"See You Soon…":
I had just turned twenty-two that summer—fresh out of college, restless, and ready to start a new life out west. My younger brother Tom, nineteen and always chasing a thrill, insisted on joining me for the cross-country drive from Boston to Los Angeles. We packed our battered old station wagon with everything we owned—clothes, books, half-broken guitars—and started west with the kind of blind optimism only siblings our age could have.
Tom was the energy in the car, always humming, always tapping the dashboard, always telling some ridiculous joke to keep the long miles from swallowing us whole. “If this thing breaks down,” he’d say, flicking the steering wheel with a grin, “I’ll thumb a ride with the first cowboy who stops. Bet he’ll have better stories than you.”
By the time we reached Wyoming, the world had stretched into nothing but open sky, sun-bleached plains, and distant mountains that looked painted on. Around midday, we pulled into a truck stop near Fort Bridger—rows of big rigs lined up like patient giants, a diner with chrome counters and sticky menus, a gift shop selling dusty maps and stale candy.
We grabbed sandwiches in the diner and walked back to the car, still joking, still laughing—completely unaware of the crack in our timeline about to split everything into “before” and “after.”
I turned the key. The engine sputtered, coughed, died.
Tom groaned, popped the hood, and bent over it with absolutely no plan. “Alternator, maybe? Or… something alternator-adjacent.” He gave me a helpless shrug. “We’re stuck.”
A few minutes later, footsteps crunched on gravel.
A man approached. Mid-forties, flannel shirt, jeans, a faded baseball cap pulled low. The kind of man you’d never remember in a crowd—a face worn by sun, long hours, and the loneliness of highways. His voice was calm, steady, almost too steady.
“Having trouble?”
Tom stepped back from the engine. “Yeah, car won’t start. Think it’s electrical.”
The man peered beneath the hood like he’d seen a thousand dead engines before. “There’s a parts shop ten miles up the road. I’m headed that way. I can drive you there—won’t take long.” He pointed to a red pickup a few yards away, tools scattered in the bed.
Tom looked at me, concerned but trusting. “I’ll go grab the part, come right back.”
Something about the man felt wrong. Not obvious—subtle. The way he kept his eyes on the engine, never on us. The way he spoke like he already knew what we’d say.
But we were stranded. And it seemed safer than waiting hours for a tow.
“Okay,” I said, though the word felt heavy. “Be quick.”
Tom hopped into the passenger seat of the truck and gave me a wave—carefree, confident, trusting the world the way nineteen-year-olds still can.
I watched the truck pull onto the highway, shrinking into the horizon.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty.
I bought a soda. Walked the lot. Watched trucks rumble in and out. An hour crawled by, sticky and slow.
Worry settled in like cold water.
I asked a few truckers if they’d seen a red pickup leave. Most shook their heads. One older man with a tobacco-stained beard paused before answering.
“Haven’t seen him. But… folks disappear around here. Happens more than people like to admit.”
My throat tightened. “Disappear how?”
“Hitchhikers, travelers, tourists. They trust the wrong driver, and poof.” He tapped the side of his head. “Highways attract all kinds.”
He walked away, leaving a chill where he’d been standing.
By two hours, panic had its hands around my lungs. I ran inside the shop and told the clerk—a gray-haired woman with tired eyes—what happened.
“My brother left with a man in a red pickup for car parts, and they haven’t—”
“Red pickup?” she cut in, frowning. “Honey, I’ve been watching the lot all morning. I never saw one.”
“But—it was right outside.”
She let me use the phone. My fingers trembled dialing. I told the dispatcher everything. She told me to stay put.
Outside, pacing, I noticed something on the ground where the truck had been parked—a crumpled receipt.
Chains. Rope. Purchased that morning.
My stomach dropped.
When Deputy Harris arrived—a tall, serious man with windburned cheeks—I handed him the receipt. His jaw tightened.
“We’ve had cases like this,” he said quietly. “Young people accepting help. Then disappearing.”
“What cases?”
“Last year, kid on a motorcycle broke down. Driver offered him a ride to a parts store. Kid never came back. Bike turned up abandoned on a dirt road. No sign of him.”
My voice was barely a whisper. “That’s exactly what happened to Tom.”
