"Miles of Fear":
I was heading home after a late shift at the warehouse—the kind that ends close to midnight and leaves you alone on an empty stretch of highway with nothing but your thoughts and the hum of the road for company. The interstate was a long, dark ribbon cutting through miles of trees and open fields, my old sedan cruising steady with the radio playing low just to keep me awake.
About an hour in, I came up behind a pickup crawling in the fast lane—maybe 50 in a 70. I hung back for a moment, thinking he’d move over, but he didn’t. So I signaled, slid into the right lane, and passed him. Harmless. Routine. Nothing worth remembering.
Or so I thought.
The second I merged back over, his headlights flared—blinding bright in my rearview. At first, I figured he’d flashed them by accident. But then he sped up, fast, closing the distance until he was practically kissing my bumper. I tapped my brakes lightly, a polite “ease up,” but that only made things worse.
He laid on his horn—one long, furious blast—then swerved into the lane beside me, matching my speed exactly. His windows were tinted pitch-black. I couldn’t see a face or silhouette. Just darkness. It made the whole thing feel wrong, like the truck was driven by the road itself.
My pulse kicked up. “Alright, man… relax,” I muttered, gripping the wheel tighter. I expected him to back off after a minute, but he stayed glued to my side for miles. When he finally fell behind, I hoped he was done with me—but instead he locked onto my bumper again, so close I could feel the vibration of his engine through my seat.
I changed lanes to let him pass. He changed with me. I sped up. He sped up. That’s when the uneasy annoyance tipped into something colder. This wasn’t irritation. This wasn’t typical road rage.
He was following me.
My phone was in the cup holder. With one hand on the wheel, I grabbed it and dialed my brother. It rang twice.
“Yo… it’s late,” he said, voice thick with sleep.
“Listen,” I whispered, glancing in my mirror, “there’s this truck behind me. I passed him earlier and now he’s been on my tail for like ten minutes. Honking. Swerving. Staying right on me.”
“You serious? Where are you?”
“Long stretch before the next town. He’s blinding me right now.”
“Don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop. And call the cops if he keeps it up.”
“Yeah… okay. I’ll call you back.”
I hung up and checked the mirror again. He was closer—so close his headlights swallowed the whole rear window. I slowed to force him around, but he slowed too. At one point he tapped my bumper lightly, enough to jolt the wheel in my hands. A warning. A threat. My mind spun through possibilities—carjackers, lunatics, people who snap over nothing.
An exit for a gas station came up. I took it last second, hoping to catch him off guard.
He followed instantly, tires screeching.
The station was nearly empty, just a couple pumps under buzzing fluorescent lights. I pulled under the brightest one and kept the engine running. His truck rolled in behind me, slow, deliberate. He parked across the lot, facing me directly, headlights locked on my windshield like twin spotlights. Still tinted. Still unreadable.
I dialed 911 with shaking fingers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s—there’s a guy following me. I passed him on the interstate and he’s been tailgating me, swerving at me, followed me off the exit—he’s parked here, watching me.”
“Okay, stay calm. Where are you?”
“The Quick Stop off exit 47 on I-90.”
“Stay in your vehicle. Lock the doors. Officers are on the way.”
I locked everything, eyes trained on that motionless truck. The lot felt too wide, too empty. I kept imagining his door opening, footsteps crunching closer, a shadow lifting a weapon.
And then—his door did open.
A tall figure stepped out. Broad shoulders, dark jacket. He didn’t approach—just stood there, staring in my direction like he was waiting for something. Or deciding something.
“Operator,” I whispered, “he’s out of the truck now. Just standing there.”
“Stay inside. Officers are five minutes out.”
He paced a little, stopped, looked my way again, then eventually climbed back inside. But he didn’t leave. He just waited.
Those five minutes felt like fifty.
When the distant sirens finally reached the station, his engine roared to life. He peeled out, disappearing back toward the interstate.
A cop arrived seconds later. I gave him the details: dark blue Ford, partial plate, erratic behavior. He nodded, said they’d look for him, but without more, it’d be tough.
I got back on the road, heart still hammering in my chest. I called my brother.
“He took off when the cop got here.”
“Good. Just get home safe, man. That’s messed up.”
“Yeah. No more passing people at night.”
But that wasn’t the end.
Twenty miles later, headlights appeared behind me—far back, but unmistakable. Same pattern. Same speed.
My stomach dropped.
He’d found me again.
I turned off at a rest area, pulling between a few parked semis. The headlights followed, settling at the far end of the lot. Same tinted truck. Same silent stare.
