"The Vanishing Point":
Tom and I had been on the road for months, tracing a winding path through Australia in our faded orange van. We’d started in Sydney, picking up odd jobs along the way to keep our trip going. It was supposed to be the adventure of a lifetime — just us, open highways, and a country so vast it could swallow you whole.
That afternoon, we’d left a small town behind, heading north through the outback. The road stretched endlessly ahead, heat shimmering above the asphalt. Red dirt plains ran out to the horizon, broken only by the occasional scrub bush and the faint silhouettes of distant hills. No other cars. Just the hum of the tires and an old rock song playing softly from the radio.
We talked about stopping at some rock formations up ahead, maybe camping there for the night. The sun was low, melting into the horizon in bands of orange and violet. Then, in the rearview mirror, I noticed a white truck behind us — an older model with a green canvas cover over the back.
At first, it was distant. Then it got closer. Too close.
“Look at that guy,” I said. “He’s been following us since the last fuel stop.”
Tom glanced at the mirror. “Probably just heading north too. Not many roads out here.” He smiled, turned up the volume a little, and tapped the steering wheel.
But the truck stayed on us, headlights glaring in the mirror. Then it accelerated, pulling up alongside. The driver — a rough-looking man in a dusty cap — leaned out his window and gestured frantically, pointing toward the back of our van.
“Pull over!” he shouted over the wind. “Something’s wrong with your exhaust!”
Tom frowned. “Might be serious. Better check it out.”
A small knot of unease twisted in my stomach, but out here, people helped each other. That was the unspoken rule of the road. So Tom eased the van onto the shoulder. Dust rolled around us in the fading light as the truck pulled up ahead.
The man climbed out. He was tall, wiry, mid-forties maybe, sunburned skin and stubble. His eyes darted quickly over the van, then to me in the passenger seat.
Tom walked over. “You said you saw sparks?”
“Yeah,” the man replied casually, pointing toward the rear. “Back here, under the muffler. Looked bad.”
I watched through the mirror as Tom crouched to check. The man stood just behind him, hands in his pockets. Something about his stillness made the air feel heavier.
Then came the sound — sharp, violent, unmistakable. A gunshot.
Tom collapsed instantly.
For a moment, the world stopped. I couldn’t process it — couldn’t even breathe — until the man turned toward me, a silver pistol gleaming in his hand. He strode to my door, yanked it open, and pointed the barrel straight at my face.
“Out,” he ordered.
My mind emptied. I raised trembling hands. “Please — what did you do to him?”
“Out,” he repeated, grabbing my wrist and dragging me from the seat. The zip ties came next — thick, black, cutting into my skin as he tightened them behind my back.
“Don’t fight,” he said coldly. “Or it gets worse.”
He pushed me toward his truck, the gun pressing hard against my ribs. There was a brown dog sitting in the front seat, silent, watching. It didn’t bark — just stared as if it understood everything that was happening.
He opened the back of the truck. A dark tarp was spread out inside. I realized then what this was — not a robbery, not random. Something much worse.
I struggled, kicking back with both feet. “Let me go!” I screamed. “Help!”
He slapped tape across my mouth, but I shook it loose, biting and thrashing. “Quiet!” he hissed, glancing toward the empty road.
That second of distraction saved my life. I spun, slammed my shoulder into him, and ran.
I didn’t look back. My wrists were bound, but adrenaline gave me speed. I plunged into the bush beside the highway — thorny shrubs clawing at my legs, branches snapping underfoot. I dove under a dense tangle of spinifex and froze, chest heaving.
His boots crunched on the gravel behind me. The flashlight flicked on. “Come out!” he shouted, voice low and furious. “You can’t hide from me.”
The beam swept through the bushes — slow, methodical — passing inches from my face. My lungs screamed for air, but I didn’t dare move. He circled, the light coming closer each time. The dog whined somewhere near the truck.
Minutes bled into hours. The desert night grew cold, the silence broken only by insects and his distant muttering. Twice he returned, calling out threats, shining that light again.
Eventually, the sound of his engine roared to life. Headlights cut across the scrub, then faded into the darkness.
I didn’t move right away. I waited — until my muscles burned and my hands were numb — before crawling back toward the highway. The night sky stretched above, black and endless.
When the distant glow of headlights appeared, I stumbled out, waving my tied hands, tears streaming down my face.