The deputy sighed, looking out toward the endless highway. “These stops attract predators. Some of them drive long haul routes. They know the backroads, the timing, the blind spots.” He shook his head. “Once someone gets pulled into the wrong vehicle… they’re gone before anyone notices.”
I wanted to search, to run into the desert screaming Tom’s name. Harris insisted it wasn’t safe.
I didn’t feel safe anywhere.
That night, in a motel the sheriff arranged, I lay awake listening to the building breathe. Every sound felt like a warning. Every silence felt like an accusation.
The next day, they found Tom’s wallet tossed in a ditch five miles away. His ID still inside. Cash gone. No signs of a struggle. Just abandoned—like trash.
Weeks passed. Then months. Search crews combed ravines, fields, old service roads. Nothing.
Investigators eventually mentioned the same horror whispered across the interstate system—the “highway killers,” truckers who lived in the liminal spaces between states, picking up vulnerable travelers and leaving no trace. One FBI agent showed me a map dotted with red pins across the country.
“Your brother’s case matches the pattern,” he said gently.
I asked about the man. He shrugged helplessly. “They blend in with everyone else.”
One night, months later, the phone rang.
A man’s voice—muffled, low, almost amused.
“Your brother shouldn’t have trusted me.”
Click.
The call couldn’t be traced.
Years have passed. I still drive those highways sometimes, pulling into lonely truck stops and scanning the faces around me. Every red pickup makes my pulse stutter. Every stranger’s smile feels wrong.
Tom vanished into the spaces between mile markers—into the silence of the road, into the hands of a man who offered help with a calm voice and steady eyes.
The case remains open.
And somewhere out there, that man might still be driving, scanning the lots, looking for the next stranded soul who believes the world is kinder than it is.
Some roads take you where you want to go.
Others never let you come back.
"The Side Door":
I pulled into the truck stop just off the interstate sometime after midnight, my fingers aching from gripping the wheel for the last three hours straight. Driving alone this late always made the darkness feel heavier, like it pressed in from every direction, but my friend Lisa had called earlier, saying she needed a ride after her shift at a diner down the road. We said we’d meet here, maybe grab something fried and terrible for us, then head home together. Simple enough.
The place was alive in that way only truck stops are at night—big rigs rumbling like giant mechanical animals, engines idling low, men in reflective jackets drifting between fuel pumps, the air thick with diesel fumes, hot asphalt, and the unmistakable smell of salty fryer oil. I parked near the entrance, checked my phone—no new messages—and headed inside.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a sickly hum, washing everything in a harsh, pale glow. The counter was sticky under my elbows, the kind of tackiness that never fully dries no matter how much someone wipes it. The woman behind it looked like she’d been awake for three shifts straight, eyes half-lidded as she refilled mugs for a couple of flannel-wearing men hunched over their phones. One of them barked a laugh so sudden and sharp it made me flinch.
I ordered a soda and moved to a window booth where I could watch the parking lot. Outside, headlights sliced through the dark as trucks pulled in and out, giant silhouettes shifting like walls. A few people wandered between them—mostly men, faces unreadable in the dimness, some carrying duffel bags, some just stretching their backs after long hours behind the wheel.
Lisa arrived about ten minutes later, shoulders slumped, her diner uniform wrinkled, hair tied back in a messy ponytail. The bells over the door jingled as she spotted me and slid into the booth, giving me that tired, crooked smile she always wore after a long shift.
“God, what a day,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Customers wouldn’t stop coming. Half of them were rude, the other half clueless. Thanks for picking me up, Jen. If I had to sit on that busted bus again, I’d lose my mind.”
“You know I don’t mind,” I said, pushing the menu toward her. “Let’s eat and get out of here. Something about this place creeps me out.”
She glanced around, nodding. “Yeah… the vibe’s off. Anyway, burger and fries. Comfort food.”
We ordered from a younger waitress—“Karen,” according to her tilted nametag—who took our order with a practiced blankness that only comes from working late-night shifts under fluorescent lights.
While we waited, Lisa told me about a kid who spilled milk on himself and screamed like he’d lost a limb, and the table of tourists who left her a stack of pennies like it was some kind of joke. I told her about my classes and how my professor could make even the apocalypse sound boring. For a little while, it felt normal again—two friends catching up in a place built for transience.