I called 911 again. “He’s following me again. I’m at the rest area now.”
“Stay where you are. Another unit en route.”
This time he didn’t get out. He just idled there, engine rumbling like a growl. Minutes dragged by until a cruiser pulled in. The truck took off instantly, vanishing back into the night.
The officer told me, “If it happens again, drive straight to a police station. Don’t go home. Sometimes these situations escalate.”
That word escalate echoed in my head as I drove away.
I thought I’d shaken him. For a while, the mirrors stayed empty. Then—an hour later—those same headlights appeared again, racing up behind me.
He pulled alongside. The window rolled down.
I finally saw his face. Hard jaw. Deep lines. Eyes full of something I couldn’t read—rage, madness, obsession. He shouted something I couldn’t hear over the wind. Then he swerved at me, twice, pushing me toward the shoulder.
Panic shot through me. I accelerated to ninety, weaving, trying to break away. He kept up easily. He clipped my rear bumper once—metal scraping, the car jerking sideways.
I grabbed my phone. “911—he’s ramming me! I’m at mile marker 120!”
“Hold on, sir. Units alerted.”
A sign up ahead showed a small town—and a police station. I took the exit hard. He followed.
The streets were empty, buildings dark. I spotted the station and pulled into the lot, horn blaring. He slowed, saw where I’d stopped… and then sped past, disappearing into the night.
Inside, I gave the sergeant everything. “He’s been after me for hours. I don’t know why. It started when I passed him.”
They filed a report. Patrolled the area. Asked if I wanted an escort home. I waited an hour before finally driving off, nerves frayed, checking my mirrors every three seconds.
He didn’t come back.
But sleep didn’t come easy that night. Every sound outside felt suspicious. Every passing car made my heart jump.
A few days later the police called. They’d stopped a man matching the description in another road-rage incident. History of assaults. Violent temper. They thought it was the same guy.
“Close call,” the officer said.
Close call didn’t even begin to cover it.
Now, when I drive at night, I check every mirror twice. One harmless pass on an empty highway nearly turned into something deadly.
And sometimes, when I’m alone on a long stretch of road, I still see those headlights in my mind—bright, angry, unblinking.
"The Tailgater":
It was close to midnight when my aunt Emily and I finally left her friend’s house, the kind of late hour where the world feels emptied out and half-asleep. Her two little boys—three years old and six months—were buckled in the back of the minivan, both already out cold before we’d made it to the main highway. The cabin was warm and dim, the steady hum of the engine mixing with the soft breathing of the kids.
Emily drove the way she always did—calm, steady, patient—one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the ventilation so the boys wouldn’t get too hot. I sat in the passenger seat trying to find a quiet radio station, flipping through static and late-night talk shows. We talked about school, about life, about how I might help her babysit more since her new job kept her busy. The night felt slow, safe, uneventful.
I finished my soda without thinking and rolled the window down a crack. The wind rushed in cold against my face. I tossed the empty cup out—
—and the instant it left my hand, I knew I’d screwed up.
The cup sailed through the air and smacked off the side of a white SUV passing in the lane beside us. A sharp, hollow thud. The SUV jerked slightly, then its brake lights flared bright red.
Emily noticed immediately. “What was that?” she asked, peering into the rearview mirror.
“I… I think the cup hit his car.” My stomach dropped. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to. It just—”
Emily sighed, not angry, just tired. “Be careful next time. People get touchy out here.”
I nodded, cheeks burning, and rolled the window up. For a moment, everything went quiet again.
Then the SUV slowed down behind us. Slow enough to settle directly on our tail.
Its high beams flicked on a second later, blasting through our mirrors like miniature suns. Emily tilted the mirror away with her fingers. “Okay… that’s unnecessary.”
“Is he mad?” I asked, leaning forward to look. The glare swallowed everything. Just a bright, hostile smear of white light.
Emily kept driving, staying in her lane, but the SUV stayed glued to us. When she sped up, he matched her. When she tried slowing down, he hung there, close enough that his headlights turned the interior of our van ghostly pale.
“This guy’s too close,” she whispered, worry bleeding into her voice. “Maybe I should pull over and—”
“Don’t,” I said instantly. I didn’t even know why I said it. Something in me just tightened with a sudden, primitive fear. “I don’t think you should.”
The highway stretched empty around us—no cars, no exits, just our minivan, his SUV, and an ocean of darkness. Miles passed like that, tensely, his engine occasionally revving aggressively as if he wanted to push us faster.
