my eyes, speaking in short sentences. "Food's in the fridge. Help yourself." Then she left me alone in the upstairs room. It was small, with a bed, a table, and one window. I unpacked a little, waiting for Anna to come back, but hours passed. The sun started dipping low, and I heard the truck return, but no Anna.
"Where's my friend?" I asked Tom when he came inside.
"She's settled in," he said flatly. "You'll see her tomorrow."
I nodded, but something felt wrong. That night, I tried to sleep, but the house was too quiet. Around midnight, I heard footsteps outside my door. I sat up, listening. The knob turned slowly, but the door was locked—I had checked it earlier. Then a soft click, like metal on metal. My door swung open, and Tom stood there, blocking the light from the hall. "Just checking if you need anything," he said, his voice low.
"I'm fine," I managed to say. "Thanks."
He stared for a moment, then closed the door. I heard another click—the lock turning from the outside. My pulse quickened. I tried the knob, but it wouldn't budge. "Hey!" I called out. "The door's stuck!"
No answer. I went to the window, but it was nailed shut, the glass thick and dirty. No way out. My phone still had no bars. Panic set in. I banged on the door, yelling for the wife. "Let me out! This isn't funny!"
Hours dragged on. In the morning, a tray slid under the door—bread, water, some cheese. No note, no explanation. "What's going on?" I shouted. "Why am I locked in?"
The wife's voice came through, faint. "It's for your own good. Just stay calm."
"My own good? Let me see Anna!"
"She'll be fine. Eat your food."
I paced the room, my mind racing. Were they keeping us for work? Or something worse? I thought about all the stories I'd heard of people disappearing in remote places. The day stretched, and I tried prying the window with my nails, but it held firm. That evening, another tray came. I refused to eat, banging harder. "Tell me what's happening!"
Tom's voice this time, gruff. "Quiet down. Neighbors might hear."
Neighbors? The ad mentioned neighbors. But how close? I started thinking about escape. I had a small knife in my bag from cutting fruit on the road. I worked at the door frame, chipping wood, but it was slow. Night fell again, and I heard them talking downstairs, voices muffled. "The buyer's ready," Tom said. "We need to keep her healthy."
Buyer's ready? My blood ran cold. What were they planning? Selling something—me? Parts of me? I remembered vague news about organ rings in isolated areas. Fear gripped me tighter. I worked faster on the door, sweat dripping, hands aching.
The next day, no tray. I yelled until my throat hurt. Then, in the afternoon, I heard a vehicle outside—not Tom's truck. Footsteps approached the house. A knock on the main door. "Anyone home?" a man's voice called.
Tom answered below. "What do you want?"
"Saw a light up there last night. That room's usually empty. Everything okay?"
"It's nothing. Family visiting."
The visitor paused. "Mind if I check? Been hearing odd things."
Tom hesitated. "No need."
But the man insisted. "Just a quick look."
I pounded on my door, screaming. "Help! I'm locked in! Please!"
Silence, then rushing feet. The door unlocked, and Tom yanked it open, his face red with anger. "Shut your mouth!"
But the neighbor was already upstairs, a sturdy guy in work clothes. He saw me, disheveled and terrified. "What's this?"
"She's... sick," Tom lied. "Keeping her safe."
The neighbor looked at me. "You okay, miss?"
"No! They've locked me in. My friend's at the neighbors—please, check on her!"
His eyes narrowed. He pushed past Tom. "We're sorting this now."
Tom tried to block him, but the neighbor was stronger. He called out to his own truck, where another person waited. "Get the police on the radio!"
Chaos erupted. Tom's wife appeared, pleading. "Don't! We didn't mean harm."
But the neighbor ignored her, pulling me downstairs. "Come with me."
We got in his vehicle, and he drove fast to the next property. Anna was there, locked in a similar room. She burst into tears when she saw me. "They wouldn't let me leave! Said I owed them for the ride."
