"The Gravel Pit":
I was restocking the cooler with drinks—the sugary ones with neon labels, the kind kids begged for—when I noticed the clock above the cigarettes had slipped past midnight. The store was empty in that peculiar way only late-night places get. No cars rolling in, no bell chiming at the door, no distant hum of voices. Just the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low whine of the refrigeration units.
Usually, I liked that hour. The quiet felt earned. But that night it pressed in on me, thick and watchful, as if the emptiness itself had eyes.
The bell finally rang.
I startled, banging my elbow on the cooler door as a man stepped inside. He was unremarkable at first glance—average height, dark hair, clothes worn thin at the seams. Nothing about him screamed danger. Still, something tugged at my attention. His face stirred a vague recognition, like a name on the tip of my tongue. Someone from town, maybe. Or from years ago.
He drifted through the aisles without purpose. Picked up a pack of gum. Put it back. His gaze kept sliding toward me, then away again.
“Need help with anything?” I called, trying to sound casual as I wiped my hands on my apron.
He approached the counter slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “My car won’t start. It’s acting up out there. Thought maybe you could take a look. Or help me jump it.”
I glanced through the front window. His car sat at the edge of the lot, half-swallowed by shadow, the nearest streetlight flickering weakly. Store policy flashed through my mind—don’t leave the building alone at night—but the rule felt abstract in the moment. He didn’t look threatening. And I didn’t want to seem paranoid.
“Do you have jumper cables?” I asked.
“No,” he said, almost too smoothly. “But maybe you’d know what’s wrong if you just looked.”
I hesitated. The quiet inside the store suddenly felt louder than before. “Alright,” I said finally. “Give me a minute.”
I grabbed my jacket and locked the register, telling myself I’d be right back. The air outside was cool and unnaturally still, carrying the faint smell of asphalt and dust. As we walked toward the car, he stayed close—closer than necessary. I slowed without meaning to.
“So what exactly is it doing?” I asked.
“Right here,” he said, gesturing toward the driver’s side.
And then everything shifted.
His hand clamped around my wrist with crushing force. In the same motion, he produced a knife, the blade catching what little light there was. It looked impossibly long, impossibly real.
“Get in,” he hissed.
My brain lagged behind my body. “What—no—let go!” I twisted, tried to pull free, but he wrenched my arm painfully.
“Get in the car,” he said, voice flat and cold now, “or I’ll cut you right here.”
I looked back at the store—the glass doors, the glowing lights—so close it hurt to see them. He shoved me into the passenger seat and slammed the door before I could scream. The locks clicked down. He was in the driver’s seat a second later, engine roaring to life.
“Please,” I said, the word tearing out of me. “I have family. I won’t say anything. Just let me go.”
“Quiet,” he snapped. “We’re not going far.”
The road blurred as he drove faster than necessary, turning off the highway onto a dirt track that rattled my teeth. A gravel pit loomed ahead, raw and open, carved into the earth. He stopped deep inside it, where there were no lights and no signs of life.
He yanked me from the car and pressed the knife into my back. “Walk.”
My legs barely worked. Tears spilled down my face as I stumbled forward. “Why?” I asked. “Why me?”
He sounded almost bored when he answered. “You were there.”
What followed felt endless and unreal, like my mind had been shoved outside my body. I fought when I could, but he was stronger. Pain became a constant, overwhelming presence, drowning out thought. When I screamed, the sound vanished into the open pit, swallowed whole.
When he finally stepped back, I felt hollowed out. He stood over me, breathing hard, the knife still in his hand.
“This ends now,” he muttered.
The pain that followed was blinding—white-hot, tearing through me. I couldn’t keep track of how many times, only that warmth poured down my side and my vision began to dim. He dragged me a short distance and shoved dirt and gravel over me, the weight pressing down, filling my mouth and nose. I forced myself to go limp.
Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t exist.
At last, I heard his footsteps retreat. A car door slammed. The engine started. Gravel crunched, then faded into silence.
I counted in my head—slowly, carefully—until I was sure he was gone. Then I pushed.
Every movement sent agony through me, but panic gave me strength I didn’t know I had. The dirt shifted. Air rushed in. I clawed my way free and collapsed, coughing, blood slick on my hands.
In the distance, I saw a house. Just an outline at first. Then windows glowing warm yellow.
