"One Ride, One Chance":
I was just fifteen, running away from home after my parents split up. I wanted to get to my grandfather's place in Los Angeles, so I stuck out my thumb on the side of Interstate 5, hoping for a ride south. Two guys were already there hitchhiking too, and we chatted a bit while waiting. One of them said, "Be careful who you get in with. Some drivers are weird." I nodded, but I felt tough enough to handle myself.
A blue van pulled up after a while. The driver, an older man with gray hair and a rough face, leaned out the window. "Where you headed?" he asked.
"Los Angeles," I said.
He looked at the two guys, then at me. "I can only take one. The girl's small, she'll fit." The van looked empty in the back, plenty of space, but he shook his head at the guys. "No room for all of you."
The guys frowned. One whispered to me, "Don't go alone with him. Something feels off." But I thought, what could go wrong? It was daytime, and he seemed like a regular person. I climbed into the passenger seat, waving bye to the guys. The door shut with a click, and we drove off.
At first, everything was fine. He asked about my family, why I was traveling. "Parents fighting?" he said. I shrugged and said yes. He nodded, like he understood. "Life's hard sometimes." We passed trucks and cars, the road stretching out flat. But then he missed the turn for the main highway south. "Hey, that's the way to L.A.," I pointed out.
He smiled strangely. "Shortcut. Faster this way." But we were heading east now, toward empty desert land. No buildings, just dry dirt and rocks. "Turn around," I said, my voice getting louder. "This isn't right."
He kept driving, ignoring me. I grabbed the door handle, ready to jump out at the next stop. He pulled over suddenly, by some bushes. "Need to stretch," he muttered, getting out. I stayed in the seat, watching him walk around. My mind raced—what if I run now? But the area was so open, nowhere to hide.
He came back fast, too fast. Before I could move, he hit me hard on the head from behind. Everything went blurry. I fell against the door, pain exploding in my skull. "What are you doing?" I gasped.
"Quiet," he growled, pulling me into the back of the van. He tied my hands with rope from under the seat. I kicked and twisted, but he was strong. "Stop fighting," he said. "It'll be worse if you don't." The van doors were shut, no one could see. He drove off the road, deeper into the desert. Hours passed like that, me scared in the back, him silent up front.
When it got dark, he stopped again. He came back, his face close to mine. "You shouldn't have gotten in," he whispered. Then he hurt me in ways I didn't know a person could. I cried out, begging him to stop. "Please, let me go. I won't tell anyone." He just laughed low. "No one's coming for you." The pain went on and on, my body aching, mind numb. I faded in and out, wishing it would end.
By morning, he dragged me out. The ground was rough under my feet. He had a tool in his hand, sharp and heavy. "This is it," he said, raising it. I screamed as he swung down, cutting deep into my arms. Blood everywhere, hot and sticky. One arm, then the other. I fell, the world spinning. He thought I was gone, pushed me over the edge of a steep drop, into a ditch below the highway.
But I wasn't dead. Pain burned through me, but I forced my eyes open. The stumps where my arms used to be bled bad. I dipped them in mud from the ground, packing it tight to slow the flow. "Keep going," I told myself. "Don't stop." The cliff was high, maybe thirty feet, rocks sharp. I climbed slow, using my elbows and knees, slipping on loose dirt. Every inch hurt like fire.
At the top, I walked along the empty road, holding my arms up so the blood wouldn't pour out. Cars were far off, but one came close. Two men inside stared, then drove away fast. "Help," I whispered, but they were gone. I kept walking, dizzy, legs weak. Another car approached—a couple this time. The woman gasped when she saw me. "Oh no, what happened?" she said.
"Man attacked me," I managed. "Hospital, please."
They wrapped me in a blanket, drove quick. At the hospital, doctors rushed in. I told the police everything—the van, his face, what he said. "Gray hair, about fifty, blue van," I described. They drew a picture from my words.
Weeks later, they caught him. In court, I faced him again, my new fake arms stiff. He whispered as he passed, "I'll finish it one day." But I stood tall, told the judge everything. He went to prison, but not long enough.
