"Quiet Games":
I still remember stopping at that quiet truck stop off the highway in Oregon—the kind that glows too bright against the dark, all neon and buzzing lights, but feels strangely hollow after sunset. My car had finally died earlier that day, coughing out one last breath of steam before giving up for good. I’d walked the final mile on sore legs, clutching the hope that I could find a phone or someone willing to help.
Inside the cramped store, I bought a cup of hot chocolate, wrapping my hands around it for warmth while counting the last of my money. That was when he walked in.
He was tall—huge, really—the kind of man who seemed to fill whatever space he stood in, like a wall that had learned how to move. He smiled easily as he ordered coffee, then glanced over at me, alone by the counter.
“You look like you could use a friend,” he said. His voice was low and calm, almost comforting. “Car trouble?”
I nodded, taking a small sip. “Yeah. It broke down. I’m trying to get to the city.”
He paid for his coffee, then slid his card again, covering mine without asking. “I’m headed that way anyway. Name’s Jack. I drive trucks. Hop in, I’ll make sure you get there safe.”
I hesitated. Every warning I’d ever heard flickered through my head, but out there, stranded and exhausted, my options felt thin. He didn’t seem strange—just another guy on the road, doing a decent thing.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Thank you. I’m Anna.”
The cab of his truck sat high above the ground, cluttered with folded maps, empty cups, and the stale smell of old food and dust. When the engine roared to life, the vibration hummed through my bones as we eased back onto the highway.
At first, everything felt normal. We talked about nothing important. He told me stories about driving coast to coast, about deserts that never seemed to end and mountain passes that stole your breath.
“It’s freedom,” he said. “Just you and the road. No one watching over your shoulder.”
I told him I’d quit my job, that I wanted something different—something bigger than the life I’d been stuck in. He chuckled quietly.
“Adventure can turn on you fast,” he said. “Gotta be careful who you trust.”
The words lingered, but I let them slide. Outside, the highway was empty, our headlights carving tunnels through the dark. After a while, he turned the music down.
“You ever feel small out here?” he asked. “Like if you disappeared, no one would even notice?”
A chill crawled up my spine. “People notice eventually,” I said.
He looked over at me, eyes steady on my face. “Not always. Some people don’t have roots. Makes them easy to lose.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than before. When he pulled into a deserted roadside turnout, he said he needed to stretch his legs.
“Come on,” he said. “Fresh air.”
I stepped out, my legs stiff, the cold biting through my clothes. The trees pressed in close, their shadows thick and watchful. No other cars. No lights.
He leaned against the truck and lit a cigarette, studying me through the smoke. “You know, Anna,” he said, “you’re pretty. Remind me of someone I met once.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, taking a step back.
He crushed the cigarette under his boot. “She talked too much, though. Started to get on my nerves.”
Before I could react, his hand snapped around my wrist, crushing tight. “Don’t scream,” he said calmly. “We’re just playing now.”
I struggled, panic slamming into me. “Let go! What are you doing?”
He shoved me against the cold metal of the truck, his weight pinning me there. “Quiet games,” he said. “I like seeing how long people last.”
Adrenaline took over. I drove my heel into his knee as hard as I could. He grunted, his grip faltering just enough. I tore free and ran, branches tearing at my skin as I plunged into the trees.
Behind me, his footsteps thundered. “Come back!” he shouted. “You can’t win!”
I ducked behind a thick trunk, barely daring to breathe. His voice shifted, almost playful, echoing through the woods.
“I always find them,” he called. “Leave a little smile when I’m done. Helps me remember.”
My stomach twisted. He moved closer, a flashlight beam slicing through the dark.
“The last one begged,” he said calmly. “Said she had family. Didn’t change anything.”
I stayed frozen, heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. Minutes crawled by. Eventually, his voice drifted farther away. Then the truck engine started. Gravel crunched. The sound faded down the road.
I waited a long time before I moved. When I finally reached the highway, shaking and scraped raw, a van slowed and stopped. The driver took one look at me and drove me straight to the police.
At first, they listened with careful doubt. But my description fit others—too well. A massive trucker. A friendly smile. Girls picked up and never seen again.
They caught him weeks later, piecing it together from logs, sightings, and the people who’d gotten away.
I was one of the lucky ones.