The three-year-old stirred in his sleep with a whimper. Emily reached back instinctively to soothe him, but the SUV swerved closer, cutting that moment short. Her hand shot back to the wheel.
“Call the police,” she said. Her voice had changed—no hesitation now, just grim urgency. “This isn’t normal.”
I pulled my phone out, fingers shaking so badly I almost dropped it. Before I even hit call, the SUV accelerated and drifted up beside us. The windows rolled down.
The man inside leaned toward us, illuminated by his dashboard lights. Mid- to late-thirties. Rough face. Eyes narrowed to vicious slits.
He shouted something I couldn’t hear. Then he shouted again, louder, his voice slicing through the wind.
Emily stared ahead, jaw clenched, refusing to look at him. “Ignore him,” she muttered. “Just… call.”
The 911 dispatcher picked up. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“A man is following us,” I said, breath hitching. “White SUV. He’s screaming at us. He won’t stop.”
The man leaned across the passenger seat, yell turning into something furious and unhinged. “You think you can throw trash at my car?” he roared over the engines. “Pull over!”
His SUV drifted closer—too close—his bumper nearly bumping ours from the side. The kids woke up fully now, crying, their fear filling the cramped van with frantic little breaths. Emily tried to calm them, but her eyes flicked between the road and the hulking shape stalking us.
“He’s trying to run us off the road!” I shouted into the phone. “He’s—”
Then he reached down for something.
At first I didn’t understand what I was seeing. Just a movement. A metallic glint. A shifting silhouette in his hand.
Then he raised it.
“Emily!” I screamed.
She saw it at the same instant. Her foot slammed the brakes. The van lurched violently, everything inside jolting forward.
The shot cracked across the night like a firework. The driver’s side window exploded inward. Glass sprayed through the cabin, glittering in the beam of the SUV’s headlights.
Emily jerked back with a sharp cry. A burst of red bloomed across her shirt, soaking through almost instantly.
The van veered wildly, drifting toward the shoulder. Emily slumped sideways, dead weight, her hands slipping from the wheel.
“No—no no no—” I grabbed the wheel with both hands, fighting the sudden sway, my heart banging inside my ribs so loudly I couldn’t hear anything else. The kids screamed behind me—a high, hysterical wail.
The SUV sped ahead, its taillights shrinking into the night as if the man had gotten what he came for and was done.
Blood smeared under my palms as the steering wheel slipped. I forced the van onto the shoulder, the tires spitting gravel, until we shuddered to a stop.
“My aunt’s been shot!” I yelled into the phone, voice cracked and raw. “Send help! Please—please—she’s not—she’s not responding!”
Sirens didn’t arrive fast enough. Nothing ever does when you’re begging time to move.
When the paramedics finally pulled her from the seat, their hands were quick, practiced, but their eyes said everything. Emily was gone before they even touched her. Eyes open but empty. Skin pale, cooling.
The kids clung to me, shaking, their faces streaked with tears and bits of glass. The police asked question after question, their radios crackling. Hours later, they found the man in another county, arrested him after he ditched the gun in a river.
People always say one moment can change everything. They say it like a cliché.
But try watching a simple mistake—a stupid, thoughtless flick of the wrist—turn into a nightmare that tears your whole world apart. Try hearing that gunshot every time you close your eyes. Try seeing the face of a stranger twisted in rage, a face that still shows up in your dreams years later.
Try wondering how something so small could unleash someone so violently unhinged.
I still think about it all the time.
And I still don’t have an answer.
"One Wrong Driver":
It had been one of those long, bone-tired workdays where all you want is to get home, kick off your shoes, and disappear into a quiet couch. Instead, I’d swung by the house to pick up my wife and our little boy so we could grab a few things from the store before calling it a night. It felt good, honestly—turning an errand into a small family moment.
My son sat in the back, strapped snugly into his booster seat, tapping the legs of his toy truck against his knees like it was his personal soundtrack.
“Dad,” he piped up, “can we get ice cream after the store?”
That bright, hopeful tone could melt concrete.
“Yeah, bud,” I said, meeting his eyes in the rearview. “We can do that.”
His whole face lit up. My wife smiled without looking up from her phone, already making a mental list of what we needed. The car hummed along the highway, the glow of passing headlights flickering across the windshield. Traffic was busy but behaving—just another evening.
And then everything shifted.
A dark sedan tore into our lane without warning, slicing in front of me close enough that I felt the whoosh of displaced air. I slammed the brakes, heart jolting hard against my ribs.
“What the hell?” my wife blurted, sitting up straight.