Years passed, he got out, hurt someone else. I testified again, made sure he stayed locked up forever. Now I live quiet, make art with my tools, have a family. But that ride changed everything. Always be careful on the road.
"The Shortcut":
I had just finished visiting my aunt in a small town up north, and my bus ticket fell through because of some mix-up at the station. It was getting late, but I figured I could thumb a ride along the main road. That's how people get around in these parts sometimes, especially when money is tight. The highway stretched out like a long ribbon through the trees, with cars zooming by every now and then. I stuck out my hand and waited.
After a bit, a big truck slowed down and pulled over. The driver was a man with a scruffy beard and eyes that looked too tired. He leaned over and opened the passenger door. "Need a lift?" he asked, his voice rough but not mean.
"Yes, please," I said, climbing in. "I'm heading toward the next town, about thirty miles east."
He nodded and started driving. His name was Tom, he told me. He drove trucks for a living, hauling logs or something. The cab smelled like old coffee and cigarettes. We chatted a little at first. He asked about my family, and I told him about my aunt and how she made the best pies. He laughed, but it sounded forced.
As the miles went by, things got quiet. The trees closed in on both sides of the road, making everything feel closed off. I noticed he kept glancing at me, not in a friendly way, but like he was studying something. "You hitchhike a lot?" he finally asked.
"Not really," I replied. "Just when I have to. It's usually safe around here."
He smirked. "Safe? You hear about those girls who go missing on this stretch? They say it's the road that takes them."
My skin prickled. I had heard stories, whispers from friends about women vanishing while trying to get home. But I pushed it away. "That's just talk," I said, trying to sound brave.
"Maybe," he muttered. "But I've seen things. Empty cars by the side, no one around. Once, I picked up a girl like you. She was chatty at first, then she got quiet. Never saw her again after I dropped her off."
I shifted in my seat, watching the dashboard lights flicker. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Just making conversation," he said, but his hands tightened on the wheel. We passed a sign for a rest stop, but he didn't slow down. "You thirsty? I got some water in the back."
"No, thanks," I said quickly. Something felt off. His eyes kept darting to the rearview mirror, like he was checking for something behind us.
A few minutes later, he turned off the main highway onto a smaller road. "Shortcut," he explained. "Saves time."
The path got bumpy, with branches scraping the sides of the truck. No other cars around. My phone had no signal—I checked it twice. "This doesn't look right," I said, my voice shaking a little. "Can we go back to the highway?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he slowed the truck and looked at me. "You know, you're pretty. Remind me of someone I knew."
"Please, turn around," I insisted, gripping the door handle.
He stopped the truck suddenly, in the middle of nowhere. The engine hummed, but everything else was still. "Get out," he said flatly.
"What?" I stared at him.
"Get out and walk if you don't like it." But his hand moved to his pocket, and I saw the outline of something sharp.
My mind raced. I remembered the stories—girls picked up, never seen again. Bodies found later in the woods. I couldn't let that happen. "Okay," I said, pretending to be calm. I opened the door slowly and stepped out. The ground was soft under my feet.
He watched me, not moving. Then he smiled, a creepy smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Run along now."
I started walking back toward the highway, but I heard the truck door open behind me. Footsteps. He was following. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. I walked faster, then broke into a run. The trees blurred as I dashed through them, branches whipping my face.
"Hey!" he called. "Come back! I was just joking!"
But I knew he wasn't. I kept running, zigzagging to lose him. I heard him crashing through the brush, getting closer. "You can't get away!" he shouted.
I tripped over a root and fell, scraping my knees. Pain shot through me, but I got up. In the distance, I saw lights—maybe the highway. I pushed harder, lungs burning.
His voice echoed again, nearer. "I see you!"
Panic flooded me. I hid behind a thick tree, holding my breath. His footsteps stopped. Silence, except for my ragged breathing. Then, a snap of a twig. He was close.
I peeked out. He was scanning the dark, a knife in his hand now, glinting under the moon. Oh no. I had to move.
