"The Vanishing Place":
I never thought a simple walk home from the bus stop could turn into something so wrong.
My sister Anna and I lived on the far edge of the Navajo reservation, where the land stretches wide and bare for miles—just red dirt, sagebrush, and wind under a sky that never seemed to end. That afternoon in May, the school bus dropped us off at the same dusty pull-off it always did, where the road turned to gravel and then to dirt. Home was only a quarter mile away, an easy walk we made every day.
Anna was eleven, full of restless energy, her dark braid swinging as she skipped ahead with her backpack bouncing. I was nine, dragging my feet, kicking rocks just to hear them clatter against the hard earth.
That’s when the red van appeared, rolling toward us from the opposite direction. Dust trailed behind it like smoke. It wasn’t a vehicle I recognized—most folks around here drove old pickups or faded sedans, nothing shiny, nothing red.
The van slowed. The driver leaned out the window, his arm resting casually on the door. “Hey, kids,” he called, voice steady and friendly. “Need a lift? Looks like a long walk.”
Anna stopped. I saw her shoulders tense before she turned halfway back to me. “We shouldn’t,” she whispered. “Mom said not to talk to strangers.”
I nodded, but curiosity tugged at me. The man had a scruffy beard and dark, steady eyes. He looked like someone who’d worked outside all his life—tanned skin, calloused hands gripping the wheel.
He smiled, showing crooked teeth. “Come on now, I’m heading that way anyway. Your mom won’t mind. I know her from town.”
Anna frowned. “What’s your name?”
“Tom,” he said easily. “Tom Begay. Everyone around here knows me.”
That name—it sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Maybe Mom had mentioned it once. Maybe he’d done work for someone we knew.
Anna hesitated, glancing down the empty road. No other cars, no houses in sight. Just open land and the faint shimmer of heat.
“It’s hot,” I muttered. “It’s not far, but…”
She bit her lip. Then, with a sigh that sounded older than eleven, she nodded. “Okay. But only because it’s too hot to walk.”
We climbed in the back—Anna first, then me. The door shut with a heavy thud. Inside smelled of old cigarettes, gasoline, and something sharp and metallic I couldn’t name.
At first, everything seemed fine. The van hummed forward, tires crunching on gravel. Then he passed our turn.
“Uh, that’s our road back there,” Anna said, sitting up straighter.
The man chuckled softly. “Shortcut,” he said. “Faster this way.”
But the “shortcut” led us deeper into nowhere. The dirt road narrowed to two ruts winding through open scrubland. No fences. No signs. Just the endless horizon.
My stomach tightened. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“Just a bit further,” he said, voice still calm but different now—flat, distant.
Anna grabbed my hand. “Turn around. Take us home,” she said, her voice shaking.
He didn’t answer. The van bounced harder over the ruts, dust billowing behind.
“Please,” I said, louder this time.
That’s when his tone changed completely. “Quiet.” The word cracked like a whip.
Fear hit me like a wave. I looked at Anna. Her face had gone pale.
“We have to get out,” she whispered, her breath trembling. “When he stops.”
But he didn’t stop. He kept driving, faster now, deeper into the desert. The sun started lowering, long shadows crawling over the land.
After what felt like forever, he turned into a dry wash surrounded by low red hills. The van jerked to a stop. He cut the engine.
“Out,” he said.
Anna moved first. The second the door opened, she bolted, shouting, “Run!”
I followed, heart hammering. Sand sprayed under my shoes as we sprinted.
“Get back here!” he yelled, feet pounding behind us.
I heard Anna ahead, her voice desperate. “Come on, Ian! Faster!”
He caught my arm, fingers digging in like claws. I screamed, twisting. “Let go!”
Anna turned, grabbed a rock, and hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder with a dull thud.
“You little brat!” he shouted, yanking me closer.
Anna rushed him, kicking, clawing. “Leave him alone!”
He shoved her hard. She fell, scraping her knee, blood spotting the dirt. Something inside me snapped. I bit his hand as hard as I could.
He cursed and loosened his grip. I tore free, grabbed Anna’s arm, and we ran.
The world blurred—rocks, brush, wind. He was behind us, closer every second. I could hear his boots hitting the ground.
We dove behind a cluster of boulders, gasping, hearts racing.
“Shh,” Anna whispered. “Don’t move.”