The neighbors—the ones who had Anna—weren't home, but we broke in the window to get her out. The rescuer drove us straight to the nearest town with a police station, hours away. On the way, he explained. "I've suspected them for months. Strange visitors at night, people coming and going. Saw your light and knew something was off."
The police raided the properties that night. They found evidence—documents, contacts for shady deals. Turns out, Tom and his wife were part of a group that lured young travelers with fake jobs, held them, and sold them to buyers for organs. The "neighbors" were in on it. Anna and I were lucky; the deal for me was set for the next day.
We testified, and they got arrested. But the fear lingers. Every time I think of that road trip, the empty roads, the locked door, the whispers downstairs—I wonder how close we came to never leaving. Anna and I don't talk about Halloween adventures anymore. We stick to crowded places, where help is just a shout away.
"Highway to Nowhere":
My boyfriend, Alex, and I had been planning this road trip for months. We wanted to drive from California to Nevada, hitting a few small towns along the way to celebrate Halloween with some friends in Las Vegas. It was our first big adventure together after college, just the two of us in our old van, packed with snacks and costumes. Alex was excited about the open road, and I loved seeing him smile as he mapped out the route on his phone.
We left early one morning in late October, the air crisp but not too cold. The highway stretched out ahead, empty for miles except for the occasional truck. Alex drove while I handled the music, playing old rock songs to keep things fun. "This is going to be the best trip ever," he said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. I nodded, feeling happy and free.
As the day went on, we stopped at a gas station for fuel and coffee. The clerk behind the counter chatted with us about the route. "Watch out for those long stretches at night," he warned. "Not much out there if you break down." Alex laughed it off. "We've got a full tank and each other. What could go wrong?" I smiled, but something in the clerk's eyes made me pause for a second.
Back on the road, we talked about everything—our future, silly Halloween plans, even what costumes we'd wear to the party. Alex wanted to go as a classic vampire, and I teased him about it. "You'll look ridiculous with those fake fangs," I said. He grinned. "As long as you're my victim, Emily, it'll be perfect."
Hours passed, and the sun started dipping low. We were on a remote part of the highway, no towns in sight, just desert on both sides. That's when I noticed a pickup truck behind us, its lights flashing. Alex glanced in the rearview mirror. "What's that guy doing?" he muttered. The truck pulled up beside us, and the driver, a man in a hat, gestured wildly toward the back of our van.
"Looks like he's saying something's wrong with our exhaust or tire," Alex said, slowing down. "Maybe we should pull over and check." I felt a twinge of unease. "Are you sure? It's getting dark." But Alex was always the helpful type. "It'll be quick. Better safe than sorry."
We pulled off to the side, gravel crunching under the tires. The truck stopped behind us. Alex got out, and I stayed in the passenger seat, watching in the side mirror. The man approached, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing dusty clothes. "Hey, mate," he called out in a rough voice. "Your exhaust is sparking. Could start a fire."
Alex walked to the back with him. I heard them talking faintly. "Let me see," Alex said. "Emily, rev the engine a bit?" I slid over to the driver's seat and pressed the gas gently. The engine roared, and then—bang. A sharp crack echoed, like a firecracker but louder, closer.
I turned, confused. "Alex?" No answer. The man appeared at the window suddenly, his face hard, eyes cold. He yanked the door open before I could react. "Get out," he growled, pointing a small gun at me. My mind raced— this couldn't be happening. He grabbed my arm, pulling me from the seat. I stumbled onto the ground. "Where's Alex?" I demanded, voice shaking.
He didn't answer. Instead, he twisted my arms behind my back, wrapping something tight around my wrists—cable ties, biting into my skin. "Shut up," he hissed. Pain shot through my shoulders as he dragged me toward his truck. I kicked and twisted, but he was stronger. "Please, let me go," I begged. "What did you do to Alex?"
He shoved me into the back of his truck, under a canopy. I hit the metal floor hard, tasting blood from my lip. He climbed in after me, trying to wrap tape around my ankles. That's when I saw my chance— the canopy flap was loose. I rolled away, kicking at him. My foot connected with his chest, and he grunted, losing his grip for a moment.
