"The Red Dodge":
I was seventeen, working the late shift at a doughnut shop in Tampa. It was one of those humid nights where the air felt heavy enough to choke on, and the streets after midnight had that eerie, empty quiet that made the world feel abandoned. When I finally locked up and got on my bike, I was too lost in my thoughts to notice anything unusual—too busy replaying all the things going wrong in my life. I had no idea that someone was waiting for me, hidden in the dark.
As I cut through a church parking lot around two in the morning—a shortcut I’d taken a hundred times before—a man suddenly stepped out from behind a parked car. Before I could react, his hand shot out, grabbing me by the neck and yanking me clean off my bike. I hit the pavement hard. Then I felt it: the cold press of a gun barrel against my temple.
“Don’t make a sound,” he hissed, his breath hot against my ear.
I froze. My mind split between disbelief and raw terror. He dragged me toward a car—a red Dodge, older model, the kind with wide doors and the smell of stale smoke baked into the seats. He shoved me inside, bound my hands with what felt like a belt, gagged me, then blindfolded me. I could feel the engine rumbling before I even heard it. And then we were moving. Fast.
Panic came in waves. My chest felt like it might explode. Every worst possibility flashed in my mind, and yet, through all that fear, something hard and steady sparked inside me: I have to survive this.
I focused on everything I could sense. Through a tiny gap in the blindfold, I caught fragments of the car’s interior—the white leather seats, the red carpeting, the word Magnum on the dashboard. I memorized each bump in the road, every turn he took, the rhythm of acceleration and braking. I didn’t know where I was going, but I was determined to remember how to get back.
After what felt like half an hour, the car stopped. He yanked me out, guided me up a flight of stairs—I counted them: fourteen—and into a small room that smelled faintly of cigarettes and old carpet. He pulled the gag from my mouth but left the blindfold on.
“Sit down,” he said. His voice wasn’t angry—just flat, controlled. That calm was somehow worse.
I sat on the edge of what felt like a bed. Then came the questions. “What’s your name? How old are you?” I answered truthfully, hoping honesty might make him see me as a person, not just a target. But then the assaults began. They blurred together—pain, fear, humiliation—until time lost meaning. I kept my breathing steady, telling myself that if I stayed calm, I might live long enough to get out.
At some point, he turned on the TV. The sound of a newscaster’s voice filled the silence, and then I heard it—my name. My picture flashed on the screen. I gasped. He turned sharply toward me.
“If you scream again,” he said coldly, “I’ll have to put a bullet in your head. Stop your crying.”
The way he said have to stuck with me. It sounded rehearsed, conflicted—like a man convincing himself. I decided to use that. I spoke softly, choosing my words carefully. “Why are you doing this?”
“I hate women,” he said. “They’ve all hurt me. This is payback.”
I nodded like I understood. “Yeah… I get it. People can be cruel. But I’m not like that. My dad’s really sick—he needs me. I can’t just disappear.” It was a lie, but I needed him to believe there was still something human in me, something worth sparing.
I kept him talking. About his life. About his pain. Anything to keep him from losing control again. “You could let me go,” I said gently. “I won’t tell anyone. I could even be your girlfriend—just... not like this. No one has to know.”
He went quiet. Then he said, almost childlike, “You promise?”
“Yes,” I said quickly, even though I didn’t mean it.
From that moment, I began leaving clues. When he let me use the bathroom, I made sure to touch everything—the sink, the doorknob, the counter. I even rinsed my hair in the shower so strands would stay behind. I counted steps—twenty-four from the room to the bathroom—and memorized the smell of pine from the air freshener. Anything that could lead the police to him later.
The hours crawled by. He assaulted me again, and in between, he’d talk like we were old friends. I played along, even as I fought to hold myself together. When he mentioned other women he’d hurt, I pretended to sympathize. “That must have been hard,” I said softly, making him believe I saw him, even when I wanted to disappear.
By the next afternoon, his mood shifted. The anger had drained from him, replaced by something uncertain. “You’re different,” he murmured. “Not like the others.”
And then—almost casually—he said, “Okay. I’ll let you go. But if you tell anyone, I’ll find you.”
He blindfolded me again, tied my hands loosely, and drove. I listened carefully: the engine sounds, the turns, the stops. We paused at an ATM—heard the beep of buttons—then a gas station, the squeak of a pump handle. When he asked where I lived, I gave an address near my grandmother’s house, not the real one.
Around four in the morning, the car rolled to a stop. “Wait five minutes after I leave,” he said. “Then take off the blindfold.”
He slammed the door, got in, and drove off.