We crouched low, listening. Footsteps stopped.
“Kids!” he called. His voice was sing-song now, mocking. “Anna. Ian. You can’t hide forever.”
How did he know our names? My blood turned cold.
Anna’s eyes widened. “He’s been watching us. He knows who we are.”
The man’s voice drifted closer. “You’re making this worse. Come out, and I won’t hurt you.”
We stayed silent. The desert held its breath with us.
Then—nothing. Just the wind.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. When we dared peek, the van was still there. He sat inside it, waiting.
“He’s not leaving,” I whispered.
Anna stared toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning to dip. “We wait until dark. Then we move.”
When night finally came, the desert cooled fast. We crept from the rocks, sticking low, heading away from the van. The stars came out bright and sharp, like eyes watching from above.
Every sound—the crunch of dirt underfoot, the rustle of wind—made me flinch.
We walked for what felt like forever, directionless, thirsty, lost. Then, headlights in the distance.
“Hide!” Anna whispered, pulling me down behind a bush.
The lights slowed. A truck door opened.
“Anyone out here?” a man called.
Anna hesitated. Then she stood. “Help! Please, help!”
The flashlight beam found us. Two tribal police officers ran over, concern all over their faces.
“What happened?” one asked.
Anna broke down crying, words spilling out between sobs—“the man, the van, the shortcut.”
They gave us water, wrapped us in blankets, and radioed it in.
When Mom arrived at the station that night, she grabbed us and didn’t let go. I could feel her heart pounding through her shirt.
They caught him later—the van stuck in soft sand a few miles from where he’d chased us. His real name wasn’t Tom Begay. He’d been using that name for years.
The police said he’d tried this before—with other kids who never made it home.
For weeks, I couldn’t sleep. I’d wake to every sound outside—the creak of the windmill, coyotes calling far off—and swear I could still hear the crunch of tires on dirt, that red van creeping slow down the road.
Mom said he was locked up now, that it was over.
But some nights, when the wind moves just right through the dry washes, I still think I hear his voice calling from the dark.
And I wonder how many others never got the chance to run.
"The Long Ride":
I left the rodeo grounds angry, my husband’s words still ringing in my ears. The lights and laughter from the fairgrounds faded behind me as I walked toward the campground, boots crunching through the dust. The night air had cooled after a long day in the sun, but my face still burned from the argument. All I wanted was to get home to my baby girl — three months old, waiting with the sitter in Lebanon.
A man standing by his camper saw me scanning the lot. He had a cigarette in hand, the ember glowing red. “Need a ride?” he asked casually, nodding toward a line of trucks parked under the dim lights.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Heading west.”
He pointed toward a pickup near the edge. “That guy there’s going your way. He’s decent.”
The driver was a big man — broad shoulders, thick arms, a kind of quiet sturdiness that made him seem safe at first glance. His face was weathered, like someone used to hard work outdoors. “Hop in,” he said.
Another man was already in the passenger seat, so I climbed in between them, pressing my purse against my knees. The cab smelled faintly of motor oil and pine cleaner. The dashboard light flickered as the truck rumbled to life.
We pulled out onto Highway 20, the long dark road slicing through Oregon’s high desert. The world outside was nothing but endless black, broken only by patches of sagebrush glowing silver in the headlights. No houses. No cars. Just space — miles of it.
The passenger talked for a bit about the rodeo bulls, about the heat and dust. His voice was easy, almost friendly. But after ten minutes or so, he asked to get out at a side road. “Appreciate the lift,” he said, hopping down into the night.
And then there were two.
The cab felt smaller instantly. I shifted toward the door, trying to make room, but that’s when I noticed the rifle racked behind us — a long-barreled gun with a worn strap. A hunting knife sat in a coffee can beside his seat, the blade dull with use.
“You hunt?” I asked, forcing my voice light.
“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Plenty of space out here for that.”
He said it like the desert was his.
We rode in silence for a long time. The hum of the tires became hypnotic, and exhaustion from the day crept over me. My eyelids grew heavy.
When I woke, the road wasn’t paved anymore. The truck was bumping hard over rocks and gravel, headlights cutting through thin trees and dry brush. My heart started pounding before my brain could catch up.
“Where are we?” I asked, sitting upright.
He didn’t look over. “Shortcut.”
