"Five Miles to Hell":
I left the house at four in the morning, same as every weekday. The air was cold enough to bite, the kind that makes the world feel hollow and half-asleep. My old sedan coughed awake, headlights cutting a narrow tunnel through the dark. The town was silent behind me, no one stirring yet—just the hum of the engine and the faint glow of the dashboard.
I sipped burnt coffee from my thermos, settling into the quiet, when new headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. High beams. Far back at first. A truck, maybe. It closed the distance fast, faster than made sense for an empty highway, and then it sat right behind me—too close.
I drifted to the right lane to let it pass. It didn’t. It stayed glued to my bumper, lights washing out my mirrors, turning the inside of my car into a blinding white box. I couldn’t make out the make or the shape—just height, size, and those damn lights.
I sped up from fifty to sixty. The truck matched me. Slowed to forty-five. It did the same. My hands tightened on the steering wheel, a slow burn growing in my gut.
The highway here cut through dense woods—no exits, no houses, no help. Just a black wall of trees and a long stretch of nothing. I reached for my phone on the passenger seat. Signal flickered between one bar and none. I managed to call my coworker, Ben, who always left around the same time.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “You on the road yet?”
“Just left,” Ben said. “Why? You sound weird.”
“There’s a truck behind me. Won’t pass. Won’t back off.”
A short silence. “Where are you?”
“Eastbound 45. Just passed the old mill.”
“Next rest area’s about five miles. Pull in and see what he does. If he stops too… don’t get out. Call the cops.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Alright. I’ll call you back.”
The truck crept even closer—so close I felt the vibration through my seat. I swerved slightly to test him. He mirrored it perfectly. My breathing started to speed up. My brain went straight to the headlines I’d seen over the years—people disappearing on backroads before sunrise, cars found empty, families left without answers.
Focus. Just get to the rest area.
The sign finally appeared, glowing like a lifeline. I signaled, slowed, and pulled in. The lot was empty except for a single flickering light that cast long, broken shadows across the pavement. The truck pulled in behind me without hesitation, parking two spots over. No movement inside.
I locked my doors immediately and dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
I kept my voice low. “There’s a truck that’s been following me. I’m at the rest area off Highway 45. He just pulled in.”
“Okay sir, stay in your vehicle. Help is on the way. Can you describe the truck?”
“Dark… maybe black. Big tires. No plate I can see.”
A door creaked open. My heart stuttered.
A man stepped out—tall, broad, wearing a hooded jacket and jeans. He walked with a slow, deliberate pace toward my car, hands tucked in his pockets. His face was mostly shadow, but I caught stubble, maybe thirty or forty, eyes locked on mine. He stopped at my window and knocked twice.
I cracked it an inch. “What do you want?”
He leaned in, breath fogging the glass. “Saw you swerving back there. Everything alright?”
“I’m fine. Heading to work.”
He smiled. It wasn’t friendly—more like someone practicing a smile they never actually used. “Early shift, huh? Me too. Truck’s been acting up. Thought maybe you had tools. Mind if I check under your hood? Maybe trade something.”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m good.”
The smile dropped. “Come on. Don’t be rude.”
His hand closed around the door handle. It rattled. Locked. His expression tightened.
“Open up. I need help.”
My pulse hammered. “Back off. Police are coming.”
He snarled, then pulled something from his pocket—a knife, small but sharp enough to catch the flickering light. He pressed the blade against the window.
“Get out. Now.”
That was all I needed.
I stomped the gas. The tires screeched on the pavement, and the car shot forward. In the mirror, the man sprinted back to his truck, dove in, and roared after me. His headlights filled the rearview again, trembling with each bump. He was coming fast—faster than before.
The dispatcher stayed on the line. “Units are close. Just keep driving.”
The next curve approached too quickly. My car shuddered as I took it. Behind me, his truck fishtailed, then realigned. He rammed my bumper once—then again, harder. Metal shrieked. My head snapped forward.
“Where are they?” I muttered, half to myself.
Then—up ahead—red and blue lights lit the trees like fireworks. Two police cruisers blocked the road, officers braced behind doors. I hit the brakes and skidded to a stop. The truck swerved left, trying to U‑turn, but the cops swarmed before he could pick up speed. They dragged him out screaming, pinned him face-down, cuffed him.