The road train screeched to a stop, dust swirling around me. Two men jumped down — truckers, both wide-eyed and shocked.
“What the hell happened to you?” one of them asked.
“Someone— someone shot my boyfriend,” I gasped. “He tried to take me.”
They cut the ties, wrapped me in a blanket, and got me into the cab. One radioed ahead, his voice steady but tight. “Got a woman here — possible abduction, gunshot involved. North of Barrow Creek.”
At the pub in town, people gathered, whispering, watching me like I was a ghost. Police arrived soon after. I told them everything — the van, the man, the gun, Tom. They went back to search the highway.
They found blood. Drag marks. Nothing else.
The van was still there, door open, engine cooling in the desert night. But Tom was gone.
Months later, they caught him — Bradley John Murdoch. A mechanic. Drifter. DNA from the zip ties matched. He got life in prison.
But Tom’s body was never found.
Sometimes, when I dream, I see that endless road again — the white truck in the mirror, the orange light of sunset fading over the desert. I still wonder if somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, Tom is waiting in the silence of the outback, calling my name in the wind.
"The Blue Van":
I was fifteen, standing on the shoulder of Interstate 5 with a cardboard sign that read “South.” The letters were smudged from sweat, the edges flapping in the hot wind. My arms were baked brown from the Vegas sun, my backpack nearly empty—just a change of clothes, a half-empty water bottle, and a few crumpled bills. Two other kids waited a few yards away, pretending not to look hopeful.
When the blue van slowed, dust curling around its tires, I thought my luck had finally turned. The driver leaned over, one hand on the wheel. “Room for one,” he said. His voice was steady, calm—almost grandfatherly. “You coming or not?”
I glanced at the other two. They shook their heads. I was tired of waiting. So I climbed in.
The cab smelled of oil, cigarettes, and old coffee. Tools clanked in the back with each bump. “Name’s Larry,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Where to?”
“Los Angeles,” I told him. “My grandpa’s place.”
He nodded, like that made perfect sense. We talked a little—nothing deep. He said he’d been a sailor once, that he liked the open road now. I told him about the fight with my mom, how I’d left before she could stop me. The miles slipped by easy, the desert flattening to gold and gray.
Then he missed the exit for I-5 South.
“You went past it,” I said.
“Oops,” he chuckled. “We’ll circle back.”
But we didn’t. He turned onto a narrow canyon road instead, where the asphalt cracked and the sagebrush grew high and dry. The sun dipped low, spilling orange light across the windshield. My stomach twisted, but I stayed quiet. When he finally pulled over, he stretched, saying, “Need to walk a bit.”
I got out too, pretending to retie my shoe. The air felt heavy and still. I was just starting to stand when the hammer hit—hard, behind my ear. The world spun sideways and went black.
When I came to, my wrists were tied, rope burning my skin. My head rang. Larry was dragging me toward the van’s rear doors. His face had changed—no warmth, no voice, just something hollow and fixed. “Don’t make a sound,” he said.
The night swallowed everything after that. The assaults came in waves—violence, silence, breathing, laughter. I begged. I promised. “I won’t tell. I just want to go home.” He only laughed once, soft and low, like I’d said something funny.
By dawn, the desert was pale and cold. He pulled a hatchet from his toolbox, blade dull with use. “Hold still.”
I tried to fight. The rope held. He grabbed my arm, laid it across a log, and swung. The pain was so bright it erased everything. My scream didn’t sound human. He did the other the same. Blood pulsed, spraying the sand.
He stuffed what was left of me into a plastic bag, tossed it aside like trash, and dragged me to the edge of a ravine. “Stay quiet down there,” he said, and shoved me into a concrete drainage pipe before driving away. The van’s engine faded, leaving nothing but wind.
I lay there for hours, half-buried in mud and blood. The cold came fast. I pressed handfuls of wet dirt against the stumps, packing it thick to slow the bleeding. Shock dulled the pain, but something deep inside refused to quit.
Every inch up that ravine was agony. Rocks tore at my knees, my face, my ribs. I crawled until my vision blurred white and the world began to tilt. Then—pavement. Headlights. A red car skidded to a stop.
“Oh my God,” a woman screamed. Hands wrapped me in a blanket. The car doors slammed, tires screeched, sirens blurred. In the hospital I watched the ceiling lights pass overhead in a steady rhythm—white, white, white—until they stopped moving.