I scrambled out the back, wrists still bound, and ran into the darkness off the highway. Bushes scratched my legs as I dove behind them, heart racing so fast I thought it would burst. The man cursed under his breath—I heard him crash through the brush after me. "Come back here!" he shouted.
I crawled deeper into the scrub, thorns tearing at my clothes. The ground was rough, rocks digging into my knees. I found a thick bush and wedged myself under it, trying not to breathe too loud. Minutes passed. I heard his footsteps crunching nearby, stopping, listening. Then, a dog's bark— he had a dog with him. Oh no. The animal sniffed around, getting closer. I pressed my face into the dirt, willing myself invisible.
The dog whined, paws scraping close to my hiding spot. The man whispered to it, "Find her, boy." My body tensed, every muscle aching. The dog paused right above me, nose twitching. I held my breath, eyes squeezed shut. After what seemed like forever, the man yanked the leash. "Nothing here. Let's go." Footsteps faded, but I didn't move. I waited, listening to the truck engine start, then drive away.
Still, I stayed hidden. Hours dragged on. My wrists throbbed from the ties, and I could feel blood trickling down my hands. Thoughts of Alex flooded my mind— that bang, him not answering. Tears stung my eyes, but I pushed them back. I had to survive.
Finally, when the night grew quieter, I wiggled out from the bush. My legs were numb, but I made it to the highway edge. Headlights appeared in the distance. I hid again, not sure who it was. The first vehicle passed—a car, speeding by. Then another set of lights, bigger, a semi-truck. I stepped out, waving my bound hands frantically.
The truck slowed, air brakes hissing. Two drivers, a man and a woman, jumped out. "Are you okay?" the woman asked, eyes wide. I collapsed against the truck. "He shot my boyfriend. Tied me up. Please help."
They cut the ties with a knife from their toolbox, gave me water, and called the police on their radio. "Stay calm," the man said. "Cops are coming." I told them everything—the flagged down stop, the gunshot, the escape. They listened, wrapping a blanket around me.
Police arrived soon after, lights flashing. They searched the area, found Alex's body behind our van, hidden in the ditch. One bullet to the head. No sign of the man or his truck, but they took my description. Days later, after hospitals and questions, they caught him—Bradley something, a drifter with a record. DNA from my shirt matched his.
I never went on another road trip. Every Halloween, the memories creep back, sharper than before. The empty highway, that bang, the dog's sniff. It's all too real.
"Matamoros":
Last October, my buddies and I decided to hit the road for a quick getaway. Tom, David, Ryan, and I had been talking about it since summer—driving down to the border for some Halloween fun in Mexico. We figured crossing over to Matamoros would give us a taste of real celebrations, with costumes, music, and crowds that went all night. I was behind the wheel of my old pickup truck, the one with the scratched-up paint from too many off-road adventures. Ryan sat shotgun, fiddling with the radio to find something upbeat. Tom and David were in the back, passing around snacks and joking about who would chicken out first if things got too wild.
"Man, Chris, you sure this truck can make it across without falling apart?" Tom laughed, crunching on a chip. He was always the loud one, the guy who kept the energy up.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. "It got us this far from Austin. Besides, if it breaks down, we walk. Adds to the adventure."
David nodded, leaning forward. "Yeah, and Ryan here can translate if we need to hitch a ride. Your Spanish is decent, right?"
Ryan grinned. "Better than yours. Just don't ask me to order anything fancy. Tacos and beer, that's my limit."
We crossed the bridge into Matamoros around evening, the streets already buzzing with people in masks and painted faces. Vendors hawked candy skulls and fake blood, and the air carried the smell of street food. We parked near a busy avenue and joined the flow, weaving through groups laughing and dancing. It felt alive, like the whole town was in on one big party.
After a couple hours of wandering, we ended up at a packed bar called El Puente. Music thumped inside, and we squeezed our way to a table. Beers came quick, and soon we were toasting to the night.