I sat there shaking, engine idling, the world suddenly too bright.
An officer jogged up to my window. “You okay?”
I nodded, though my voice cracked. “Yeah. What was his deal?”
The officer exhaled. “We’ve been looking for him. He’s been targeting early-morning drivers for weeks. Following them, forcing them off the road. We found rope, duct tape, all kinds of things in his cab. You’re lucky you called when you did.”
At the station later, they told me the rest. His name was Robert Hayes. Out on parole for assault. Linked to multiple attacks—one woman found dead in the woods last month. They’d suspected him, but never caught him in the act. Until me.
Ben called while I filled out paperwork. “You good, man? Heard sirens on the scanner.”
“Yeah,” I said, still shaky. “He tried to run me off the road.”
“That’s insane. You taking the day off?”
I thought about it. “No. Shift starts soon.”
But driving wouldn’t ever feel the same again.
Now, every morning, every set of headlights behind me makes my stomach tighten. I check my mirrors twice. Sometimes three times. The road before dawn isn’t peaceful anymore. Just quiet. Too quiet.
They said Hayes confessed when they showed him dash cam footage from another victim—someone who wasn’t as lucky. I keep thinking about that. How close I came. How a simple shift at the factory could’ve ended a different way.
I still drive the same route, but I don’t sink into the quiet anymore. I stay awake, alert, waiting. Because once you’ve seen headlights in the dark that weren't just headlights, you never unsee them.
"The Basement":
I woke before my alarm, like I always did for my five a.m. shift. The house was still, my two roommates lost in sleep down the hall. Our small apartment on the west side of town was close enough to walk to the diner, where I served coffee to truckers and factory workers. Usually, the quiet streets didn’t bother me, but that morning, something felt off as I pulled on my coat and boots. I checked the mirror, grabbed my purse, and stepped into the cold, empty street.
The walk to the bus stop took ten minutes, winding past shuttered houses and dim alleys. I kept my pace steady, thinking about the day ahead—pouring endless cups of coffee, listening to the same stories, smiling at the same faces. Tom from the mill always left a generous tip and asked about my classes at the community college. I forced a smile at the thought, trying to shake the unease curling in my stomach. Maybe it was the early hour. Maybe it was something else.
Then I heard it—footsteps behind me. Not loud, not hurried, just deliberate, matching my pace. I glanced over my shoulder. Nothing. Just parked cars, garbage cans waiting for pickup. I told myself it was a neighbor heading out early, maybe to the mill. But the steps didn’t stop. They got closer. My breath fogged in the cold air. I picked up my pace.
“Hello?” a soft voice called from behind.
I stopped. A man stood there, maybe in his twenties, dark jacket, dark pants, ordinary in every way except for the intensity in his eyes. “Do you know what time the next bus comes?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Should be here soon, around four-forty,” I said, clutching my purse strap, forcing calm into my voice. “You new around here?”
He nodded, faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just moved in down the block. First day at a new job. Mind if I walk with you? Safer that way, right?”
I hesitated. The polite part of me said yes; the warning bell in my head screamed no. The bus stop was just ahead. “Sure,” I muttered, starting again. He fell in step beside me.
“So, what do you do?”
“Waitress at the diner on Main,” I said, short. “Early mornings are the worst, but it pays the bills.”
He chuckled. “Construction. Up before everyone else. Name’s Larry.”
“Anna,” I said before thinking.
We turned into the alley shortcut, the one I’d walked a thousand times without concern. But with him beside me, the narrow path felt suffocating. Walls of houses boxed us in, shadows pooling at our feet.
“You live alone?” His tone had shifted, casual now, probing.
“No, with roommates. Why?”
“Just curious. Quiet neighborhood. Not many out this early.”
Halfway through, he stopped suddenly. “Wait—I think I dropped my wallet back there. Can you help me look?”
Alarm bells rang. “No—I have to catch my bus.” I tugged at my purse.
His smile vanished. He stepped in front of me. “Come on. It’ll just take a second. Don’t be like that.”
Panic surged. I backed up. “Get out of my way.”
He lunged. His hand clamped over my mouth. I kicked, twisted, struggled. He pressed me against a garage wall, whispering, “Shh, don’t make this hard.”
Instinct took over. I bit down hard. His fingers gave way just enough for me to scream. “Help! Somebody help!”