“No idea,” I muttered, steadying my hands on the wheel. “People don’t think anymore.”
I tried to shake it off, easing back up to speed. But something felt wrong. The kind of wrong that folds itself into your stomach.
In my mirror, I saw the sedan ease back, slow… then surge forward. It locked itself behind us, way too close. Its high beams blasted through my back window, searing white light into my eyes.
“Okay, what is he doing?” my wife said, twisting around.
“Trying to be an idiot,” I said, though the calm in my voice was forced. I tapped my brakes in a warning—not slamming, just a message. Back off. But he didn’t. Instead the driver laid into his horn, one long, furious blast.
My wife’s voice tightened. “Honey, he’s right on us. Maybe let him pass?”
“Yeah, I’m trying,” I said, moving into the right lane.
But he followed.
Every move I made, he mirrored.
My pulse kicked up.
“Dad?” my son asked quietly. “Why is that car so close?”
“Everything’s okay,” I said, even though my heart felt like a fist lodged in my throat.
I took the next exit, hoping the change of route would shake him off. The sedan followed, sticking to me like glue. The streets were quieter here—no crowds, fewer headlights, just long stretches of shadow.
We stopped at a red light. The sedan crept up beside us. The windows were tinted, but through the glow of overhead streetlamps I caught a glimpse: a man behind the wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed on us. A woman in the passenger seat, staring just as hard.
No yelling. No gestures. Just hatred—cold and direct.
The light turned green. I accelerated.
So did he.
He drifted closer, edging into our lane like he wanted to scrape us off the road.
“Call the police,” I said abruptly. My voice didn’t shake, but my hands sure did.
My wife fumbled with her phone. “Okay—okay.”
As she spoke to the dispatcher, the sedan suddenly fell back… then lunged forward again. Every hair on my body stood on end. I peeled off into a left turn, hoping to confuse him.
My wife’s voice quivered: “Yes, emergency. A car followed us off the highway—they cut us off earlier and they’re still following us. My husband is driving; they won’t leave us alone.”
My son whimpered. “Mom… Mom, I’m scared.”
She reached back, blind with fear. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s got us.”
But the truth was, I didn’t know if I did.
The sedan reappeared on my passenger side like a shadow that knew our every move. Then their window rolled down. Slowly. Too slowly.
I saw the woman lean forward, her arm passing something metallic to the man.
“Get down!” I yelled.
The first shot shattered the world.
Glass exploded across the passenger seat. My wife screamed, covering her head. The sound was deafening—each crack ripping the air apart. I floored the accelerator, swerving as more shots slammed into the car. Metal shrieked. Tires skidded.
“NO!” I screamed at the sound behind me—a soft, choked gasp.
I glanced in the mirror.
My son’s head had slumped to the side, his small hand slipping from his toy truck. A bloom of red spread across his shirt.
“Buddy?” I cried. “Buddy, look at me!”
He made a faint, broken sound. “Dad… it hurts…”
My wife twisted in her seat, face drained of color. “Oh God—oh God, he’s bleeding! Drive! Drive to the hospital!”
I ran red lights. I didn’t care. I honked until I was hoarse, until other drivers jolted out of my way. The sedan disappeared—I don’t know when. Maybe they fled. Maybe they just didn’t care anymore. The only thing I saw was the road and my son’s face going paler and paler in the mirror.
“Stay with me,” I begged. “We’re almost there. Just stay with me.”
When we reached the hospital, I barely remember parking. I just remember ripping off my seatbelt and lifting him—still warm, terrifyingly limp—into my arms. Nurses rushed forward, shouting instructions, wheeling him away on a stretcher.
Then there was nothing but silence. And waiting.
And praying.
And bargaining with whatever higher power would listen.
Hours crawled by with no mercy.
When the doctors came out, their faces told us before their mouths did.
The bullet had torn through his chest. They tried—God, they tried. But he was gone.
Our four-year-old boy.
Gone over someone’s temper.
Over someone’s pride on a highway.
The police found the couple in the sedan later that same night using city cameras. They had records. They didn’t run because they thought they “won.” The man said he’d fired “in a moment of rage.” The woman admitted she handed him the gun.
They were arrested.
But that didn’t matter.
Justice didn’t feel like justice when the world had already ended.
I still replay it—every flash of high beams, every sharp turn, every second before that window came down. I think about all the choices: another exit, another street, another moment to stop.
And now, every time I drive at night, every car behind me feels like a threat. Every set of headlights has teeth.
Road rage isn’t just anger.
It’s a monster people feed without thinking.
It devours families.
It devoured mine.