“This doesn’t look like a shortcut,” I said, glancing at the window. Only blackness beyond it. My hand went to the door handle — but there wasn’t one. Just an empty hole where it should’ve been.
“Stop the truck,” I said.
He didn’t.
The path grew narrower, the trees closing in. Branches scraped the sides, and the desert ground looked angry — dry, cracked, refusing to soften even in shadow. My stomach dropped. “Turn around. I said stop.”
The truck jolted to a halt. For a second, everything was still except the soft tick of the cooling engine.
Then he turned to me. His face had changed — blank, flat, something colder in his eyes. “Get out,” he said.
“What?”
“Out.”
I reached for my bag, but before I could, he yanked the passenger door open from his side and grabbed my arm, pulling me across the seat. His grip was hard, rough.
“Please—” I started, but he dragged me into the dirt, the night air biting against my skin.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
He pushed me toward the back of the truck, his other hand now holding the knife. The moonlight flashed along its edge. “You talk too much,” he said, pressing the blade against my throat.
“Please, I have a baby at home,” I begged. “Let me go. I won’t say anything.”
He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “You think anyone’s gonna find you out here?”
The desert swallowed his words.
He shoved me down hard, the ground tearing at my clothes, small stones grinding into my back. The smell of dust and oil filled my nose. I felt the cold kiss of the knife at my collarbone as his free hand ripped at my jeans. The sound of the fabric tearing echoed through the trees, too loud, too real.
I kicked and clawed, but he was stronger. “Stop fighting,” he growled. “You’ll only make it worse.”
Somewhere close, a cricket chirped. A small, normal sound in a world that had suddenly become unrecognizable.
I stopped struggling, my thoughts spinning to my daughter — her tiny hands, her soft breaths. If I screamed, no one would hear. If I ran, he’d catch me.
When it was over, he stood up, breathing heavy, the knife still in his hand. He looked around like he was deciding what to do next.
“Are you gonna kill me?” I asked quietly.
He didn’t answer right away. Then, “Depends if you make trouble.”
I sat up slowly, holding what was left of my clothes. “Please,” I said again, voice shaking. “Just take me home. I swear I won’t tell anyone.”
He studied me a moment longer, then nodded toward the truck. “Find some pants in the back.”
I stumbled to the tailgate, grabbing a pair of old work pants and pulling them on. My legs were trembling so bad I could barely stand.
We drove back the way we’d come. The dirt road seemed longer now, twisting endlessly before meeting the highway again. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the rattle of the truck and my heart in my ears.
After a while, he pulled off near a small house — one dim porch light burning. “Stay here,” he said, stepping out.
The truck idled as I sat there frozen, staring into the dark. Should I run? My hand pressed the door — but still no handle. Just that gaping hole. The desert stretched out around me, vast and empty. I’d never make it far.
He came back with two sodas, handed me one. “Drink,” he said.
I did, the carbonation burning my dry throat. I needed to stay calm. Needed something — a name, a clue, anything.
“If I ever need a ride again,” I said, forcing a smile, “what’s your number?”
He smirked, eyes glinting. “Why? You want more?”
“Maybe.”
He told me. I repeated it under my breath, burning it into memory.
The rest of the ride was quiet. The sky was starting to pale at the edges when the first lights of Lebanon appeared. My relief almost made me dizzy.
He stopped in front of my mother-in-law’s house. “Out,” he said.
I bolted, bare feet hitting the gravel, pounding on the front door. She opened it, her face freezing at the sight of me — hair tangled, clothes torn, blood drying on my neck.
“Dear God,” she whispered. “What happened?”
“Call the police,” I gasped. “Now.”
The officers came. I told them everything — the rodeo, the truck, the turnoff, the missing handle, the knife. They took the jeans, the scraps of fabric, my statement. At the hospital, a nurse swabbed the cuts on my legs, murmuring softly as I tried not to cry.
But days later, a detective called me back. His tone was careful, too careful. “He says it was consensual,” he told me. “His story’s different.”
“He’s lying,” I said.
“His friend and his mother back him up. They say you were upset and asked him for a ride.”
My stomach turned cold. “You’re letting him go?”
“There’s not enough evidence,” he said.
That night, I sat by my baby’s crib, watching her breathe, and wondered if I’d just looked into the eyes of a man who would kill someone next.