Lights flicked on. A door creaked. “What’s going on out there?” a man shouted.
He froze, then shoved me to the ground and bolted, vanishing into the shadows. I scrambled up, shaking, running toward the voices. An older couple stood on their porch, eyes wide.
“Are you okay, miss?” the woman asked, wrapping a blanket around me as her husband called the police.
I nodded, tears streaming. “He… he tried to hurt me. Said he lived nearby.”
The police arrived quickly. I described him in detail—the plain face, the questions, the attack. “We’ll look into it,” one officer said. “There have been a few incidents like this lately. Stay safe, maybe get a ride next time.”
I missed my bus. The officers drove me to work. All day, I flinched at every customer who looked familiar. That night, my roommates waited, worried.
“What happened?” one asked, hugging me tight.
I told them everything. “He seemed normal at first… but then…” My voice broke. “I think he would have done worse if people hadn’t heard me.”
We locked every door. I didn’t sleep. The next day, the papers reported another assault—same method, same early hour. A woman walking to her job. Not as lucky.
Weeks passed. Warnings went out: don’t walk alone. Report suspicious people. I started carpooling, but the fear lingered. Later, I saw a sketch in the paper—plain face, dark hair. Larry Fisher, suspect in multiple assaults, living in a basement apartment nearby.
The thought that I had walked with him, talked to him, made me nauseous. What if I hadn’t bitten him? What if no one had heard?
Years later, I still avoid early shifts. The memory of his hand on my mouth, the whisper in my ear, shadows in a quiet alley—it stays with me. That ordinary morning walk became something I’ll never escape.
"The Tampa":
I had just finished my late shift at the donut shop, wiping down counters and locking up around 2 a.m. The streets of Tampa were silent at that hour, broken only by the occasional hum of a passing car beneath the dim glow of streetlights. I swung my leg over my bike and pedaled toward home, a familiar twenty-minute route through quiet neighborhoods I thought I knew. But that night, something felt off, though I couldn’t have said what.
The rustle came first, soft and deliberate, behind me. I froze for a split second before convincing myself it was probably just an animal in the bushes. Then, without warning, a hand clamped over my mouth, and a strong arm wrapped around my neck, yanking me off the bike. My scream was stifled instantly. “Don’t make a sound, or I’ll kill you right here,” a low, chilling voice hissed in my ear.
He dragged me toward a darkened car parked just ahead. I kicked and thrashed, but he was stronger than I could have imagined, pinning my arms behind my back. “Stop fighting,” he growled. “Or this ends now.” The trunk swung open, and before I could process what was happening, he shoved me inside and slammed it shut. Darkness swallowed me whole. I pounded on the metal, my heart hammering, but the car started moving, the sound of the engine deafening in the confined space.
Time blurred. Every turn, every stop, felt endless. Finally, the car came to a halt. The trunk opened, and a rag was pressed over my eyes. “Walk,” he commanded, guiding me by the arm. The world was a blur of shadows and muffled sounds. When the blindfold was finally removed, I saw him. Ordinary-looking, dark hair, eyes void of empathy, yet radiating a calm menace that made my stomach twist.
The apartment was dim, cluttered with empty bottles and scattered clothes. He shoved me onto a mattress on the floor and tied my hands with rope. “You’re staying here until I decide what to do with you,” he said flatly.
I swallowed hard. “Why… why are you doing this?” My voice trembled.
He paced, silent for a long moment. “Because I can,” he said finally. “Girls like you disappear. Nobody cares.” My blood ran cold. He sat across from me, studying me as if I were a puzzle. “Tell me about yourself. What’s your name?”
“Lisa,” I said, trying to sound calm. “I’m seventeen. I live with my grandmother. Please… just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”
A soft, chilling laugh escaped him. “You think it’s that simple? No one leaves.”
Hours dragged on. He asked questions about my life, my job, my family, even my dreams. I answered cautiously, trying to humanize myself, hoping to stir some spark of empathy—or hesitation—inside him. Occasionally, he untied me just enough to eat, handing me cold food. I forced it down, my stomach in knots.
In the quiet, he revealed fragments of himself. “I hate this world,” he muttered. “People have hurt me. Now I hurt them back.” I nodded slowly, speaking gently. “That sounds painful. Maybe there’s another way.” He shot me a glare. “You don’t know anything.”