"To stupid decisions and making it back in one piece," I said, clinking bottles.
Ryan raised his. "And to not getting lost like last time in Dallas."
We laughed, but as the night wore on, the crowd thickened. People bumped into us, some in elaborate costumes that hid their faces completely. At one point, a guy in a dark hood brushed past me, his eyes lingering a bit too long. I shook it off—Halloween vibes, right?
Around midnight, Ryan stood up. "Gotta hit the bathroom. Be right back."
"Want company?" David asked.
"Nah, I'm good. Save my seat."
He vanished into the throng. We kept chatting, but ten minutes passed, then twenty. Tom checked his watch. "Where's he at? Line must be long."
I scanned the room. No sign of him. "Let's check outside. Maybe he stepped out for air."
We pushed through the door, the cool night hitting us. The street was still lively, but quieter in spots. We called his name, walking up and down the block. Nothing. My chest tightened a little—Ryan wasn't the type to wander off without saying something.
"Split up?" Tom suggested. "You and David go that way, I'll check the alley."
We agreed, meeting back at the truck if no luck. David and I hurried down the sidewalk, peering into shops and asking vendors if they'd seen a guy in a blue shirt, tall with short brown hair. Most shook their heads, too busy with customers.
An hour later, we regrouped. No Ryan. "This isn't right," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "We should call the cops."
David frowned. "On Halloween? They'll think he's just drunk somewhere."
But we did it anyway. At the local station, an officer took our report, nodding politely. "Many people get separated in the crowds. Check back in the morning. He probably found a place to crash."
That didn't sit well. We drove back across the border to our motel in Brownsville, figuring he'd show up there. Sleep didn't come easy. I kept replaying the night, wondering if I'd missed something.
Morning brought no calls, no knocks. We headed back to Matamoros, handing out flyers we printed at a copy shop—Ryan's photo from my phone, our numbers scribbled below. "Have you seen this man?" we asked everyone we could.
A street vendor paused when I showed him the picture. "Maybe. Last night, near the bar. Talking to a woman, tall, pretty. Then some guys in a truck."
My pulse quickened. "What guys? What truck?"
He shrugged. "Old white pickup. Didn't see faces. They drove off fast."
Tom gripped my arm. "That's something. Let's ask around more."
We spent the day combing the area, talking to bartenders and locals. One guy at a taco stand mentioned hearing about disappearances lately—people vanishing, whispers of bad groups involved in drugs. "Stay out of the outskirts," he warned. "Not safe."
David looked worried. "What if Ryan got mixed up in something?"
I pushed the thought away. "He's smart. Probably just lost his phone."
But doubt crept in. That evening, we drove farther out, following a tip from a shop owner about a ranch where sketchy folks hung out. The road turned dusty, buildings thinning to fields. We pulled over near a fence, the place looking abandoned.
"Should we check it?" Tom asked.
I nodded. "Quietly. Don't want trouble."
We hopped the fence, hearts racing. The ground was uneven, dotted with sheds. As we neared one, voices drifted—low, chanting. We froze behind a bush.
Peeking through, I saw figures in a circle, lit by lanterns. A man in the center held something shiny—a knife? They murmured words I didn't understand, rhythmic and eerie.
David whispered, "What is that?"
Before I could answer, a branch snapped under Tom's foot. Heads turned. "Run!" I hissed.
We bolted back to the truck, engines roaring as we sped away. Back at the motel, we paced the room.
"That was weird," Tom said. "Like some ritual."
I rubbed my face. "We need help. Real help."
The next day, we met with a U.S. agent our families connected us to. He listened, face grim. "There are groups here—cults mixed with cartels. They do... things for protection. Sacrifices."
The word hung heavy. "You think Ryan..."
He shook his head. "Don't jump ahead. But stay put. We'll search."
We couldn't. Another tip came—a local kid said he'd seen a truck like the one described heading to Santa Elena ranch. We drove there at dusk, parking far off and sneaking closer.