Years passed, but I never forgot that ride. I avoided Highway 20 whenever I could. Every time I heard of a woman gone missing along that stretch — a jogger, a teenager, a hitchhiker — my chest tightened. The details always sounded too familiar.
Then one day, I saw his face on the news. Arrested for murder. They’d found bodies buried off the back roads — places I’d seen through that windshield. Places I’d thought I’d never survive.
When I testified, he looked at me once — that same blank, cold stare. No apology. No recognition. Just emptiness.
He died in prison years later, but sometimes, when I drive through the desert, I still glance at every turnoff, every dirt road cutting into the trees. The silence out there feels different now — heavier, like the land remembers what it’s seen.
The highway looks the same, but I know better.
Some roads don’t forget.
"The Amboy":
I had just finished a long weekend in California with my friend David, and we were finally heading back to New Mexico. We decided to take a two-lane shortcut through the high desert — a thin, sun-bleached ribbon of asphalt cutting straight through nowhere. It promised fewer cars and a faster trip, but mostly, it promised quiet.
The late afternoon light had turned golden, painting the sand and distant hills in long shadows. Heat shimmered off the road ahead, warping the horizon. David sat in the passenger seat, twisting the radio dial, searching for a station that wasn’t all static.
“This signal’s terrible out here,” he muttered. “How far till we hit the interstate?”
I glanced down at the map spread across my lap. “About another hour. We should pass through Amboy soon — old ghost-town kind of place. Not much there, but at least it breaks up the drive.”
He nodded, leaning back. “Fine by me. Beats fighting traffic on I-40. Just us and the road.”
For a while, it was peaceful. The hum of the engine, the soft hiss of wind through the cracked window, the emptiness all around us. The desert stretched endlessly — miles of pale dirt and stubborn brush, broken only by the occasional dry creek bed or rusted road sign that had lost its letters decades ago.
Then, about twenty minutes later, something appeared on the horizon. A red car, parked sideways across both lanes.
“Look at that,” I said, easing off the gas. “Breakdown, maybe?”
David sat forward, squinting. “Could be. Or a wreck. But… I don’t see anyone.”
As we drew closer, details sharpened — an older sedan, doors closed, a suitcase lying open in the road. Clothes scattered across the pavement, fluttering slightly in the dry wind. Then I saw them: two figures lying face down next to the car. A man and a woman, motionless.
“Are those people?” David asked. “They look hurt.”
I slowed to a crawl. Something about it felt wrong. There were no skid marks, no broken glass, no sign of impact. The figures lay too neatly, like they’d been placed there.
“Hold on,” I said quietly. “Something’s off.”
David frowned. “We can’t just drive by if they’re hurt.”
I scanned the roadside — nothing but tall, brittle grass and open desert. No houses. No other cars. “Maybe,” I said, “but why are they both down like that? Same position, arms by their sides… it doesn’t look natural.”
He pulled out his phone, checking the screen. “No service. Of course. What do we do?”
I felt my pulse quicken. The quiet suddenly felt heavy — too still, like the desert was holding its breath. “Let’s get closer,” I said, “but I’m not stopping yet. If something’s wrong, we’ll keep going.”
We rolled forward slowly. The air inside the car seemed to tighten. As we crept past, I saw the suitcase again — its contents looked arranged, not scattered. The shirt sleeves were folded too neatly, the shoes placed side by side. My stomach turned.
“This isn’t right,” I said. “It looks staged.”
David shot me a glance. “Staged for what?”
I didn’t answer. My eyes flicked to the side of the road — there was just enough dirt shoulder to squeeze past the red car if I hugged the edge carefully.
“Let’s go around,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
He nodded, tense now. “Do it.”
The tires crunched over gravel as we pulled onto the shoulder. I could see the figures clearly now — the man’s shirt wrinkled, the woman’s hair spread out across the asphalt. Neither of them moved. Not an inch.
I kept my foot ready on the gas. We passed the back of the red car, and just as I exhaled, thinking we were clear, I glanced in the rearview mirror.
The bodies were moving.
The man pushed up onto his knees first, then the woman. My chest seized. “David—look!”
He twisted around. “They’re standing up. What the hell—”
Before I could respond, the grass on both sides of the road began to move. Figures rose up — ten, maybe fifteen of them — men and women, dressed in dusty clothes that blended into the desert. They stepped out silently, like they’d been waiting.