When I woke again, I told them everything. The van. The hammer. The smell of oil. His glasses. His voice. I spoke through the pain because I needed someone to know.
Weeks later, in court, I pointed across the room with my new steel hook. “That’s him.” Larry didn’t even look at me. The judge gave him fourteen years. He served eight.
By then, I’d learned to hold a paintbrush between my prosthetics. I visited schools, talked about trust, about running away, about what monsters actually look like.
In 1997, he killed again—a woman in Florida. When they called, I flew down and testified once more. This time, they gave him death row. Cancer beat the needle to him.
Sometimes, when I’m alone, I still feel the hatchet’s weight—the air before it falls, the sound the canyon made after. But I walk upright now, hooks clicking against my pockets. Proof that the road didn’t win.
"Nowhere Left to Run":
I had just turned eighteen, finishing my last year of high school, when Mr. Harris—my science teacher—started offering to help me after class. He was in his late forties, kind at first, the sort of teacher everyone said cared too much. Married, with two kids of his own, but there was something in the way he looked at me—like we shared some quiet secret.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it. My home life was falling apart—my parents fought almost every night, and I spent most evenings hiding in my room with music playing to drown them out. So when Mr. Harris listened, really listened, it felt like someone finally saw me. He’d say things like, “You’re different, you know that? You deserve better than this town, better than what they’ve given you.” I believed him. I didn’t recognize how carefully he was building that trust.
Then, in February, another teacher saw us talking too close in the hallway—his hand brushing mine as he handed back a test. Rumors spread fast. I got called into the counselor’s office, asked questions I didn’t know how to answer. Mr. Harris was suspended for a week. Everyone thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
He started texting me from an unknown number—messages that sounded desperate, pleading. “I can’t lose you. You’re the only one who understands me.” I tried to ignore them, but he wouldn’t stop. Once, he mentioned my little sister by name, said she looked just like me. That was when the fear set in—real, icy fear.
One afternoon in March, he was waiting by the curb after school. He told me to get in—said we just needed to talk. I hesitated, but he smiled the way teachers do when they’re trying to calm you down. Once I was in the car, though, everything changed. He didn’t turn toward town—he merged onto the highway.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Just a little trip,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the road. “You’ll see. This is for us.”
My phone buzzed in my lap—friends asking where I was—but he grabbed it and hurled it out the window before I could answer. “No distractions,” he said. His voice was calm, too calm.
We drove for hours. The scenery shifted from suburban roads to endless fields, then to small towns with peeling signs and dusty gas stations. He talked about starting over somewhere new, about how we could live freely without anyone judging us. I told him I wanted to go home, but he only gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles white.
That night, we stopped at a rundown motel off the interstate. He locked the door behind us and sat on the bed, staring at me like he was waiting for something. “Tell me you trust me,” he said.
I nodded, because I was too afraid to do anything else.
The days after that blurred together—long stretches of highway, rest stops, cheap motels, and silence. We crossed into Oklahoma, then Colorado. He dyed his hair darker in a gas station bathroom and made me wear a hat to hide my face. “If anyone asks, you’re my niece,” he told me.
Once, at a rest area, I saw a clerk behind the counter and thought about running—but I felt his hand clamp down on my shoulder before I even took a step. His grip was firm, his voice steady. “Don’t even think about it,” he whispered.
By the time we reached northern California, his tone had shifted. The kindness was gone. He spoke in circles about his marriage, how his wife never appreciated him, how I was meant to be with him. “I’ve waited for someone like you,” he murmured one night as the car wound through empty mountain roads. I pretended to sleep while my mind raced for a way out.
Eventually, we ended up in a cabin tucked deep in the woods—miles from any real road, surrounded by silence. He said it was temporary, just until we figured out a plan to cross into Mexico. There was no cell signal, no neighbors, no one who could hear me scream.
He became paranoid, possessive. He wouldn’t let me go outside alone. At dinner, he’d sit across from me and watch every movement I made. “You belong with me now,” he said once, his tone almost tender. When I cried, his face hardened. “Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”
There was a gun in his bag. I saw it once when he pulled out his wallet. After that, I stopped arguing.
A few days later, a local man at a nearby supply store noticed something off. Maybe it was the way I wouldn’t look up, or how Mr. Harris kept answering questions meant for me. That man called the police.