The ranch looked ordinary at first—barn, house, fields. But as we approached a shed, a foul smell hit us, like rot and smoke. Inside, through a crack, I saw altars with candles, bones scattered. Animal bones? Human?
Tom gagged. "This is bad."
Then, footsteps. We hid as two men walked by, talking in Spanish. One mentioned "the American" and "the padrino's orders."
My blood ran cold. Padrino—godfather? Leader?
We followed them quietly to a clearing. There, a group gathered around a pit. They dug, pulling up... dirt-covered shapes. Bodies? I strained to see.
David grabbed my shoulder. "Look—over there."
Tied to a post, disheveled and bruised—Ryan. Alive, but barely. His eyes were wide, mouth gagged.
"We have to get him," I whispered.
The men chanted again, a tall woman joining them—beautiful, but her smile twisted. She spoke of power, of blood bringing strength.
Tom nodded. "Distraction. I'll make noise over there. You two grab him."
It was risky, but we had no choice. Tom slipped away, then yelled, throwing rocks at a shed. The group startled, some running toward the sound.
David and I dashed to Ryan. "It's us," I said, cutting the ropes with my pocket knife. "Come on."
He stumbled, weak. "They... they killed others. For rituals. Brain... they take..."
"Shh, later," David urged.
Shouts erupted. They spotted us. We ran, Ryan between us, legs shaking. Bullets whizzed past—real guns.
"Truck!" I yelled.
We piled in, tires spinning on gravel. In the mirror, figures chased, one firing more shots. A tire blew, but I kept going, swerving onto the main road.
We made it to the border, agents swarming us after our call. Ryan collapsed, medics rushing in.
Later, in the hospital, he told us everything. Abducted on the street by men promising a shortcut. Taken to the ranch, held in a shack. The leader—a man called Constanzo—ranted about sacrifices for invincibility. They tortured victims, removed organs while alive, boiled them in pots for potions. Ryan was next, but our arrival stopped it.
Police raided the ranch days later, finding graves—dozens of mutilated bodies. The cult fled, but some were caught. Constanzo died in a shootout, ordering his own death.
We survived, but the nightmares linger. Every Halloween, I think of that trip, the chants echoing. Ryan healed physically, but none of us are the same. We learned the hard way—some horrors hide in plain sight, waiting for the unwary.
"Headwaters":
It was the fall of 1973, and my family decided to take a big trip across the country to see new places. I was thirteen, excited about skipping school for a while. My dad worked at a car factory back in Michigan, and he saved up his time off for this. Mom packed the van with snacks and blankets, and my little sister Lily, who was seven, kept asking if we could stop at every diner for pie. My two younger brothers argued over who got the window seat. We planned to drive west, camp along the way, and celebrate Halloween in some fun spot with costumes and candy. Lily wanted to dress as a pumpkin, and I picked a witch outfit from the store.
We hit the road early in October, singing songs and playing games to pass the miles. Dad drove most of the time, telling stories about his own childhood adventures. Mom read maps and pointed out landmarks. By the time we reached Montana, the leaves had turned bright colors, and the air felt crisp. We found a spot at Headwaters Park near a wide river. It looked peaceful, with tall trees and open spaces for tents. Dad set up the big family tent for him and Mom, and a smaller one for us kids. Lily clutched her stuffed bear as we unpacked. "This is going to be the best Halloween ever," she said, her eyes wide with joy.
That evening, we built a small fire and roasted marshmallows. Dad shared funny tales about old camping trips, making us all laugh. Mom hugged Lily close and said, "Stay near the tents tonight, okay? No wandering." Lily nodded, promising to be good. As the fire died down, we crawled into our sleeping bags. The boys fell asleep fast, snoring softly. Lily snuggled next to me, her little hand in mine. I lay awake for a bit, listening to the river flow and thinking about the costumes we'd wear in a few days. Eventually, sleep came.