I counted to three hundred, every second stretching forever. Then I pulled the cloth from my eyes. I was behind a building, an oak tree looming nearby, the faint hum of highway traffic in the distance. I ran. I didn’t look back.
When I burst into my grandmother’s house, pounding on the door, she and her boyfriend stared at me like I was crazy. My voice cracked as I told them what happened. They hesitated, unsure whether to believe me—but I made them call the police.
At the station, I gave them everything: the car, the mustache, the fourteen stairs, the pine air freshener, the “Magnum” logo. One detective listened—really listened—and pieced it all together.
Days later, they caught him. He wasn’t just a kidnapper. He was a serial killer. Other girls hadn’t been as lucky.
What saved me wasn’t strength—it was memory, and the stubborn belief that I could outthink him, even in hell.
But survival has a cost. You walk out of something like that, and the world never feels safe again. The fear dulls, but it never truly leaves.
"State Line":
I was just nineteen back then, stationed at Offutt Air Force Base near Omaha. Life felt simple most days — morning drills, late-night jokes in the barracks, cheap cafeteria food, and talk about where we’d go once our enlistments ended. That weekend, my roommate Tracy and I were bored out of our minds. Our friend Lisa, from another unit, had this old, wheezing Chevy that always smelled like gas and vinyl. She kept saying we should take a drive somewhere — “just to breathe air that doesn’t smell like jet fuel.”
Kansas City wasn’t far, maybe four hours if we kept it steady. Sounded perfect. No plan, no curfew, just a road and three young women with too much energy and too little sense. We packed light — extra shirts, a cassette mix, a couple sodas — and left that Saturday afternoon, laughing about nothing, radio turned up, windows down, the flat Nebraska wind in our hair.
The drive was easy at first. Endless cornfields, long shadows stretching across the highway. Lisa had a heavy foot, always did, and Tracy kept teasing her about it. I sat in the back, legs tucked up, watching the sky melt from gold to copper. We were just kids pretending to be adults.
Then the blue lights appeared in the mirror.
Lisa muttered a curse under her breath and eased the Chevy to the shoulder. “I wasn’t even going that fast,” she said, knuckles tight on the wheel. The patrol car pulled up behind us, lights spinning against the tall corn. For a moment, nobody moved. Then the trooper’s door opened.
He was big. Broad shoulders, tan uniform pulled tight, hat brim low. Mirrored sunglasses still on though the sun was almost gone. He walked slow, deliberate, hand resting near his gun like he’d practiced it a thousand times. He tapped the window once.
Lisa rolled it down. “Evening, officer.”
“License and registration,” he said, voice flat, no greeting. She handed them over. He looked at the papers, then at her. Then Tracy. Then me, in the back seat. His gaze lingered — not curious, not polite — just measuring. Something in it made the air in that car go cold.
We were two Black girls and one white, all in Air Force T-shirts and fatigues. Maybe that was what caught his attention. Maybe it was something else.
“You’re speeding,” he said finally.
Lisa nodded. “Sorry, officer. Won’t happen again.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t give the papers back. Just stared, face blank. Then, slowly, he said, “Follow me.”
Lisa frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Follow me to the station,” he said. “Or I take you in now.” His hand drifted to the cuffs on his belt. “Your choice.”
We froze. Tracy’s hand brushed mine in the back seat, fingers trembling.
Lisa’s voice was barely a whisper. “For speeding?”
He tilted his head. “Follow me.” Then he walked back to his cruiser and got in, lights still flashing.
Lisa started the car, engine rumbling. “This feels wrong,” Tracy said.
“I know,” Lisa whispered. “But he’s a cop. He’s got my license.”
So we followed.
The highway gave way to smaller roads, then gravel, then dirt. The fields on both sides seemed to close in, corn towering higher as the sky turned to ink. The cruiser’s taillights glowed red through the dust, leading us deeper into nowhere. No houses. No traffic. Just the hum of our engine and the rattle of pebbles under the tires.
I tried to tell myself it made sense — maybe the station was small, maybe out of the way — but it didn’t feel right. Every mile made my chest tighter. Tracy kept glancing back, like she expected someone to appear out of the dark.
Then the cruiser turned into a clearing.
An old barn sat there, half-collapsed, surrounded by rusted pickups. The metal glowed dull orange under a single hanging light. A few men stood around, leaning on the trucks. They looked like farmers or something rougher — shirts unbuttoned, shotguns resting easy against their legs, cans of beer in hand. When they saw us pull in, they straightened and stared.
Lisa’s hands trembled on the wheel.