Our food came steaming hot, and we dug in. We were maybe five bites in when the bell over the door jingled again, and a man walked in. Tall. Fifties. A plain, forgettable face under a worn trucker’s cap. Clothes clean but aged—jeans faded from years on the road, scuffed boots, a shirt that had been washed thin. He paused when he spotted us. Actually paused. His eyes lingered just a little too long.
He sat at the counter, ordered black coffee, but kept glancing over. Not quick looks. Not curiosity. Watching.
Lisa noticed it before I mentioned it. “He’s staring,” she whispered.
“Probably bored,” I muttered, shifting so I wasn’t fully facing away from him. But my stomach tightened.
He finished his coffee quickly, paid in crumpled cash, then—without hesitation—walked straight toward our booth. He stopped at the edge like he belonged there.
“Evening, ladies,” he said. His tone was polite but empty, like he’d practiced the line a thousand times. “Saw you two sitting alone. Figured you might want some company.”
“We’re good,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral. Firm, but not rude.
Lisa, ever the people-pleaser, gave him a gentle smile. “Just grabbing dinner before heading home. You a driver?”
He nodded and, without asking, pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down at the end of our booth.
“Name’s Dave,” he said. “Been hauling cross-country for twenty years. Seen it all. Where you girls headed tonight?”
“Back to town,” Lisa answered, casual as ever.
“Town?” he echoed, leaning in slightly. “I go through there on deliveries sometimes. If you ever need help on the road—tire pressure, directions, whatever—my rig’s right out front. Big blue one with the silver stripe.”
I wanted to grab Lisa and walk out right then, but she kept chatting out of politeness. He answered her questions with short, bland stories—mountains in Colorado, beaches in Florida—but the whole time, his eyes stayed locked on her face like he was memorizing it.
After a few minutes, he stood abruptly. “Nice talking. Safe travels.”
The second he left, I exhaled hard. “Okay, that was creepy.”
“He was just lonely,” she said lightly. “Harmless.”
I didn’t argue, but my nerves didn’t settle.
We finished eating, paid Karen, and walked back into the night. The parking lot felt different now—quieter, colder, shadows stretching long between trucks. Lisa reached into her pocket and froze.
“Crap. My phone. I think I left it at the booth. Hold on.”
She jogged back inside. I leaned against the car, twirling the keys, watching her disappear behind the glass. Minutes passed. Then ten. My chest tightened.
I headed back inside. The tired counter woman—back from break—looked up lazily.
“Did you see a girl come in?” I asked.
“She grabbed something from where you were sitting,” the woman said. “Then went out the side door.”
A cold weight slid into my stomach.
The side door led directly into the truck lot.
I thanked her and pushed outside. The night air felt colder now. Sharp. Wrong.
Rows of semis stretched into the dark, engines murmuring like low growls. I called Lisa’s name.
No answer.
I walked between rigs, peering into shadows. At the far edge stood a truck exactly like Dave described—a big blue rig with a silver stripe, parked under a flickering light. The cab door was slightly open, a thin sliver of warm yellow spilling out.
Something inside me whispered run.
But I moved closer.
Voices. Muffled.
“Lisa?” I whispered.
I pulled the door wider.
She was inside—sitting on the edge of the sleeper bunk, relaxed, chatting—while Dave stood beside her holding a map. She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t tense. Just curious, oblivious.
“Oh, Jen!” she said, smiling. “Dave was just showing me his setup. It’s like a tiny apartment!”
Dave smiled too—but his eyes stayed cold. Glassy.
“Come on in,” he said. “Plenty of room.”
I climbed in because leaving her alone with him felt worse than going in.
The smell hit me first—cleaner mixed with something metallic. Something wrong. The cab was too tidy. Too neat. A rifle case in the corner. Papers stacked perfectly.
Dave moved behind me and shut the door.
Click.
Lisa pointed at the map, completely unaware. “He marked all these routes! Look at this one—”
I barely heard her. My eyes caught on a dark stain under the floor mat. Thick. Old. Too dark to be coffee.
“And this,” Dave said pleasantly, pulling a plastic bag from under the bunk.
Inside were women’s clothes. Folded.