"Chained":
I ran out of money at a lonely truck stop in Utah, the kind that feels forgotten by the rest of the world. My car had finally died a few miles back—smoke pouring from under the hood like it was giving up its last breath—and I’d been walking along the shoulder ever since, thumb out, hoping someone would stop. Night was creeping in, the desert cooling fast, and I was starting to wonder if I’d made a terrible mistake coming this way alone.
That’s when a large truck slowed and pulled over. The driver leaned out and waved me closer. He looked worn down by the road—dark circles under his eyes, stubble along his jaw—but he smiled easily. Too easily. When he smiled, I noticed his teeth: narrow, sharp-looking, catching the light in a strange way.
“Hop in,” he said. “I’ll get you where you’re headed.”
His voice was calm and steady, the kind that made you want to believe him. I hesitated for half a second, then climbed up into the cab, grateful just to be moving again. I thanked him, shut the door, and told myself I was lucky. I had no idea that decision would follow me for the rest of my life.
We drove for a while, the truck eating up the miles. He talked about the road, about how he’d been driving these routes for years.
“Name’s Tim,” he said casually. “Gets lonely out here.”
I told him a little about myself—how I was heading west, how I needed a fresh start. At first, I felt relieved. Safe, even. The hum of the engine was steady, almost soothing. But then he eased off the highway and turned onto a darker, narrower road that stretched into nothing.
“Shortcut,” he said when I asked.
Something twisted in my gut. The air felt different, heavier. I told myself I was being paranoid. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
Eventually, he pulled over in the middle of nowhere. Just dirt, scrub, and silence.
“Gotta check something in the back,” he said, climbing out.
I stayed in the passenger seat, staring at my phone. No signal. Of course. A few seconds later, my door flew open. Before I could even process what was happening, his hand clamped around my wrist, crushing hard enough to make me gasp.
“You’re coming with me,” he said, his voice suddenly cold.
“What are you doing? Let go!” I yelled, trying to wrench free, but he was stronger. He dragged me toward the sleeper compartment behind the cab and shoved me past a thick curtain. Inside, it was dark and cramped. A narrow bed. Bare metal walls. Rings bolted into the frame.
My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.
He forced me down and snapped a chain around my ankle, locking it tight.
“This is your home now,” he murmured, leaning close. I saw his teeth again—really saw them this time. Filed down. Pointed. Wrong.
“Why?” I whispered, my whole body shaking.
He laughed softly. “I like company. And you… you fit.”
Then he disappeared back into the driver’s seat. The truck lurched forward, and I pulled at the chain until my skin burned. It didn’t budge. Somewhere along that empty road, the truth settled in: no one knew where I was. No one was coming.
Time blurred. Hours melted into days. He drove constantly, stopping only in isolated places. When he came back, he brought scraps—stale sandwiches, warm water—and sat there watching me eat, watching me breathe.
“Tell me stories,” he’d say. “Keep me entertained.”
So I talked. About anything. Everything. I told him memories, lies, half-made dreams—whatever I thought might keep him calm. But his eyes never softened. They were empty, like nothing inside them cared whether I lived or died.
One day, he held up a small metal file.
“See this?” he said lightly. “It fixes things.”
Before I could move, he grabbed my chin. The sound of metal scraping against my teeth sent pain shooting through my skull. I screamed and begged him to stop, tears streaming down my face, but he didn’t. When he finally pulled away, my mouth throbbed, my teeth ruined.
“Now we match,” he said, smiling.
I begged him every day after that. Promised him anything.
“I won’t tell anyone. Please. Just let me go.”
He always shook his head. “The road keeps secrets,” he’d say. “And you’re mine.”
At night, when the truck stopped, he chained me tighter. Afterwards, I’d curl into myself, staring into the dark, trying to disappear. Fear hollowed me out. The worst thought wasn’t even dying—it was surviving like this forever.
Weeks later—at least, I think it was weeks—he pulled into a weigh station.
“Don’t make a sound,” he warned, locking the curtain.
I heard voices outside. Officials. My heart hammered. I looked down at the chain around my ankle. One link was thinner than the others, bent and worn from all my struggling. My hands shook as I twisted it, pain shooting through my leg. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
The link snapped.
I slipped out through the opposite door while he was distracted and ran. My legs barely worked, but I ran anyway.
“Help me!” I screamed at the first uniformed worker I saw. “Please—he’s holding me!”
Everything exploded into motion after that. Shouting. Radios. Police. They surrounded the truck and dragged him out. He looked at me once, that same sharp-toothed smile still on his face, before they cuffed him and shoved him into a car.