The trooper got out, walked to our window, and pointed. “You,” he said to Lisa. “Out.”
“What about them?” she asked, her voice cracking just a little.
He smiled then — slow, thin, mean. “They wait.”
I could feel Tracy’s pulse hammering through her hand as she squeezed mine.
Lisa stepped out, every movement stiff, careful. The trooper led her toward his cruiser. They got inside, and the door shut.
The men by the barn kept watching us. One spat. Another grinned, whispering something that made the rest laugh low. My heart was beating so loud I could hear it in my ears.
“What’s he doing?” Tracy whispered.
“I don’t know.”
Minutes passed. The night pressed in, heavy and silent except for the crickets and our breathing. The barn loomed like a mouth ready to swallow us whole.
Then the cruiser door flew open.
Lisa stumbled out, face streaked with tears. She ran to the car, slammed the door, and gunned it. Gravel sprayed, the men stepped back, and we tore down that dirt road so fast the headlights shook. Nobody followed. I looked back once — the trooper just stood there, arms crossed, watching us vanish into the dark.
We didn’t stop until we hit the interstate.
“Pull over,” Tracy said finally, voice barely holding together.
Lisa eased to the shoulder. Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t get the key out at first. The engine idled rough.
“What happened?” I asked.
She stared straight ahead. “He said you two were trouble.” Her voice was hollow. “Used words I won’t repeat. Said if I didn’t… do something for him, he’d let those men have us. Said they’d make sure we ‘learned our place.’”
Tracy covered her mouth, eyes wet.
Lisa shook her head. “I started crying. Told him we were military. Showed him the base IDs. Everything changed. He went quiet. Told me to get out. Said, ‘Don’t come back this way.’ Then he gave me my license and just… stood there.”
We sat in silence, the car humming, headlights cutting through the black. The fear hit all at once — what if he hadn’t seen the IDs? What if we’d run? Who would’ve found us out there?
We drove straight back to base. No music, no talking. Just the sound of the tires and the wind and the three of us trying to breathe.
At the gate, the guards waved us through. We were safe. Supposedly.
We never reported it. Not then. Three young girls, two Black, one white — who would believe it? And even if they did, what would it change?
Lisa and I drifted apart after that. Tracy and I promised never to talk about it again. Years later, I heard rumors — about that stretch of road, bad cops gone missing, barns that burned in the night. Maybe someone found out. Maybe not.
But I still think about that night — about the way his sunglasses reflected our faces, about the dirt road curling into the dark, about how close we came to disappearing forever.
Now, every time blue lights flash in my mirror, my stomach knots. I drive slow, careful, quiet. Because you never really know who’s out there — waiting in the dark.
"The Bushland":
It was a quiet December night in 1994 when my life changed forever. The parking lot outside my apartment in Port Elizabeth was still, the hum of distant traffic fading into the darkness. I had just come home from a night out with friends—pizza, laughter, the kind of easy warmth that made the world feel safe. I switched off the ignition and reached for my purse, ready to head inside, when a sudden knock on my driver’s-side window made my heart jolt.
A young man stood outside—mid-twenties maybe, clean-shaven, wearing a plain shirt. His expression seemed calm, polite even, as he motioned for me to roll the window down. I lowered it just an inch.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said softly. “I’m lost. Can you tell me how to get to the main road?”
I began to gesture toward the street when, without warning, the passenger door yanked open. Another man slid in fast, his movements sharp and controlled. A knife flashed in his hand, catching the streetlight—a long, thin blade, trembling just slightly as it pressed against my ribs.
“Move over,” he said flatly. “Don’t make a sound, or this goes in.”
My breath caught in my throat. I did as he said, sliding across to the passenger seat, trying to stay calm, to think. The first man slipped behind the wheel and started the car. He drove off slowly, blending into the quiet streets as though nothing was wrong.
“We’re just borrowing your car for a bit,” the driver said, glancing at me with an easy smile. “We’ll drive around, have some fun. You’ll be home soon.”
The man with the knife chuckled. “Yeah, don’t worry. We do this all the time.”
We drove through familiar streets, past late-night shops with their lights flickering out one by one. I thought of jumping out, of screaming—but the knife pressed harder, reminding me how close death was. I swallowed and tried to reason with them. “Please,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I have money in my purse. Take it, take the car—just let me go.”
The driver shook his head. “No need for that. Just sit tight.”
Streetlights gave way to open darkness. The city fell behind us. The road narrowed, turning into gravel, then dirt. I felt the tires bump over rocks, the air growing cooler and stiller. “Where are we going?” I asked, trying to mask the tremor in my voice.