One man in front lifted his arm and pointed straight at us.
“Go!” David shouted.
I slammed the accelerator. The engine screamed, tires spinning on dirt before gripping asphalt again. The car lurched forward, fishtailing slightly before straightening out. In the mirror, I saw them running toward the red car, waving their arms, shouting something I couldn’t hear.
“What the hell was that?” David said, breathing fast. “They were hiding! They were waiting for us!”
“An ambush,” I said, my throat dry. “Fake an accident, make people stop.”
He swallowed hard. “And then what? Take the car? Or worse?”
Neither of us said another word. The only sound was the roar of the engine and the rattle of loose gravel as we sped toward the horizon. Every shadow on the roadside made my hands tighten on the wheel. Every flicker of light behind us looked like movement.
After what felt like forever, a small gas station appeared — a squat building with one flickering light and a single pump. I pulled in hard, tires squealing.
An older man stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. “You folks alright?” he asked, squinting at our faces. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
David got out first. “We just passed something—people lying in the road. A car blocking both lanes. Then more people came out of the grass. Like they were waiting.”
The man’s expression darkened. “Heard of that before,” he said quietly. “Groups out there’ll do that. Stage wrecks, lure drivers to stop. You’re lucky you didn’t.”
I felt a chill. “That happen often?”
“More than you’d think,” he said. “Empty stretches like this, no one to hear you scream. Some folks disappear out here. You keep to the main roads, understand?”
David nodded quickly. “Yeah. We’re heading straight for the interstate.”
“Smart,” the man said. “Sheriff’s station’s forty miles east if you wanna report it. But truth is, those people move around. Hard to catch.”
We thanked him and got back in the car. The sun was setting now, the sky bruised orange and purple, the desert fading into darkness. We didn’t speak until we hit the interstate, headlights from other cars finally appearing around us — civilization, safety.
David finally broke the silence. “Promise me we’ll never take a shortcut again.”
“Never,” I said. “Next time, we stick to the main roads.”
Even now, I think about that red car in the road — about how carefully everything was arranged. The still bodies, the waiting faces in the grass. Someone else might have stopped. Maybe they already had.
The desert keeps its secrets well.
But we were lucky.
And we didn’t look back.
"No Bars, No Exit":
The highway stretched endlessly through the New Mexico desert, a flat ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through nothing but sand, scrub, and the fading line of mountains. I’d been driving for hours, chasing the orange edge of twilight that had long since melted into night. The radio was static, the stars bright and cold. Then, without warning, my old pickup started to sputter.
At first, I thought it was just the wind playing tricks—but then the engine coughed twice and died. The dashboard lights dimmed, and silence settled in so thick it pressed against my ears. I coasted to the shoulder and sat there for a moment, staring at the empty road ahead. No lights. No signs. Just desert.
I popped the hood, pretending I knew what I was looking for. The metal was still hot under my hands, the smell of oil and dust rising into the cool air. I had no clue what was wrong, and when I checked my phone, there were no bars—just a blank screen mocking me. So I did the only thing I could: I waited.
About twenty minutes later, headlights appeared on the horizon. My heart jumped. The beams grew brighter until they washed over me—a white van slowing to a stop behind my truck. The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out. He looked to be in his fifties, rugged and ordinary, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. A woman followed, maybe mid-thirties, her hair tied back, her smile faint and polite.
“Having some trouble?” the man asked, voice calm, almost kind.
“Yeah,” I said, brushing my hands on my jeans. “It just died on me. Think it might be the battery or something.”
The woman smiled, that same polite curve. “We’re headed toward town. You can ride with us if you want. I’m Lisa. This is my husband, John.”
I hesitated, glancing down the empty road. The night air was cooling fast, and there hadn’t been another car in what felt like an hour. My options were thin.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Thanks. I’m Emily.”
Inside the van, the air smelled faintly of dust and gasoline. A small cooler sat between the seats. John talked while he drove, easy conversation—something about working for the parks department, knowing these roads better than anyone. Lisa offered me a bottle of water from the cooler. Her hand was steady, her eyes unreadable.
I took a sip.
That’s the last clear thing I remember.