I woke to a strange sound, like fabric tearing. My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I saw a slit in the tent wall, right near where Lily slept. A cool breeze slipped in. I sat up quietly, my pulse quickening. Lily's spot was empty—her sleeping bag rumpled, her bear gone. I whispered her name, but no answer came. The boys still slept. I poked my head out the flap, scanning the dim campsite. Shadows moved from the trees, but nothing clear. I stepped out barefoot, the ground cold under my feet. "Lily?" I called softly, not wanting to wake everyone yet.
I walked a few steps toward the parking area where our van sat. Footprints marked the dirt, small ones like Lily's, mixed with larger ones leading away. My breath caught. I ran back to the parents' tent. "Mom! Dad! Lily's gone!" I shouted. They bolted up, confused at first. Dad grabbed a flashlight and shone it around. We found Lily's stuffed animals tossed in the grass, like she'd been pulled away quickly. Mom's face went pale. "Where is she? Lily!" she cried, her voice breaking.
Dad rushed to the park office to call the police. Officers arrived soon, their lights flashing. They asked questions: Had we seen anyone strange? Heard any cars? I told them about the tear in the tent and the footprints. They nodded, saying it looked like someone took her. The search started right away—men with dogs combed the woods, helicopters buzzed overhead. Mom held me tight, tears streaming. "We'll find her," she whispered, but her grip felt desperate.
Days blurred into worry. We stayed in a nearby motel, waiting for news. Police talked about possible leads, but nothing solid. Halloween came and went without celebration. I stared at my unused witch hat, feeling empty. Lily's pumpkin costume hung in the van, untouched. Then, a week later, the phone rang in our room. Dad answered, his face hardening. "Who is this?" he demanded. The voice on the other end described Lily's nails—how they curved in a special way, like little humps. "If you want her back, wait for instructions," the man said, then hung up. No more calls came that day.
We told the police, who traced it but found nothing. The FBI got involved, saying it might cross state lines. Agents set up in our motel, recording lines. Mom paced, barely eating. "Why her? She's just a child," she said to me one night. I hugged her, hiding my own fear. What if the man hurt her? Images flashed in my mind—Lily scared, alone.
Months passed. Winter hit hard, but we couldn't go home without answers. In February, news broke about another girl missing nearby, a teenager named Sandra. Her picture looked like any kid—smiling, full of life. Parts of her were found later, burned and scattered on a ranch. I overheard agents whispering about connections. My stomach tightened. Was it the same person?
On the one-year mark, June again but feeling like forever, the phone rang at the motel. Mom picked up. The man laughed, saying he'd been traveling with Lily, pretending she was his kid. "She's fine," he mocked. Mom begged, "Please, let me hear her." He hung up. She collapsed, sobbing. Dad held her, his eyes angry. Another call came in September from far away. A child's voice said, "Mommy?" But it sounded wrong, forced. Agents traced it to a city down south.
They suspected a local man, David, who lived nearby and had a bad history. He'd been in the military, built houses for work. Mom decided to face him. "I need to know," she told the agents. They wired her with a recorder. I waited in the car with Dad, biting my nails. She went to his door, acting like a neighbor with questions. He invited her in, calm at first. But when she mentioned missing girls, his smile faded. "Why ask me?" he said, voice low.
Mom pushed: "I think you know something about my daughter." He shifted, eyes darting. "Get out," he growled. She left, shaking. Agents listened to the tape, saying his reactions matched a guilty man. They watched him, gathered evidence. One night, they raided his house. What they found made headlines: frozen packages with body parts, a hand with fingers cut off. He confessed to everything—taking Lily from our tent, strangling her at his ranch, cutting her up. He did the same to Sandra and others. Said he killed a boy years before at the same park.
He hanged himself in jail before trial. We finally had answers, but no Lily to bury whole. Mom and Dad brought us home, broken. I still hear that tearing sound in my dreams, see the empty spot beside me. The road trip that started with hope ended in nightmare. Every October, when kids dress up, I lock my doors tight, remembering how one man turned our adventure into terror.