“Somewhere quiet,” the man beside me said, a faint smile curving his lips. “To talk.”
When the car stopped, we were in a clearing surrounded by thick bushland—one of those picnic spots that looked harmless in daylight but felt menacing after dark. The engine died, and silence closed in.
“Get out,” the driver ordered.
I hesitated. The knife pressed harder into my side, and I obeyed. The night air smelled of salt and dust. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear waves crashing—a cruel reminder of how close civilization was.
They led me deeper into the brush, my feet stumbling over roots. Then everything unraveled. The one with the knife grabbed my arm roughly. “You think you’re better than us?” he sneered.
“No, please,” I begged. “I just want to go home.”
They didn’t listen. The next moments were a blur of violence—pain, fear, humiliation. I screamed until my voice broke, but the night swallowed every sound. When it was over, I lay trembling, covered in dirt and blood, listening to them talk as if I were nothing.
“We can’t let her talk,” the driver muttered.
“Yeah,” the other agreed. “Finish it.”
The knife returned, glinting in the dim light. The first stab tore into my stomach, then another, and another. The pain was beyond anything I’d ever known—white-hot, blinding. I felt my body giving way, but I clung to consciousness, to the smallest flicker of survival. Then they slashed at my throat—again, again—until warm blood streamed down my chest and the world went dim.
“She’s done,” one of them said.
Their footsteps faded, the engine roared to life, and then—silence. I was alone.
For a long time, I lay there, half-buried in the dirt, waiting for death. But something inside refused to quit. My body screamed with pain, but I forced myself to breathe. I thought of my family, my friends, the life I hadn’t finished living.
With one trembling hand, I pressed my abdomen to keep my insides from spilling out. With the other, I held my throat, feeling the deep, wet gashes. Inch by inch, I began to crawl. The bushes tore at my skin; every movement sent a shock of agony through me. Still, I kept going.
Eventually, I reached the edge of the road. Cars passed, their headlights washing over me before fading back into the night. I waved weakly, but no one stopped—until a small car slowed to a halt. A young man got out, eyes wide with horror.
“Oh my God,” he gasped. “What happened? Hold on, I’m calling for help.”
He knelt beside me, his voice trembling but steady enough to comfort. “Stay with me. You’re going to be okay.” He took off his jacket, wrapping it around me, pressing it against my wounds to slow the bleeding.
I couldn’t speak; my throat was destroyed. So I dipped a finger into the blood pooling beneath me and wrote the only clue I had—the names I’d heard them call each other—Frans and Theuns.
By the time paramedics arrived, I was barely conscious. They later told me that my head had been nearly severed, my throat and abdomen carved open. Thirty stab wounds. Yet somehow, my heart kept beating.
Surgeons worked through the night, piecing me back together. Against every odd, I survived. The police traced the names I’d written and found the men—Frans du Toit and Theuns Kruger—repeat offenders with a history of violence.
Months later, I faced them in court. No screens, no distance. I told the truth, every brutal detail, because they needed to hear it—and because I needed to reclaim my voice. Both were sentenced to life in prison.
The scars remain, inside and out, but so does the strength I found that night. I learned that survival isn’t just about living through the pain—it’s about refusing to let darkness define you.
Sometimes, when I park my car and sit in silence for a moment, I remember that December night—the knock on the window, the calm voice, the blade catching the light—and I remind myself how fragile life is, and how powerful hope can be when everything else is taken away.
"Twenty Feet Away":
It was just past one in the morning when I finally clocked out from the small rural clinic where I worked as a nurse. The last patient had been a farmhand with a nasty hand injury, and the smell of antiseptic still clung to my scrubs as I stepped into the cold air. The drive home was familiar—thirty miles of empty county roads winding through farmland and forgotten towns. Usually, I liked the solitude, the soft hum of my old car engine and the endless dark fields on either side. But that night, something felt… off.
The sky was moonless, a black canvas swallowing the world beyond the reach of my headlights. The beams sliced through mist pooling low across the road, making everything look unreal—like the kind of silence that comes before something bad happens.
About ten minutes into the drive, I saw it. A shape up ahead on the shoulder—hunched, unmoving. My first thought was that it was an animal, maybe a deer hit by a car. I slowed down out of habit, easing my foot off the gas. The figure stirred, straightened. A man.
He staggered forward and waved one arm weakly, the other hanging limp at his side. Even from a distance, I could tell something wasn’t right—his clothes were torn, dark stains soaked through the fabric. My instincts as a nurse kicked in, overriding the unease prickling in my chest.