When I woke, my head throbbed. My mouth tasted like metal. Everything was dark except for a single bulb overhead, its weak light swaying. My arms were pulled tight above me—chained to something cold and metal. My legs were strapped down. It took me a moment to realize I was naked.
Panic tore through me.
“Hello?” I shouted. “What’s going on?”
A door creaked open. Harsh light flooded in. John stepped through, holding a small tape recorder. Behind him stood Lisa, arms crossed, eyes hollow.
“You’re awake,” he said, almost conversationally. He pressed play.
A crackle of static, then his own recorded voice filled the room. “Welcome to my playroom. You’re here because I chose you. I’ll do what I want with you. Maybe you’ll go free. Maybe you won’t. Scream all you want—no one will hear.”
I pulled at the chains until they cut into my wrists. “Please,” I begged. “I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go.”
John smiled, soft and patient. “They all say that.”
He picked up a long metal rod with wires attached. “Lisa, get the generator.”
She nodded, flipping switches on a box in the corner. A low hum filled the air.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice breaking. “What did I do?”
Lisa didn’t look at me. “You were alone. That’s all it takes.”
John pressed the clips to my skin. “This is going to hurt.”
The current hit like a knife made of fire. My body convulsed, breath catching in my throat. I tried to bite back the sound, but the scream ripped out anyway. They watched—impassive, methodical—as he turned the dial again.
Time lost meaning after that. They left me in darkness for hours, sometimes returning to start again. John liked to talk while he worked—about the others, about how the desert swallowed everything. Lisa joined in sometimes, her hands trembling only slightly as she cut, as she burned, as she whispered that I’d get used to it.
Once, John sat beside me and said, almost tenderly, “I have a daughter, you know. She’s learning. But Lisa—Lisa’s my favorite. She understands.”
Lisa looked at me then, her voice calm. “He saved me once. This is how I repay him.”
Days—or what felt like days—blurred into one long nightmare. They fed me just enough to keep me alive. My voice went hoarse from crying out. My wrists were raw from the chains.
Then one morning, John grabbed his keys. “Got work today. Keep an eye on her.” He kissed Lisa before leaving, like it was any normal day.
Lisa sat in the corner flipping through a magazine, humming faintly. The keys to my restraints lay on the table beside her. I stared at them, barely breathing.
“Lisa,” I whispered. “Water. Please.”
She sighed and stood, grabbing a cup. As she leaned over, I jerked forward, smashing my head into her face. She yelped, stumbling back. The cup shattered. I reached for the keys, stretching my fingers until they brushed metal.
“You little—” she snarled, grabbing a lamp and swinging. The blow caught my shoulder, sending a flash of white through my vision. But I’d already turned the first key—one wrist free.
I swung wildly, catching her jaw with my fist. She fell, dazed. I fumbled with the other locks, each one clicking open like salvation.
Lisa lunged again, an ice pick in her hand. “You’re not leaving!” she screamed.
I caught her wrist, twisting until I felt the weapon drop. Then I grabbed it and drove it into her shoulder. She shrieked, collapsing.
I ran.
The trailer door burst open, sunlight blinding me. The desert spread out in every direction—empty, endless, brutal. Chains still dangled from my wrists as I stumbled across the hot ground, my feet tearing on rocks and thorns.
Behind me, Lisa’s voice rose, faint but furious. “John! She’s getting away!”
I didn’t stop. I ran until my lungs burned, until my vision swam. Then, far ahead, a small shape appeared—a mobile home, perched on a rise of dirt.
I banged on the door, screaming for help.
An older woman answered, eyes wide. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “What happened to you?”
“Please,” I gasped. “They took me—call the police.”
She pulled me inside, locked the door, and dialed 911 with shaking hands. “There’s a girl here—she’s hurt bad. Please hurry.”
Sirens came not long after. They took me to a hospital, cut off the chains, patched the burns and cuts. I gave them everything—names, details, the road, the van.
That night, police raided the trailer. They found the tools, the blood, the tapes. John and Lisa were arrested before sunset. He confessed to five abductions. They think there were more.
At the trial, I sat across from them and told my story. When I said, “You thought the desert would hide you,” John only smiled. Lisa stared at the floor.
Now, sometimes, when I drive at night, I still glance at the horizon and see that stretch of highway—the place where the lights first appeared. I drive faster now. I keep the doors locked. And I always, always check my mirrors twice.