I bolted toward the lights. He heard and chased. "Stop!"
The highway appeared ahead. A car whizzed by. I waved my arms wildly. "Help!"
The car slowed. An older couple inside. The woman rolled down the window. "What's wrong?"
"He's after me!" I gasped, pointing back.
The man got out, phone in hand. "Get in!"
I jumped in the back seat. They locked the doors just as Tom emerged from the trees. He saw us and froze, then turned and ran back to his truck.
The couple drove me to the police station. I told the officers everything—his truck, his words, the knife. They nodded gravely. "We've had reports like this," one said. "Girls going missing on that road. You're lucky."
They searched for him, but he was gone. Later, I learned he matched descriptions from other cases. Women abducted while hitchhiking, some never found. One survivor had said a man in a truck tried to grab her, but she fought back.
I still think about that night. The way his eyes changed, the isolation of that highway. It could have been me in those woods forever. Now, I warn everyone: don't hitchhike alone. The road has secrets, and some people on it are monsters.
"The Fremantle":
I had just turned seventeen and was out with friends at a party in Fremantle. It was a fun night, laughing and dancing, but I drank a bit too much beer and missed my ride home. My house was in a suburb called Palmyra, not too far, but walking alone late at night didn't feel smart. Still, I started down the quiet street, hoping to thumb a lift from someone nice.
A white car pulled up beside me. Inside was a man and a woman, both looking ordinary, like any couple. The woman leaned over and smiled. "Need a ride?" she asked. "It's late. Where are you headed?"
"Palmyra," I said, relieved. "Just up the road. Thanks."
The man nodded. "Hop in the back. We're going that way."
I got in, and we drove off. They introduced themselves as David and Catherine. "Had a good night?" Catherine asked, turning to look at me.
"Yeah, party with friends," I replied. "You guys out late too?"
David chuckled. "Just driving around. Nice to help out."
The car smelled like cigarettes and something sweet, maybe air freshener. We chatted about nothing much—music on the radio, the cool air. But then David turned down a side street I didn't know. "Shortcut," he said when I asked.
My heart started beating faster. The houses looked different. "This isn't the way to Palmyra," I said, sitting up.
Catherine turned, her smile gone. "Relax. We're taking a quick stop."
David stopped the car in front of a plain house on Moorhouse Street. "Come inside for a minute," he said, his voice harder now.
I shook my head. "No, I want to go home. Let me out."
Before I could move, David grabbed my arm and pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade flashed under the streetlight. "Get inside, or I'll use this," he growled.
Fear hit me like a wave. Catherine opened the door and helped push me toward the house. "Don't make noise," she whispered. "It'll be worse if you do."
Inside, the place was dim, with old furniture and a musty smell. They led me to a bedroom and made me sit on the bed. David chained my ankle to the bedpost, the metal cold and tight. "What are you doing?" I cried. "Please, let me go. My parents will look for me."
Catherine laughed softly. "No one knows you're here. Be good, and it might not hurt too much."
David left the room, and Catherine stayed, watching me. She smoked a cigarette, blowing smoke in my face. "We've done this before," she said. "Girls like you. Just do what he wants."
I begged her. "Why me? I didn't do anything. Please help me."
She shook her head. "I can't. He's my husband. We do this together."
David came back with a drink. "Here, swallow these pills," he ordered. "It'll make you calm."
I refused, but he forced my mouth open and pushed them in, holding my nose until I swallowed. They were sleeping pills, making me drowsy fast. The room spun. Then he started touching me, taking off my clothes. I fought, but the chains held me, and he was strong. He hurt me bad, over and over. Catherine watched the whole time, sometimes joining in. "Good girl," she murmured. "See? It's easier if you don't fight."
The pain was awful, like fire inside. I cried quietly, thinking of my family, wondering if I'd ever see them again. Hours passed in that nightmare. When he finished, they left me chained there, naked and sore, in the dark room.
Morning came slow. David unchained me and gave me clothes to wear—their clothes, baggy and strange. "You're coming with me to work," he said. "Act normal, or I'll kill you right there."