Lisa’s smile faded. “What… what’s that?”
“Left behind,” he said simply. “Happens a lot.”
Something inside me snapped.
“Lisa. We need to go.”
Dave’s face changed then. Dropped its friendliness like a cheap mask.
“Sit down,” he said, voice lower.
Lisa stood. “What’s—”
He grabbed her arm.
“Sit.”
She yanked back, terrified now. “Let go!”
I didn’t think—I lunged for the door, shoved him hard, and tumbled out onto the gravel.
“RUN, LISA!”
She scrambled after me, but he caught her sleeve, jerking her back. Her scream tore through the night.
I sprinted toward the restaurant, hammering on the door. “HELP! CALL THE POLICE!”
The counter woman ran out with her phone already dialing. Drivers emerged from their rigs, confused but alert.
The police arrived fast—lights flashing, boots pounding gravel. They tore open Dave’s truck.
What they found inside wasn’t just stains.
It was women’s things—phones, wallets, jewelry. Items from states apart. A timeline hidden in plain sight.
Lisa wasn’t there.
Her purse was.
Dave insisted she left. But forensic teams found blood behind fresh paint. Hair stuck in a vent. A bracelet lodged under the bunk.
Days later, they linked him to missing women from truck stops across three states.
Weeks later, they found Lisa. Miles away.
Now, every time I pass that truck stop, I look at the blue glow of the rigs and think about how easily the road swallows people. How close I came to disappearing into the dark with her.
And how many others never got away.
"The Last Turnoff":
The night I pulled into that truck stop off the interstate in northern Georgia, the air felt unusually still, like the world was holding its breath. I’d been driving for hours with barely any stops, trying to outrun the thoughts clawing at me after a rough week at home. My name is Kayla, and I was on my way to see an old friend in Rome—someone who always seemed to understand me when life got heavy.
The place was called the Flying Eagle, a truck stop that glowed like an island under the harsh yellow lights above the pumps. Big rigs idled in long, humming lines, their engines vibrating through the ground. A diner was attached, a squat building with fogged windows and a neon sign that flickered like it was tired of its own job.
I parked my little white sedan in the back lot, away from the semis, convinced it would be quieter there. I didn’t know then that this one small choice—this harmless, practical decision—would unravel the entire night.
Inside the diner, the air smelled like freezer-burned fries and burnt coffee. A waitress with tired eyes wiped at the counter with a damp rag leaving streaks behind. Her name tag said Rita. She gave me a weary smile.
“What can I get you, hon?” she asked, her voice soft, thick with the exhaustion of too many overnight shifts.
“Just a black coffee,” I said as I slid onto a stool. “And, uh… directions to Rome? I’m not familiar with the area.”
She poured my coffee into a foam cup and handed it to me. “Straight down I-75 about an hour. Watch for deer—they’ve been bad lately. Drivers hitting ‘em left and right.”
We talked for a moment about nothing—weather, long roads, how truckers kept the place alive at night. At the far end of the counter sat a man, maybe mid-forties. Scruffy beard, baseball cap pulled low, nursing a cup he barely seemed to sip. He kept glancing at the door like he was waiting for someone who was late… or someone who wasn’t supposed to show up at all.
He never looked directly at me, but something about him brushed up against my nerves—maybe too still, too quiet, too… watchful.
When I paid and stepped back outside, the night felt colder. The lot was mostly empty now, the chatter of earlier traffic fading. I tossed my backpack into the passenger seat, but the moment I closed the door, I realized something—I’d left my phone charger inside.
I sighed, locked up out of habit, and jogged back toward the diner. Rita noticed it on the counter as soon as I walked in.
“You almost forgot this,” she said. “Safe travels, hon.”
The way she said it—gentle, almost motherly—settled something in me. Calm. Normal.
But that feeling vanished the instant I returned to my car.
My driver’s seat was pushed back an extra few inches. My purse on the floor looked disturbed, the zipper half open. I froze. My mouth went dry.
Had I… left it like that?
No. I knew I hadn’t.
I opened it—wallet there, cards untouched. Nothing obvious missing. But someone had been inside. Someone had been sitting where I now stood, breathing in my space.
I scanned the lot. All quiet.
Too quiet.