I crawled.
My knees burned raw. My hands shook. Time stretched and warped, but eventually I reached the porch. I raised my fist and knocked, barely hard enough to make a sound.
“Help,” I whispered. “Please.”
The door flew open. A woman gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God—Harry!” she shouted. “Call 911!”
They eased me inside, pressing towels to my wounds, speaking softly, urgently. Sirens came quickly after, red and blue light washing over the walls. Paramedics worked fast, voices overlapping, hands steady. Then the hospital. Bright lights. Darkness.
I woke days later, stitched together, aching but alive.
The police came. I told them everything I could remember. His face still haunted me—familiar in a way I couldn’t place. My sister helped connect the dots. He’d gone to high school with us. His name was Kenneth Morgan.
Before they could even find him, he called the police himself. Said he thought he’d killed someone. He confessed. He was charged with kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder. The court sent him to prison for life.
That night rewrote my world. I never went back to that store, never looked at quiet the same way again. Eventually, I wrote a book about what happened—not to relive it, but to survive it. To remind others that even when everything is taken from you, breath by breath, survival is still possible.
"The Long Walk":
I worked the late shift at a small corner store tucked into a quiet neighborhood where nothing ever seemed to happen. Most people only came in after hours for milk, cigarettes, or snacks they didn’t want to admit craving. The shelves were always neat—chips stacked just right, sodas glowing behind glass doors, candy bars lined up like they were waiting for inspection. Behind the counter was a scratched stool and a little radio that played soft music all night, just loud enough to remind me I wasn’t completely alone.
Most nights were simple. A few customers, quick transactions, long stretches of silence. I usually liked the quiet. That night, though, it felt heavier, like the store itself was holding its breath.
There was one regular who came in often, usually around the same time. An older man, maybe in his fifties, with messy hair and clothes that looked permanently worn. He always bought the same things—beer or cigarettes—paid without fuss, and left without a word. I smiled at him the way I smiled at everyone. He never smiled back. Sometimes his eyes lingered a second too long, but I brushed it off. Lots of people looked tired at four in the morning.
The night started like any other. Just before four, a police officer stopped in for coffee. She was friendly, leaned against the counter while I rang her up, asked how my shift was going.
“Quiet as usual,” I said.
She smiled. “That’s how we like it. Stay safe out here.”
I watched her cruiser pull away, the red and blue lights briefly washing over the windows before the street went dark again.
Not long after, the bell over the door jingled.
It was the regular.
He didn’t look at me this time. He went straight to the cooler, grabbed a pack of beer, and set it on the counter. I rang it up.
“That’ll be six dollars.”
He handed me the cash. I waited for him to turn and leave, but he didn’t. He just stood there, staring. Something about his face felt wrong—tighter, harder, like a switch had flipped.
Before I could ask if he needed anything else, his hand came up from his pocket.
The knife caught the fluorescent light, a brief flash before it was pressed against my neck. Cold. Solid. Real.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “Come with me.”
My mind went empty. Every thought scattered at once. I wanted to scream, to hit the panic button under the counter, but my body wouldn’t move. His grip tightened on my arm, and he dragged me around the counter as if I weighed nothing.
The door opened. Night air hit my face. Somewhere far away, a dog barked. He pushed me forward.
“Walk,” he said. “Don’t run.”
We moved through backyards and narrow spaces between houses, grass soaking my shoes with dew. Fences scraped my legs as we climbed over them. Every house was dark. Every window blind. It felt like the world had gone empty just for us.
His apartment was in an old building not far from the store, ground floor, lights already on. He unlocked the door and shoved me inside.
The smell hit first—stale beer, old food, something sour underneath it all. Newspapers covered the floor wall to wall, crinkling under my feet. He locked the door and turned on a dim lamp that barely pushed the shadows back.
“Sit,” he said, pointing to the couch.
I did. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He set the knife down but didn’t move far from it. “I’ve seen you,” he said casually, like we were talking about the weather. “Always alone at night. I like that.”
I begged him to let me go. Told him I wouldn’t tell anyone. Told him my family would be worried.
He shook his head. “No. You’re staying.”
What followed blurred together—fear swallowing everything else, my body moving because it had to, not because I chose to. I focused on the lamp, on the peeling paint on the wall, on anything except what was happening. I stayed quiet, afraid that any sound would make things worse.