At the station, I told them everything—the chains, the tools, the endless miles.
“He said I belonged to him,” I whispered.
They listened. They believed me. They found exactly what I described hidden in his truck. Later, they told me he’d done this before. I wasn’t the first.
In court, he was sentenced to years behind bars.
It didn’t erase what happened. But it ended his road. And for the first time in a long time, I knew I was free.
"The Clearing":
I left the house after a bad argument with my husband, my head buzzing and my chest tight. I just needed space—somewhere to breathe. Our baby boy was asleep against me, only a few months old, his tiny weight warm and familiar in my arms. I walked to the nearby shopping center, drawn by the glow of the lights. They made the night feel safer, less lonely. I sat on a bench and rocked him gently, breathing in the cool air, hoping it would settle my thoughts.
A car rolled up slowly and stopped nearby. A tall man stepped out, moving casually, like he belonged there. He smiled in a way that seemed kind and said, “Looks like you could use some company.” His voice was calm and soft, the sort that makes you think someone understands hard nights. He introduced himself as Keith and started talking about his own children, how much he missed them since his wife had left. The details sounded sincere. I felt seen, less alone than I had minutes earlier.
“Do you want to sit in the car and talk?” he asked. It didn’t feel dangerous—just conversation, I told myself. I nodded and climbed in, keeping my baby on my lap.
At first, we just drove around town. We talked about families, about how complicated life could be. “Family is everything,” he said, his hands steady on the steering wheel. Then, without warning, he turned off onto a narrow road that led away from the houses, away from the streetlights. Trees closed in on both sides.
“Where are we going?” I asked. My voice wavered despite my effort to sound calm.
“Just somewhere quiet,” he said. His tone was different now—flat, distant.
He stopped in a clearing surrounded by woods and shut off the engine. The sudden silence pressed in. When he turned to face me, his expression had changed completely. The warmth was gone. His eyes were hard.
“Come closer,” he said, reaching toward me.
I pulled back instinctively, tightening my hold on my son. “No. I want to go home.”
His hand clamped around my arm, painfully strong. “You’re not going anywhere,” he whispered, so close I could feel his breath.
Panic flooded me as he shoved me down, trying to force himself on me. I fought as hard as I could—kicking, twisting, desperate—but he was much bigger. His hands slid to my neck and tightened. I struggled for air. In the chaos, my baby slipped from my arms and fell onto the floor, crying loudly.
“Please,” I gasped. “My son—please, stop.”
For a moment, he hesitated, glancing down at the baby. Then his grip tightened again. “Quiet,” he growled.
Time lost all meaning after that. I begged him over and over, telling him not to hurt us, reminding him of the children he claimed to love. He spoke calmly, almost casually, saying things like, “No one will ever find you out here.” That calmness terrified me more than shouting ever could. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone if he let us go. The baby’s cries never stopped, filling the car, sharp and desperate.
Eventually—after what felt like hours—something shifted. He leaned back, started the engine, and muttered, “Fine. But you don’t say a word.”
The drive back felt endless. Every bump in the road made me flinch. I held my baby tightly, whispering to him, trying to soothe us both. When we reached town, he stopped near where he’d picked me up.
“Remember,” he said, his eyes cold. “Not a word.”
I nodded, opened the door, and ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the police station just down the block.
The officers took my statement and asked questions. “He said his name was Keith,” I told them, describing the car as best I could. They found him quickly and brought him in. He admitted to some of it, was charged with a minor offense, paid a fine, and left town.
I thought that was the end.
Later, I learned it wasn’t. He went on to hurt other women—some of them losing their lives—along the highways he traveled as a truck driver.
That night never left me. Sleep became difficult. I checked the locks twice. I held my children closer. What haunted me most wasn’t just what he did—it was how easily he changed. How quickly kindness turned into cruelty, like flipping a switch.
"Silver Stripes":
I used to work the night shift at a big truck stop just off Interstate 80, pouring coffee and flipping burgers for drivers rolling through half-awake and road-weary. Most of them were harmless—polite, grateful for a hot plate and a few minutes of conversation before disappearing back into the dark. You learn their rhythms after a while. But one night, someone walked in who changed the way I see the road forever.