I forced myself to start the car and pull out. I just needed to get back onto the highway. Get away from here. As long as I got moving, I’d—
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number:
“Need help with that flat tire?”
My heart knocked into my ribs. I didn’t have a flat tire.
In my rearview mirror, from a dark corner of the lot, a pair of headlights flicked on—slow, deliberate.
A black pickup eased out, dented and old, pulling onto the road behind me. Not tailgating. Not passing. Just… there. Matching my speed. Sitting in my blind spot like a shadow made of metal.
“Okay, Kayla,” I whispered to myself. “Stay calm.”
I took the next exit, hoping to lose him in the grid of a small town. The truck followed.
I pulled into a closed gas station, parking under a single streetlamp. The truck rolled to a stop across the street, engine rumbling, headlights off. Watching.
I dialed 911. My voice shook.
“H-hello? There’s a truck following me. I—I think someone messed with my car back at the Flying Eagle.”
“Ma’am, stay on the line,” the operator said. “Where are you right now?”
I gave the address. She started to say something, but the sound of a door slamming made my skin crawl.
The man from the diner stepped out of the truck.
Same cap. Same beard. Same dead-quiet presence.
He walked toward my car slowly, like he had all the time in the world.
I locked the doors. My breath fogged the glass.
He tapped on the window with two knuckles.
“You break down?” he asked, expression blank. “Saw you pull over funny.”
“Go away,” I snapped through the glass. “I’m calling the police!”
A thin smile crept across his face. “No need for that. I’m just tryin’ to help. You left your lights on back at the stop.”
“I didn’t.”
He gripped the door handle. Tried it gently. Then harder. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin tool—something meant for locks.
The clicking sound made my stomach drop.
The door yanked open.
Everything happened fast—a hand on my arm, the sting of pain as he twisted, the world tilting as he dragged me. My scream tore out but vanished into the empty night.
My phone fell, screen cracking on the asphalt. He stomped it out without even looking.
He pulled me into the cab of his truck and zip-tied my wrists so tight my fingers tingled. The inside reeked of old cigarettes and something metallic—coppery, sharp. Blood. Or something close to it.
Tools rattled behind the seat. Chains. Rope. A tarp.
“Where are you taking me?” I whispered.
“Away,” he said simply, starting the engine. “Quiet now.”
He drove down backroads, deeper into woods where the trees seemed to swallow the headlights whole. He hummed a song under his breath—tuneless, low, rhythmic, like something he’d hummed a thousand times before.
When he stopped, it was in front of a shed half-buried in brush, as if the forest had been slowly trying to reclaim it.
The inside smelled like dust and damp rot. A single bulb swayed, casting shadows that seemed to breathe. Dark stains marked the floor—too dark, too old to be dirt.
“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to a chair bolted to the concrete.
“Why me?” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
“You were alone,” he said with a shrug. “Easy.”
He tied my ankles, stepped back, studied me like I was inventory.
“I do this sometimes. Pick people who won’t be missed right away.”
He left. Locked the door with a final, echoing clank.
Hours passed. Maybe a day. Time blurred. The bulb flickered. Sometimes footsteps paced outside. Sometimes humming drifted through the cracks.
When he returned, he tossed me a sandwich and water.
“Eat,” he said. “You’ll need strength.”
“For what?” My voice cracked.
He paused. His eyes gleamed.
“For the game,” he whispered. “I let you run. See if you make it.”
The laugh that followed was soft, breathy, but it hollowed me out.
When he left again, I bent over, working the plastic ties against my teeth until my gums bled. Pain sharpened me, fueled me. One hand slipped free. Then the other.
When he came back later, flashlight in hand, he nudged me with his boot. I stayed limp, breathing slow. He leaned closer.
I moved.
I grabbed a loose board near the chair and swung with every ounce of terror in my bones. It cracked against his temple. He dropped, groaning.
I ran.
The forest tore at me. Branches sliced my arms. My lungs burned. Behind me, his voice rose—ragged, furious:
“You won’t get far!”
I dove behind a fallen log, trembling as his flashlight beam swept inches from my face. Minutes stretched like hours. When he moved deeper into the woods, I slipped away, heading toward the faint glow of distant highways.
I burst out onto asphalt, waving down a passing car with what strength I had left.