I pulled over about twenty feet away, leaving the engine running. The ticking of the cooling engine and the faint chirp of crickets were the only sounds. I rolled the window down an inch.
“Are you okay? Do you need help?”
He turned toward me, and my breath caught. Blood covered him—thick and glistening, smeared across his face and neck. A deep gash split his forehead, and his left arm bent at an impossible angle. He limped toward the car, his eyes wide and glassy in the glare of my headlights.
“Yeah,” he croaked, his voice raw. “Got hit by a car. Please—help me. My leg… it hurts bad.”
Every instinct I had screamed to help, but something about him made my pulse jump. It was the way he moved—too steady, too deliberate for someone that injured.
“Okay, just stay there,” I said, trying to sound calm. “I’ll call an ambulance. Don’t move.”
His head snapped up. “No ambulance,” he said quickly, limping closer. “Just give me a ride to town. Please—it’s not far.”
He was only ten feet away now, and I could see the whites of his eyes darting, his expression flickering between panic and calculation. I tightened my grip on the wheel.
“I can’t let you in,” I said. “I’ll get help here fast.”
“Come on!” he shouted suddenly, slapping a bloody palm against the glass. The sound cracked through the quiet like a gunshot. “I’m bleeding out here! You can’t just leave me!”
My stomach dropped. His voice wasn’t pleading anymore—it was angry. Demanding. I hit the lock button, the doors clicking shut.
He yanked at the handle, rattling it violently. “Let me in!” His face pressed against the glass, twisted with rage, blood smearing where his cheek met the window.
That was it. I slammed the car into drive and hit the gas. Gravel spat from the tires as I lurched forward, the rear fishtailing for a second before gripping the asphalt. In the rearview mirror, I saw him stumble back, his silhouette shrinking in the glow of the taillights.
My hands trembled on the steering wheel as I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s calm voice steadied me just enough to speak.
“There’s a man on the side of County Road 14,” I said, breathless. “Covered in blood—said he was hit by a car. He tried to get into my vehicle. I think he’s dangerous.”
The operator asked for my location, my name, every detail I could recall. I told her about the torn clothes, the broken arm, the blood—too much blood.
“Stay on the line,” she said. “Units are on the way. Are you somewhere safe?”
“I’m driving home,” I whispered, glancing into the rearview mirror again. No lights. No movement. Just the empty road stretching endlessly behind me.
It felt like the longest drive of my life. Every shadow looked like him—every roadside reflector like a figure waiting to step into the beam of my headlights. When I finally pulled into my driveway, I didn’t get out. I just sat there, doors locked, heart pounding, the 911 operator’s voice a lifeline in my ear until a deputy called me directly.
“Ma’am, this is Deputy Harris,” he said. “We found the man you described. He’s in custody now.”
“In custody?” I asked. “So he’s okay?”
“He’s alive,” the deputy said. “But he wasn’t hit by a car. He stole one earlier tonight—crashed it about a mile from where you saw him. Wanted for assault and theft in the next county over. You did the right thing not letting him in. Some of that blood was his, but we think some wasn’t.”
A cold shiver ran through me. “You mean—?”
“We’re checking it out,” he said quietly. “But you were lucky, ma’am. Real lucky.”
That night replayed in my mind for weeks. I scrubbed the blood from my car door the next morning, but I couldn’t wash away the memory of his handprint sliding down the glass. I stopped taking night shifts, started locking my doors twice, even installed a motion light by the driveway.
A month later, I ran into one of my clinic patients at the grocery store—a talkative older woman who liked to gossip. She’d heard about my encounter.
“Scary thing, that,” she said, bagging her apples. “My cousin had something like that happen last year. Guy flagged her down, said he was hurt. Tried to rob her when she stopped. Same road, too.”
The words chilled me. I went home and started digging through old local news articles, reading by the light of my kitchen lamp. There they were—stories scattered over the past few years. Men pretending to be injured, waving down cars late at night. Some ended in robberies. A few ended worse.
Robert Kline, the man from that night, wasn’t the first—and he wouldn’t be the last.
I told my coworkers, warned them during a coffee break. “If you ever see someone hurt on those back roads,” I said, “don’t stop. Call it in, but don’t stop.”
They nodded, wide-eyed. One young aide asked, “What did he look like up close?”
I thought for a long moment before answering. “Like someone who could make you believe him—for a second. That’s all it would’ve taken.”
Sometimes, when I drive home after dark, I still glance at the side of the road. Every shape in the shadows makes my pulse quicken. Because I know now that not everyone waving for help wants to be saved.