When he finally stepped away, I felt hollow, like something inside me had been scooped out and left behind.
He went to the kitchen and came back with more knives, laying them carefully on the table, one by one. “Just in case,” he said, smiling.
That smile did it. Something inside me snapped into sharp focus. I knew, suddenly and clearly, that if I didn’t act, I might never leave that apartment alive.
When he turned away for another beer, I moved.
One knife was close enough. I grabbed it and swung. He reacted fast, catching my wrist, and we went down hard onto the floor. We struggled, slipping on the newspapers, breathing hard. He hit me once, sharp and stunning, but I didn’t let go.
I drove the knife into his side.
He screamed. The sound was raw and surprised. Blood soaked into his shirt. He let go just long enough for me to kick free and run.
The bathroom door was right there. I slammed it shut, locked it, and shoved a small cabinet against it just as he crashed into the other side.
“You’ll pay for this!” he shouted, slamming his fists against the door.
The bathroom was tiny. I searched frantically and found a pair of scissors and a can of deodorant under the sink. I sat on the floor, scissors clenched in my hand, listening to him pace and curse outside.
Time crawled. My face throbbed. My body hurt everywhere. I thought about my mom. My sister. The store. Someone had to notice I was gone.
Eventually, the apartment went quiet.
Then—sirens. Distant at first. Then closer.
A sudden crash from the front of the apartment made me flinch. Voices shouted, loud and commanding.
“Police!”
I held my breath.
There was shouting, heavy footsteps, the sound of someone being forced to the ground. Then a knock on the bathroom door.
“Emily?” a voice called. “It’s the police. Are you in there?”
My knees nearly gave out when I stood. “Yes,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m here.”
They opened the door slowly. An officer wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Another helped me past the living room, where he lay on the floor, handcuffed, blood staining the newspapers.
They told me later how they found me—the delivery driver, my purse still behind the counter, the security footage. All the small things that added up.
The man went to prison.
I never went back to that store. I found a daytime job. It took a long time to feel normal again, and some nights I still hear the bell over the door in my dreams.
But I lived. And that mattered more than anything else.
"No Reason":
I used to stop at that little corner store almost every night after my evening shift at the diner. It sat right on the edge of my drive home, an easy place to grab gas or a soda before turning onto the quiet back roads. Nothing special. Just bright fluorescent lights, humming pumps, and the familiar comfort of routine.
That night was no different—at least at first.
I pulled up to pump three, my body heavy with that bone-deep tiredness that comes after hours on your feet. The sky was fully dark now, the kind of black that swallows everything beyond the reach of streetlights. The store glowed like a small island in it. Through the glass, I could see Mr. Ellis moving behind the counter, straightening something, humming to himself like he always did.
Mr. Ellis had worked there forever. A kind, older man with thinning gray hair and a gentle voice. He remembered names, asked about families, treated everyone like they mattered. Some nights, when the diner had been slow, he’d tease me about sneaking off early. Other nights, he’d complain about his knees and joke that retirement couldn’t come fast enough.
I stepped inside, the bell above the door giving its familiar jingle.
“Evening, Miss Linda,” he said, smiling when he saw me. “How’s the night treating you?”
“Not too bad,” I replied, digging into my jacket pocket. “Just tired. I’ll take twenty on pump three.”
Then my stomach dropped.
I froze, patting my pockets again, then my jacket. Empty. I’d left my purse on the passenger seat.
“Oh—sorry,” I said with a small laugh, embarrassed. “Forgot my purse in the car. Be right back.”
He waved a hand. “No rush. Take your time.”
I stepped back outside, the night air cooler than I expected. As I reached my car and grabbed my purse, something caught my attention. A young man stood near the store entrance, just off to the side. Tall. Thin. Dark jacket zipped up even though it wasn’t that cold.
He wasn’t going in.
He wasn’t looking at his phone, wasn’t smoking, wasn’t pumping gas. Just standing there, shifting his weight slightly, hands buried deep in his pockets. His eyes flicked toward the road, then away again.
A small, uneasy thought stirred. Why not just go inside?
I told myself I was being silly. People waited for friends all the time. I turned back toward the store.
As I approached, I saw another man inside now—a shorter, stockier guy. He leaned casually against the counter, laughing with Mr. Ellis like they were old buddies. Something about that slowed me down. I paused just outside the door, adjusting the strap of my purse on my shoulder.