They came at dawn. The sound of boots crunching on gravel outside the cabin was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. Mr. Harris tried to say I came willingly, tried to twist everything into something innocent. But this time, I spoke.
He was arrested that morning.
When they drove me back home, everything felt unreal—like I’d woken up in a version of my life that didn’t quite fit anymore. It took a long time to feel safe again. Even now, when I pass by a school or see a car that looks like his, something in me freezes.
I used to think monsters looked obvious—creatures hiding in shadows. But sometimes, they wear friendly smiles, carry lesson plans, and tell you you’re special until you start to believe it.
Those weeks on the road taught me that safety isn’t something you have—it’s something that can vanish in an instant.
"The Tow":
I had just clocked out from another long shift at the warehouse when Tom called, his voice buzzing with excitement. “Dude, let’s just hit the road tonight,” he said. “The festival’s this weekend, right? No point waiting till morning.”
We’d been planning the trip for weeks — Colorado mountains, live music, camping, and a break from everything that had started to feel routine. My old sedan was already packed with snacks, a cooler, and our gear. Driving from Ohio to Colorado would take close to twenty hours, but the plan was simple: trade off behind the wheel, take the back routes, and drive through the night to beat the crowds.
Tom had always been the adventurous one — the kind of guy who trusted map apps that promised “scenic detours” and “less traffic.” I just liked the idea of open roads and freedom.
We rolled out around 7 p.m., the sky melting from orange to dark violet. Tom took the first shift, blasting his favorite playlist as the farmland slid past under the last traces of daylight. I drifted in and out of sleep, the hum of the engine and soft vibration of the tires lulling me under.
A couple hours later, Tom nudged me. “Hey, man, check this out.” He pointed to his phone’s map. “This road up ahead — cuts right through a national forest. Says it’ll save us almost an hour.”
I blinked at the screen, half awake. The road looked like a skinny gray thread through a huge patch of green. No towns. No gas stations. Just wilderness.
“You sure?” I mumbled.
He grinned. “Come on, Jack. It’ll be fine. Empty, quiet, more stars.”
We turned off the interstate, the pavement narrowing as tall pines closed in on both sides. At first, it was peaceful — almost beautiful. The headlights cut tunnels through mist, and every so often, we’d catch a pair of deer eyes glinting from the brush.
Then, out of nowhere, the engine began to sputter.
Tom frowned, tapping the gas. “You feel that?”
The dashboard lights flickered. A coughing sound came from under the hood, then silence. He eased us onto the shoulder of the empty road.
We got out, the night air cold and still. When I popped the hood, the beam from my flashlight caught a thin wisp of steam curling upward. Neither of us had a clue what we were looking at.
“Probably bad gas from that last station,” I said, though I didn’t sound convinced.
We tried restarting it a few times — nothing. Then I checked my phone. No bars. Tom’s was dead too.
“Perfect,” he muttered, kicking the gravel. “Middle of nowhere.”
We were debating whether to walk back toward the interstate or forward into God-knows-where when headlights appeared behind us — faint at first, then blindingly bright. A pickup truck slowed and pulled over.
A man stepped out. He looked to be in his late 50s, wearing a faded denim jacket and heavy work boots. His face was hard to read in the glare, but his posture was easy, almost friendly.
“You boys havin’ car trouble?” he called, his voice gravelly but calm.
Tom exhaled with relief. “Yeah, man, it just died on us. Won’t start.”
The stranger nodded, walking closer. “Could be your alternator. Dust kills those things out here.” He motioned toward his truck. “Got some tools in the back. Name’s Earl. Live up the road a ways.”
Tom introduced us, ever the optimist. “Appreciate it, Earl.”
Earl poked around under the hood, humming quietly. After a minute, he straightened up. “Looks like a loose belt. I could tighten it, but it’ll take some time. Or…” — he smiled — “I could tow you to my place, fix it proper. I got a full setup in the barn.”
Tom looked at me. “Better than freezing out here.”
Something in me hesitated. The road was too quiet, too dark. Earl’s eyes flicked over our car, to the cooler, the bags. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Maybe we should wait till morning,” I said.
Earl shook his head. “No service here. Towing company won’t come till daylight, and they’ll rob you blind. Come on, I got coffee on. My wife made stew earlier.”
Tom shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”
Reluctantly, I agreed. We hooked a chain from his truck to our bumper and followed as he towed us deeper into the forest.