Police searched the shed. It was empty. He was gone. No tools. No tarp. Just the chair. The ties. Silent proof.
My car was still at the Flying Eagle. Nothing missing. Just the seat pushed back.
They told me another man went missing days before from the same stop. Found later in a marsh. Ruled “overdose.” His family insisted he was clean. The scene didn’t add up.
Sometimes, late at night, I get texts from unknown numbers.
“Missed you.”
I delete them. But the fear stays like a bruise that never fully heals.
And every time I pass a truck stop, I check the mirrors. Twice. Sometimes three times.
Because out there somewhere, a man with a low baseball cap and dead eyes might be watching a door, waiting for the next person who looks “easy.”
"Westbound":
I remember the exact feeling of pulling into that dusty truck stop off Interstate 45 in Texas—how the whole place shimmered in the evening heat like a mirage you’re not sure you should trust. The gravel crunched under the tires of the old pickup that dropped us off, and when Lisa and I climbed out, the warm air smelled like diesel, old rubber, and something metallic I couldn’t place at the time.
We were both nineteen, stupidly fearless, and hitchhiking to California like it was some rite of passage. Lisa, with her wild red curls and laugh that sounded like she’d never once been scared of anything, kept talking about touching the Pacific Ocean for the first time. Me? I just needed to run—from home, from expectations, from a life that felt too small for me to breathe in.
Three days on the road had turned us into dusty shadows of ourselves. We’d been eating greasy burgers, washing up in gas station sinks, and sleeping in the backs of pickups under thin blankets of early summer heat. But that night, our legs were tired and our throats were dry, and we needed rest—and maybe a ride heading west.
The place was called Big Rig Haven, though nothing about it felt haven-like. A crooked row of gas pumps glowed under buzzing lights. The diner’s neon sign flickered like it was blinking out a warning. And the semis in the lot sat like enormous sleeping animals, impossible to read, impossible to trust.
The old farmer who had given us our last ride waved once before pulling away, dust swirling behind his truck. Lisa stretched, cracking her neck. “Coffee,” she announced. “Or I’m gonna die right here in the parking lot.”
We slung our backpacks over our shoulders and walked toward the diner.
Inside, the air was a thick mix of fried eggs, burned coffee, and engine grease. A few truckers sat hunched at the counter, their faces lit by the yellow glow of the overhead lights. The waitress—gray hair pinned sloppily back, tired eyes that looked like they could read your entire life in one glance—poured us both coffees without being asked.
“You girls seem too young to be out here alone,” she said, sliding the mugs toward us.
Lisa flashed her usual smile. “We’re fine. Just headed west. You know anyone going that way?”
The waitress shook her head slowly. “Some of the folks here are good men. Others… aren’t. Just mind yourselves.”
I took a sip—too hot, bitter—and let my gaze drift around the diner.
That’s when I first saw him.
A tall bearded man in a flannel shirt sat alone in the corner booth. He didn’t look at anyone, didn’t touch his food—just stared at his plate like he was thinking of something else entirely. Something far away. Something cold.
I didn’t like the way his shoulders never moved. Like he barely breathed.
Lisa didn’t see him. She had already pulled out her folded map, spreading it over the table like she was plotting a treasure hunt. “If we get a ride to El Paso tonight,” she said, tracing the route with her finger, “we could hit New Mexico by sunrise.”
I nodded, but a sour heaviness had settled in my stomach.
The man from the booth stood, slid a few crumpled bills onto the table, and walked past us. He smelled faintly of metal and something faintly sweet—almost chemical. When he glanced at us, his eyes lingered for a second too long.
Too empty.
Lisa kept talking, oblivious, folding the map.
After a while, she pushed back her chair. “I gotta pee. Watch my stuff?”
She grabbed her backpack and wandered toward the back hallway.
I stayed behind, picking apart a napkin, trying to shake the uneasy feeling crawling up my spine.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
I glanced at the restroom door.
Fifteen.
Finally I stood, walked toward the door, and knocked lightly. “Lisa? You good?”
Silence.
I opened the door. The restroom was empty—two stalls, a sink, a mirror streaked with old water stains.
“Lisa?” My voice sounded wrong. Too small.
Both stalls were empty. No backpack. No Lisa.