As dawn broke, light filtered weakly through the curtains, but the room remained locked tight. He grew restless, pacing, checking windows. “Cops might be looking,” he muttered. I seized on the opportunity. “If you let me go, I can say I ran away. No one has to know.”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
He forced me to shower while watching, humiliation coiling tight around me. Afterwards, he tied me up again and left. I could hear him moving in the apartment, plotting, thinking, the minutes stretching endlessly. When he returned, his mood had darkened.
“I could end this right now,” he said, producing a gun and pressing the cold barrel to my temple. “Beg for your life.”
Tears ran down my face. “Please… don’t. I have so much to live for. My grandmother needs me.”
He hesitated. Slowly, he lowered the gun. “You’re different from the others,” he admitted. “They all screamed, fought. You… talk.”
I spoke. I told him about my past—abuse, loneliness, the weight of feeling invisible. Sometimes, he shared fragments of his life, the rejection and anger that had twisted him. “Women always leave me,” he confessed. “That’s why I take control.” I tried to reason gently. “Control doesn’t erase pain. Letting go might.”
By evening, he seemed conflicted, loosening the ropes, letting me sit on the couch. Fear never left, though. Every glance, every pause, made my heart stutter. Finally, he asked, almost casually, “What if I drive you somewhere and drop you off?”
Hope flared. “Yes, please. I won’t say a word.”
He thought for a long while, then nodded. “Fine. But if you lie, I’ll find you.” Blindfolded again, I was led to the car. We drove in tense silence. When the blindfold came off, we were in a wooded area, still dark. “Go,” he said. “Run home and forget this.”
I bolted, legs trembling, until I reached a road and flagged down a car. The driver, an older woman, immediately saw the panic in my eyes and drove me to the police. I gave them every detail—the apartment, the car, even fingerprints I had deliberately left behind.
The investigation moved quickly. My description, combined with the clues I’d left, led to the arrest of Bobby Joe Long, a man suspected in multiple murders. He confessed, but my testimony helped stop him.
Looking back, those twenty-six hours were the longest of my life—the fear, the uncertainty, the constant threat pressing down. But staying calm, staying human, talking to him—it saved me. That night changed me, but it didn’t break me. Today, I work in law enforcement, helping others survive the unimaginable, knowing firsthand the fragile line between life and death.
"Before Dawn":
I woke up to the alarm buzzing at 4:30 a.m., its sharp trill slicing straight through the quiet of my room. For a moment, I lay there in the dark, letting the weight of the early hour sink in. My shift at the bakery started at six, and the only way to make it on time was catching the 5:15 bus. It was a routine I’d perfected for months—wake up, get dressed, slip out the door without disturbing my roommate—but that morning, something in the air felt different. Heavier. Still.
I tugged on my coat, slung my bag over my shoulder, and eased the front door closed until the latch clicked softly behind me. The neighborhood was silent in that strange way that feels more like holding its breath than truly resting. Only the faint hum of a distant car reminded me that the world was still turning.
I unpeeled a banana as I walked—my little morning ritual, a bit of energy before the long shift ahead. The streetlights glowed weakly, casting long, pale shadows across the pavement. The air felt colder than usual, the darkness somehow thicker. I kept telling myself I was overthinking it, that I’d just woken up groggy and jittery. But each step echoed just a little too loudly in my ears.
The bus stop was four blocks away. I’d walked the route a hundred times, but that morning every house I passed felt like it was watching me through dark, shuttered windows. I tried brushing off the unease creeping up my spine, focusing instead on the warm banana in my hand, the familiar rhythm of my footsteps.
Then I heard the other footsteps.
At first I assumed they were mine, bouncing off the silent houses. But these were heavier. Faster. Closing in. I quickened my pace, glancing over my shoulder without turning my head fully.
A man had stepped out from the mouth of an alley behind me. Tall. Shoulders hunched inside a dark hoodie. A black mask covering everything but his eyes. And those eyes—wide and unblinking—locked straight onto me.
My stomach dropped. I looked ahead, pretending I didn’t notice him, hoping maybe he’d turn in another direction. But his pace matched mine, each step quickening.
“Hey,” he called out, his voice low and scratchy, like gravel dragged across cement.
I didn’t respond. I just walked faster.
“Hey!” he said again—closer now.