He was huge. Not just tall, but broad, the kind of man who seemed to fill the room without trying. A thick beard covered most of his face, and his eyes stayed cold even when his mouth pulled into something that was supposed to be a smile. He slid onto a stool at the counter and ordered eggs and toast.
“Long drive ahead,” he said, his voice low and unhurried.
I poured his coffee and made small talk, asking where he was headed.
“East,” he said, then paused. “Then south.” He watched me over the rim of his mug. “You ever get lonely working nights like this?”
I laughed lightly, brushing it off. “Sometimes. But I don’t mind the quiet.”
He nodded and ate slowly, barely looking at his plate. Most of the time his attention stayed on me. When he finished, he left a generous tip and stood. “If you ever need a ride,” he said, “my truck’s the red one with the silver stripes.”
I thanked him out of habit, told him I had my own car. He smiled again, but it never reached his eyes.
Later that night, while I was wiping down tables, I saw him outside near the lot. He was talking to Lisa—a girl who drifted around the truck stop sometimes, picking up odd jobs or hitching rides. She was young, always hopeful, always broke. I watched her hesitate for just a second before climbing into his cab.
I didn’t think much of it. Drivers picked up riders all the time.
The next day, Lisa didn’t show up.
I asked around, but no one had seen her. I told myself she’d caught a ride somewhere far, found something better. That’s what people always said. But two days later, the radio in the diner went quiet as the news came on. A woman’s body had been found near a rest area not far from us. Strangled.
When they showed her picture on the small TV above the counter, my hands started shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the sink. It looked just like Lisa.
A week later, he came back.
Same stool. Same order.
“Missed your coffee,” he said, smiling that hollow smile.
I tried to keep my voice steady, but it came out thin. “Where’ve you been?”
“Around,” he said. “Picked up a friend last time. Nice company. For a while.” His eyes locked onto mine, heavy and knowing. “Road gets real empty without someone to talk to.”
I nodded and moved away, pretending to check on other customers. My skin felt cold, tight. Outside, through the window, I could see his truck—the red cab with silver stripes, its windows dark and unreadable.
When he finally left, I called the police tip line from the back room, my voice barely above a whisper. I told them what I’d seen. The truck. The timing. They thanked me and said they’d look into it.
Nothing happened.
Weeks went by. Another woman disappeared from a truck stop down the highway. Then another body was found. Same marks around the neck. I started locking my car the moment I stepped outside, even in the middle of the lot. Every pair of headlights made my stomach twist.
One night after my shift, my car wouldn’t start. Dead battery. The lot was nearly empty—just a few rigs idling, engines rumbling like distant thunder. I popped the hood and tried to jump it with cables from the diner, but the engine wouldn’t turn over.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
I turned, and there he was again, standing too close.
“Yeah,” I said carefully. “It’s not starting.”
He leaned over the engine, his hands massive and rough. “Hop in my cab while I take a look,” he said. “It’s warmer.”
“I’m fine out here.”
His voice hardened. “Don’t be stubborn.”
Something in his eyes made me step back. He reached for my arm—light at first, then tighter. “Just for a minute.”
I yanked free. “No. I’ll call a friend.”
His expression changed completely, like a switch had been flipped. “Suit yourself.” But he didn’t move. He just stood there, watching.
I didn’t run—I walked fast, forcing myself to stay calm—but my heart was pounding as I went back inside. I locked the door and called my boss, who lived nearby. He showed up quickly with a tow truck.
By then, the red rig with silver stripes was gone.
I didn’t sleep that night. All I could think about was Lisa. About how close I’d come.
Months later, the police finally caught him. His name was Dellmus Colvin, a long-haul driver out of Ohio. In his truck, they found ropes. Women’s clothes. Bloodstains. He confessed to killing six women—maybe more—picking them up at truck stops just like ours. Strangling them in his cab while the engine idled, then dumping their bodies along the highway.
Some he met while dealing drugs. One woman argued about money. Another, he said, talked too much.
I testified at his trial. I told them about the nights he came in, the way he watched. “He offered rides,” I said from the stand. “But something felt wrong.”
He got life in prison.
Still, even now, when a big rig pulls into a quiet lot late at night, I feel it—that tightness in my chest. The road is long, and it keeps its secrets well.
I don’t work nights anymore. I took a day job at a small store in town. But I drive carefully. I check my mirrors. Because I know now—danger doesn’t always look dangerous.
Sometimes, it rolls in on eighteen wheels, quiet and patient, waiting for someone to say yes.