The tall man outside shifted again. His jaw looked tight. His shoulders were rigid, like coiled wire.
Then everything happened at once.
In one fast, practiced motion, he pulled a gun from his jacket and slipped through the door.
My breath stopped.
I stood there, frozen just feet away, staring through the glass. Inside, Mr. Ellis was mid-motion, handing something to the stocky man—maybe change, maybe a receipt—when the tall one stepped up beside him and pressed the gun to his head.
“Give me the money,” he snapped.
Even muffled through the door, his voice was sharp, edged with something ugly.
Mr. Ellis went still. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands.
“Okay,” he said, calm but trembling. “Okay. Just stay calm.”
He turned and hit the button on the register. It popped open with a dull clack. I could see there wasn’t much inside—just a few bills. He scooped them up and handed them over without hesitation.
No resistance. No heroics. Just compliance.
The stocky man reached across the counter and ripped a rack of lottery tickets free, shoving them into his jacket. “That’s it?” he muttered. “That all you got?”
Something twisted in my chest. This wasn’t enough for them. I felt it before it happened.
The tall man nodded once.
Then he fired.
The sound exploded through the night—so loud, so violent, it felt like it punched the air out of my lungs. Mr. Ellis jerked backward and vanished behind the counter.
Before my mind could catch up, there were two more shots.
Bang. Bang.
I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. My legs shook so badly I thought I might collapse.
Why? He’d done everything they asked. Everything.
The men turned and rushed for the door.
I stumbled backward, panic tearing through me. The tall one saw me. Our eyes met for a split second—his empty, flat, like I wasn’t even human to him.
He raised the gun again.
“No,” I whispered.
I turned and ran.
A shot cracked behind me. Something hissed past my ear and slammed into the ground. Pain flared in my shoulder—a sharp, burning sting that stole my breath. Another shot followed, close enough that I felt the air move.
I dove behind my car, curling in on myself, pressing my face to the pavement, praying they wouldn’t come around the other side.
Footsteps pounded past. An engine roared to life. Tires screamed, then faded into the dark.
I lay there shaking, my whole body buzzing with fear. My shoulder throbbed now, wet warmth spreading through my shirt. I was alive. Somehow.
When I finally forced myself up, the store door still hung open, light spilling onto the concrete. The men were gone.
“Mr. Ellis?” I called as I stumbled back inside.
The register gaped open. Lottery tickets littered the floor.
Behind the counter, he lay on his side. His eyes were open but unfocused. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading.
He lifted one hand weakly, like he was trying to wave or reach for something. A wet sound came from his throat.
“Oh no,” I whispered, tears blurring everything. “Oh no.”
I grabbed the phone, then dropped it. My hands wouldn’t work. My head was screaming run run run.
I ran.
I drove until I saw a house with lights on and banged on the door like a madwoman.
“Call the police!” I screamed. “Please—there’s been a shooting!”
Sirens came fast. Too fast and not fast enough.
Mr. Ellis was already gone.
They told me later the bullets hit his stomach. He never had a chance.
I told the police everything. The cameras told the rest. Clear footage of him doing exactly what he was told—and being murdered anyway.
Because there wasn’t enough money.
The men were caught days later. A nephew and his uncle. Angry. Impatient. Cruel.
In court, I faced them. The tall one wouldn’t look up. The uncle stared straight at me, eyes empty of regret.
They got life.
Justice, they called it.
But it didn’t bring Mr. Ellis back.
Now the store has new owners. New lights. New paint.
I don’t go there anymore.
Some nights, I still hear the gunshots. Still feel the sting in my shoulder. Still see his hand lifting, trying to say something he never got to finish.
I lock my doors tighter now.
And I watch the shadows.
"Taken After":
I felt sick that evening—feverish, drained, the kind of exhaustion that sinks into your bones—so I drove to the small grocery store a few minutes from my apartment to pick up tea and medicine. It was late, close to closing time, and the place felt half-asleep. Only a handful of cars sat scattered across the parking lot, their windshields dull under the harsh white lights. I parked close to the entrance, wanting to get in and out as fast as possible, grabbed my purse, and headed inside.
The store was quiet and sterile, the hum of refrigerators and the soft beep of the register the only sounds. I paid, tucked the receipt into my bag, and stepped back out into the night, already thinking about crawling into bed.