My heart hammered in my chest. I rounded the corner, the bus stop only a block and a half away. Almost there. Just keep moving.
Suddenly, he was in front of me.
He stepped out so fast I nearly collided with him. And then I saw it—the gun in his hand, small but unmistakably real, angled straight at my forehead. Under the flickering streetlight, the metal gleamed like something alive.
“Give me your purse and your bag,” he said, voice steady, eyes burning with a frantic intensity that made my skin crawl.
For a second, I couldn’t speak. My breath came in tiny, shaky bursts. “Please… don’t,” I whispered, my hand trembling as I slowly, carefully extended my purse toward him.
He snatched it away. But he didn’t leave. Didn’t take a step back. Something in his posture shifted, darker, more deliberate.
He grabbed my arm—hard—and yanked.
“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the alley he’d come from. “Move.”
“No—no, please—” The words barely escaped before he clamped a gloved hand over my mouth.
“Shut up,” he hissed into my ear, breath sour and hot. “You scream again, I’ll blow your head off.”
The cold weight of the gun pressed into my side. Panic hammered through me. My vision tunneled. I dug my heels into the sidewalk, twisting, kicking, anything—but his grip only tightened, dragging me deeper into the shadowed alley where no one could see.
I realized then—if he got me in there, really in there—I wouldn’t be coming back out.
I bit him. Hard. Hard enough to taste the chemicals from his glove. He jerked back with a sharp cry.
It was all the opening I needed.
I tore free and ran.
I sprinted toward the street, toward the bus stop, toward any possibility of help. “Help! Help! He has a gun!” I screamed, my voice cracking. The banana slipped from my hand and bounced away, absurdly bright against the dark pavement.
He was chasing me. I could hear his feet pounding behind me, hear him spit curses under his breath. “Get back here!”
Lights flicked on in nearby windows. Porch bulbs clicked to life. But the street still felt endless.
He grabbed the back of my jacket, yanking me sideways. I stumbled, nearly went down. He raised the gun again.
“I will kill you,” he snarled, his voice an unhinged growl.
Pure instinct took over. I spun and ducked behind a parked car, pressing myself low. My breath shuddered in my throat. “Leave me alone!” I screamed, forcing my voice into the open.
And that’s when a door opened.
An older man stepped out of his house across the street, shining a flashlight toward us. “What’s going on out here?” he called, voice firm, steady, like he wasn’t afraid of the gun at all.
The attacker hesitated. Just a heartbeat. But enough.
“Mind your business!” he barked, though fear seeped into the edges of his words.
“I’m calling the police,” the man said. No hesitation. No fear. Just certainty.
And then—something I’ll never forget—the attacker let out this strange, high‑pitched scream. Not a yell. Not a threat. Something raw and animalistic. A sound so full of rage it prickled every hair on my arms.
He turned and bolted back into the alley, swallowed by the shadows.
I slid down against the side of the car, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. The older man rushed over, placing a steadying hand on my arm.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, shining the light gently over me.
“He… he tried to take me,” I choked out. “He had a gun.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “You’re safe now. Stay with me.”
Sirens echoed through the neighborhood minutes later. Officers searched the alley, collected my purse—which he’d thrown aside after emptying my wallet—but he was gone.
At least for the moment.
Hours later, the police found him. A few towns away, hiding behind a gas station. They said he matched my description exactly—mask and all. They also said he’d been doing this for weeks. Watching bus routes. Targeting women who walked alone in the early morning.
“You fought,” one officer told me. “It made all the difference.”
In the days that followed, the aftermath settled in like a weight on my chest. Nights became harder. Shadows felt thicker. Footsteps behind me—even harmless ones—made my hands shake. My roommate noticed how I jolted at every sound, so we installed better locks, extra lights, anything to help me sleep again.
Weeks later, I saw the older man at the grocery store. He recognized me instantly.
“How are you holding up?” he asked gently.
I thanked him again—really thanked him. His face softened.
“Most people stay inside,” he said. “But I heard someone in trouble. It’s what anyone should do.”
I wanted to believe that. But the truth is, not everyone does.
And some mornings, when I’m awake before dawn and the house is silent, I still hear that scream—sharp, wild, echoing from the alley. A reminder of how close I came to vanishing into the dark.
And how one stranger’s courage pulled me back.