Catherine nodded. "And we'll find your family too. Hurt them worse."
They drove me to a phone company where David worked. He made me walk around the parking lot, collecting car license numbers on a paper. "Write them down," he snapped. "Don't talk to anyone."
People were around—workers, cars coming and going—but David watched me close. I thought about running, screaming for help, but the knife was in his pocket, and his eyes promised death. My hands shook as I wrote the numbers. One man smiled at me as he passed. "Hi there," he said.
"Hi," I mumbled, heart pounding. But David was too near. I couldn't risk it.
Back at the house that afternoon, they chained me again. David went out, and Catherine sat with me. "You did okay," she said. "Maybe we'll keep you longer."
"Please," I whispered. "Let me go. I won't tell."
She just smiled. "David decides."
When he returned, they made me dance for him, no clothes on. The music played low, some old song. "Move," he commanded. I did, tears running down my face, feeling so small and broken. Then he pulled me to the bed again, chaining me beside him. Catherine slept in another room. He hurt me more that night, his breath hot and sour. "You're mine now," he whispered.
I lay awake after, staring at the ceiling, the chain biting my skin. I had to escape. Tomorrow, somehow.
Next morning, David got up early for work. He unchained me to use the bathroom, then chained me back to the bed. Catherine checked on me. "Stay quiet," she said, locking the bedroom door before leaving to drop him off.
The house went silent. I tugged at the chain—solid, locked to the bed. But the window was there, closed but not locked. It was small, high up, with a screen. I stood on the bed, heart racing. Could I fit?
I pushed the window open slow, no noise. The screen popped out easy. Outside was a backyard, fence, then street. Freedom.
But the chain held me back. It was long enough to reach the window, but not out. I wrapped it around my hand, pulled hard. The bed moved a little— it wasn't bolted down. Hope surged. I yanked again and again, dragging the heavy bed toward the window inch by inch. Sweat dripped down my back. The frame scraped the floor, loud in the quiet.
Finally, the bed was close enough. I climbed up, squeezed my head through the window, then shoulders. The chain pulled tight on my ankle. I twisted, pushed, ignoring the scrapes on my skin. My body slid out, falling to the grass below with a thud. The chain caught, but I was free—except for the metal still on my leg.
No time to worry. I ran, barefoot, down the street. Houses blurred by. I knocked on the first door—no answer. Second—nothing. Third, a woman opened, eyes wide at me, dirty and wild.
"Help," I gasped. "I've been kidnapped. Call the police."
She let me in, gave me water. "What happened?" she asked, dialing the number.
"A couple took me. Hurt me. Please hurry."
Police came quick. Two officers, a man and a woman. I told them everything—the car, the house, the chains, the pain. "Their names are David and Catherine," I said. "On Moorhouse Street."
The woman officer looked doubtful. "You sure? You look okay. Maybe you ran away from home?"
"No!" I shouted. "It's true. Take me there. I'll show you."
They drove me to the station first, asked more questions. I repeated it all, crying now. "Believe me. They're killers. I saw things in the house—videos, weird stuff."
Finally, the woman officer, named Laura, said, "Okay. Let's check the address."
We drove to Moorhouse Street. I pointed out the house. "That's it."
They knocked. Catherine answered, calm as anything. "Can I help you?"
The officers went in with me. I showed them the bedroom—the chain still there, bed pulled to the window. David wasn't home yet, but Catherine's face went pale.
They arrested her. Later, when David got home, police grabbed him too. In the house, they found evidence—videos of other girls, graves in the backyard. Four girls before me, all killed after being hurt like that.
The trial was long. I had to stand in court, face them again. "That's the man who chained me," I said, pointing at David. "He hurt me bad." Catherine stared at me, no emotion.
The judge gave them life in prison. David died there later, but Catherine's still locked up.
I got help after—talked to doctors about the fear that stayed with me. Now I live normal, but I warn others: never take rides from strangers. That night on the road could have ended me, but I fought back. I escaped.