A cold tremor went through me. I hurried back to the counter.
“Did you see my friend leave?” I asked the waitress. “Red hair. Blue jacket.”
She frowned. “No, honey. I saw her go in there… but not out.”
My chest tightened.
I pushed through the diner door into the humid night, calling her name. “Lisa!”
The lot swallowed my voice.
Semis idled, engines rumbling like distant thunder. Huge shadows stretched between them. I walked aisle after aisle, knocking on doors, asking if anyone had seen her.
Most shook their heads. One man didn’t even look up—just muttered, “Ain’t seen nobody. Keep moving.”
Back inside, my hands trembling, I told the waitress, “She’s gone.”
This time, without hesitation, she picked up the phone and dialed the police.
“Happens sometimes,” a trucker at the counter said without looking at me. “Pretty girls get picked up fast. Maybe she found a ride.”
“No,” I said sharply. “She wouldn’t leave me.”
The police arrived twenty minutes later. A tired-looking officer with a mustache took my statement and Lisa’s description. He searched the lot with me, flashlight beam slicing through the darkness.
No signs. No screams. No struggle.
Just absence.
A shape cut out of my world.
Hours went by. Truckers came and went. The officer left after promising to patrol nearby highways.
I sat alone in the diner, staring at my cold coffee, unable to think straight. Every thought was a knot of fear and guilt.
Around 3 a.m., I stepped outside again. The night was quieter now—too quiet.
That’s when I heard it.
A dull, muffled thump.
I froze.
Another thump, softer this time, coming from the far end of the lot—from a big rig with tinted windows.
My heartbeat stuttered.
I forced myself to move toward it. The cab was empty, no driver in sight. But the trailer door wasn’t fully shut—it hung open by an inch.
Against every instinct screaming at me to run, I pulled the door open.
Darkness swallowed everything inside.
Then something shifted in the back—a small movement, barely a breath.
“Lisa?” I whispered.
No answer.
I climbed inside, lifting my phone like a fragile lantern. Crates lined the walls in a weird, purposeful way—forming a narrow path deeper into the trailer.
The metallic smell was stronger now. Sharp. Wrong.
My light caught something in the corner: a small enclosed chamber built into the trailer. Chains on the wall. Tools scattered on a bench. Stained cloth on the floor.
And in the corner—
A girl.
Not Lisa.
She was bound at the wrists and ankles, gagged, eyes wide with a terror that sliced straight into me. She tried to speak, her voice muffled.
I rushed to her, whispering, “I’m gonna help you. Don’t make noise—”
But footsteps crunched outside.
I ducked behind a crate, heart pounding so hard I thought it might give me away.
The door creaked open.
He climbed in.
The bearded man.
Boots heavy on the metal floor. He moved with practiced calm, like he’d done this too many times. He knelt beside the girl, murmuring, “Stay still now.”
She whimpered, trembling so violently I thought her bones might rattle.
He adjusted a camera mounted on a tripod. Pressed a button.
Flash.
For a split second, the whole trailer lit up—chains, stains, ropes, tools—and his shadow stretching tall against the wall.
I pressed my hand over my mouth so hard my nails cut into my lip.
He finished what he was doing, closed the chamber, and climbed out—locking the door behind him.
Silence.
After long minutes, I moved.
I freed the girl—Amy, she whispered once the gag was off. She’d been taken two days earlier. She couldn’t walk straight, so I held her up, guiding her out, both of us shaking uncontrollably.
We ran to the diner, banging until the waitress opened the door, eyes widening.
The police came back. They searched the lot, the bathrooms, the back roads.
But the man—and his truck—were already gone.
Inside the cab, they found photos. Clothes. Amy’s belongings.
And Lisa’s denim jacket.
Folded.
Neat.
Weeks later, they found him in another state. His name was Ben. A long-haul driver with a double life. He confessed to everything.
They found Lisa in an old barn—along with other girls.
Sometimes I think about how close I came. One minute slower, one decision different, and I would have been another photograph in that cab. Another folded piece of clothing.
Now, whenever I pass a truck stop, I look at all the faces inside. All the shadows.
And Lisa’s laugh—bright, careless, alive—echoes through my memory like a ghost that refuses to fade.