The drive felt longer than it should’ve — twenty minutes, maybe more. No signs of life. When we finally saw a light ahead, it was a small house off a dirt path, with a barn behind it glowing under a single bulb.
No other lights. No sign of a wife.
“She’s probably asleep,” Earl said casually as we pulled up. “Come on in while I grab my tools.”
Inside, the place smelled musty — like old wood, rust, and something faintly metallic. The living room had a sagging couch, yellowed curtains, and a table littered with old newspapers.
Earl poured us coffee from a pot on the stove. “Make yourselves at home. I’ll be out in the barn.”
He grabbed a toolbox and disappeared through the door.
Tom grinned. “See? Nice guy. Told you we’d be fine.”
I tried to smile, but something was wrong. The coffee was bitter, almost sour, and the house felt… too still. There were locked doors down the hallway, heavy bolts on the inside. And from upstairs, a faint scratching sound — slow and rhythmic, like nails on wood.
“You hear that?” I whispered.
Tom frowned. “Probably mice, man. Chill.”
But then the lights flickered. I glanced through the window toward the barn. Earl wasn’t fixing the car. He was rummaging through our trunk — pulling out our duffel bags, opening them, setting things aside.
“Tom.” I pointed. His smile vanished. “What the hell is he doing?”
We bolted for the door. It didn’t move. Locked — from the outside.
“Earl!” Tom shouted, pounding on it. No answer.
I tried the back door — same thing.
The scratching upstairs grew louder. It wasn’t a mouse. It was deliberate.
Tom grabbed a chair, ready to smash a window, when we heard Earl’s voice outside — calm, but wrong. “You boys shouldn’t snoop around. Folks get hurt that way.”
His footsteps crunched on gravel as he circled the house. Slow. Measured.
“Call for help,” Tom hissed. But our phones still had no signal.
I glanced at the newspapers scattered on the table. The top one caught my eye — LOCAL DRIVERS STILL MISSING. Beneath it, another: ABANDONED VEHICLE FOUND IN NATIONAL FOREST. The photo looked disturbingly familiar — same make, same color as my car.
“Tom…” My voice cracked. “He’s done this before.”
The doorknob rattled. “Come on now,” Earl said softly. “Let’s talk this through.”
We backed away, every nerve screaming. Tom pointed to the kitchen. “Window.”
It was small, but big enough. We squeezed through one by one, landing in the damp grass outside.
The barn door hung open. Our car was still hooked up.
“Go!” I hissed.
We unlatched the chain, dove into the car. The engine roared to life — perfectly.
“Guess it wasn’t broken after all,” Tom muttered, panic rising.
Headlights flared behind us. Earl’s truck.
He gunned the engine, closing fast. The road exploded with dust as he slammed his horn, ramming our bumper.
“Go, go, go!” I yelled.
Tom floored it. The sedan fishtailed onto the main road, tires screeching. Earl’s high beams filled the mirror, blinding us.
He rammed us again, harder.
“What does he want?” Tom shouted.
I didn’t know. Money? Something worse? Maybe he didn’t want anything. Maybe he just liked the chase.
The road curved sharply, trees blurring by. Earl’s truck swung up alongside, his face lit by the dashboard glow — mouth twisted into a grin that didn’t look human.
Tom slammed the brakes, and Earl shot past. We veered right, onto a side trail barely wide enough for a car. Branches clawed at the windows. The truck followed, grinding through mud.
“Come on, come on,” I whispered.
After what felt like hours, the trail widened and connected to a paved road. A small building appeared ahead — a ranger station. Light spilled from the windows.
Tom blasted the horn, skidding into the lot.
A ranger came out, flashlight raised. “What’s going on?”
“That guy—he’s chasing us!” I shouted, pointing behind.
Earl’s truck appeared at the far edge of the road, idling for a moment… then turned, taillights fading into the trees.
The ranger called it in. Police searched the area for hours but never found him. Turns out, there’d been reports before — a man fitting Earl’s description, preying on stranded travelers along forest backroads. No permanent address. No wife. No real name anyone could confirm.
Our bags were gone from the trunk, but we were alive.
We drove home at sunrise, sticking to the main highways this time.
Tom still talks about going to another festival someday, but I can’t. Not after that night. Even now, when I drive past a dark stretch of road, I can’t help glancing in the rearview — half expecting to see those high beams again, closing in.