I had just unlocked my car when someone stepped out of the darkness.
He seemed to appear from nowhere—tall, broad-shouldered, his face hard and unfamiliar. Before I could react, I felt cold metal press against my side.
“Get in the passenger seat,” he said sharply. His voice was low but steady, practiced. The knife dug in just enough to make the threat unmistakable. “Don’t scream, or I’ll use this.”
My stomach dropped. The world narrowed to the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. “Please,” I whispered, my hands shaking. “Take the car. I have money—just let me go.”
He shook his head once, impatient, and shoved me toward the door. “No. Get in. Now.”
I barely had time to register what was happening before he ripped my phone from my hand and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and peeled out of the parking lot. I sat frozen beside him, staring straight ahead, wondering if anyone had noticed us leave, if anyone had seen anything at all.
We drove toward the city, the streetlights blurring past. He didn’t speak. He just watched the road, one hand on the wheel, the other keeping the knife close enough that I could never forget it was there.
“Where are we going?” I asked finally, my voice barely audible. “What do you want?”
“Shut up,” he snapped, glancing at me. “You’ll find out.”
I thought about running at a stoplight, about throwing myself out of the car, but every time the vehicle slowed, the knife shifted closer, a silent promise of what would happen if I tried.
Eventually, he turned off onto a dark street near a church. The neighborhood looked abandoned—boarded windows, cracked sidewalks, no movement anywhere. He stopped the car and turned to me.
“Get out.”
My legs felt like they might give out beneath me as I stepped onto the pavement. He grabbed my arm and dragged me behind the building, into deep shadow where no one could see us. What happened there broke something inside me. I cried, begged, told him about my family, my life—anything I thought might make him stop.
He didn’t.
When it was over, he stood and adjusted his clothes as if nothing had happened. “I need to hit a place,” he said casually. “Bankhead Highway. You know how to get there?”
I nodded, numb, but a fragile spark of clarity flickered in my chest. “I can find it,” I said carefully. “But I need my phone for directions.”
He studied me for a moment, then pulled my phone out and handed it over, the knife still visible in his other hand. “Don’t try anything.”
My fingers trembled as I opened the map app. While pretending to search for directions, I quickly shared my location with my boyfriend and typed a message as fast as I could: Help. Kidnapped. Track me. Then I turned the screen toward him and pointed. “This way.”
He took the phone back and drove.
My boyfriend got the message and called the police immediately. They began tracking the signal.
We reached Bankhead Highway and stopped near a gas station. “Stay quiet,” he said, popping the trunk. “Get in.”
Panic surged. “Please,” I begged. “It’s too small. I can’t breathe.”
“Get in,” he snarled, shoving me forward.
The trunk slammed shut, and the world went black. The air was hot and stale, every breath shallow and desperate. I lay there shaking, my thoughts spiraling. What if he leaves me here? What if no one finds me?
After a few minutes, the trunk opened again. He sounded irritated. “Clerk’s behind bulletproof glass. Can’t do it with just a knife.” He yanked me out. “Get back in the car.”
We drove to another store. Again, he forced me into the trunk. Again, I waited in darkness, listening to my own breathing, clinging to the hope that someone—anyone—was getting closer.
He returned soon after, swearing under his breath. “Security guard inside. Not worth it.” He moved me to the back seat this time. “We’ll wait until morning.”
Hours crawled by. The city was quiet, the car idling in a forgotten corner of the street. I tried to talk, to reach whatever humanity might still exist in him. “You can stop,” I said softly. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”
He laughed, cold and empty. “That ship’s sailed.”
Unseen by me, police cars were closing in.
Then, suddenly, red and blue lights exploded across the windows. Sirens pierced the night.
He cursed and bolted from the car, disappearing into the dark. Doors flew open. Officers rushed toward me.
“It’s okay,” one of them said gently, meeting my eyes. “You’re safe now.”
I broke down, sobbing as they helped me out and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Paramedics checked me over while I told the officers everything I could remember.
They caught him not long after, hiding nearby. He had recently been released from prison and was taken back into custody, this time facing far more serious charges.
That night changed me forever. The fear didn’t disappear overnight—but neither did the strength I found when I needed it most. I trusted my instincts, used the one chance I had, and survived.