"THE WORST ROAD":
I was excited as my boyfriend Tom and I drove our old orange van along the long, empty highway in Australia's outback. We had been traveling for weeks, visiting beaches and small towns, and now we headed toward some big red rocks that people said were amazing to see. Tom drove while I looked at maps and sang along to songs on our little radio. It felt like an adventure, just the two of us far from home.
A white truck with a green top started following us close. We saw it first at a stop where we got gas and snacks. The driver kept right behind, not passing even when he could. Tom said, "Maybe he wants to say hi or something." But it made me a bit uneasy. After a while, the truck pulled up next to us. The man inside waved his arm a lot, pointing back at our van like something was wrong. He yelled out his window, "Pull over! Pull over!"
Tom slowed down and stopped on the side of the road. "He might have seen a problem with the engine," Tom told me. "I'll check it out." He got out and walked back to meet the man. I stayed in the passenger seat, watching in the mirror. The man was tall with a mustache and wore a hat. He pointed at the back of our van and said something about sparks coming from the pipe. Tom nodded and they both went to look.
I slid over to the driver's seat, just in case we needed to go quick. The man and Tom talked more. "See, right there," the man said, his voice deep and calm. "You got sparks shooting out. Could start a fire." Tom leaned down to check. Then, a loud crack rang out, like a firework but sharper. I jumped and looked back. The man came around to my window fast, holding a small silver gun pointed right at me.
"Get out," he said, his eyes cold. "Don't scream or I'll shoot." My hands shook as I opened the door. He grabbed my arm hard and pulled me out. "Where's Tom?" I asked, my voice small. He didn't answer. Instead, he pushed me against the van and tied my wrists behind my back with black plastic strips. They cut into my skin. "Please, what do you want?" I begged. "Just let us go."
"Shut up," he growled. He tried to tie my ankles too, but I kicked a little. "Stop that," he said, pressing the gun to my side. I went still, scared he would pull the trigger. He wrapped tape around my mouth, but I twisted my head. "Hold still," he ordered. Then he dragged me toward his truck. I saw his dog inside, barking loud. My mind raced—what was he planning? Rob us? Hurt me?
As he opened the truck door, I yanked away with all my strength. The ties hurt my wrists, but I ran into the bushes off the road. Thorns scratched my legs, but I didn't stop. "Come back here!" he shouted, running after me. I dropped to the ground behind a thick bush and curled up small. My breathing was loud in my ears, but I tried to hold it.
He came close, shining a light around. The beam swept over the ground near my feet. "I know you're out here," he called. "You can't hide forever." His footsteps crunched on dry leaves. He passed by once, then came back. I could smell his sweat. The dog barked from the truck, making him turn. He walked away, but then returned, closer this time. The light hit the bush above me. I squeezed my eyes shut, sure he would find me.
Minutes passed like hours. He muttered to himself, "Where is she?" and kicked at rocks. The third time he came near, his boot almost stepped on my hand. I bit my lip to not make a sound. Finally, he went back to the truck. I heard him drive off a bit, then stop. Was he waiting? I stayed hidden, wrists aching from the ties. Bugs crawled on my arms, but I didn't move.
Later, I heard a big truck coming down the highway. It was one of those long ones with trailers. I waited until the man's truck sound faded, then I stood and ran to the road, waving my bound arms. The big truck slowed. Two men inside looked surprised. "Help me!" I yelled, pulling the tape off my mouth. "A man shot my boyfriend and tried to take me!"
The driver opened the door. "What happened?" he asked, helping me in. His friend cut the ties with a knife. "Some guy pulled us over, said something was wrong with our van," I explained, tears coming now. "He had a gun. I heard a shot. Tom... I think he's hurt bad." They looked at each other. "We need to get you to town," the driver said. "Police can help."
They drove me to a small place with a bar and phones. I told the people there everything. "He was in a white truck with a green top," I said. "Tall guy, mustache." A lady gave me water. "You're safe now," she said. But I couldn't stop shaking. Police came soon after. They asked questions over and over. "Show us where it happened," one officer said.
We went back in their car. The van was gone, pushed into the bushes. There was blood on the ground where Tom had been. "That's his," I whispered. They searched with lights, but no Tom. No man. Days turned into weeks. I stayed in hotels, talking to detectives. They showed me pictures of trucks and men. One day, I saw his face in a photo. "That's him," I pointed.
The trial came later. I had to tell the story in court, facing him. He stared at me, no smile. Lawyers asked if I was sure. "Yes," I said. "I'll never forget." They found his DNA on my shirt and our van. The judge said he was guilty of killing Tom and attacking me. But Tom's body was never found. That hurts most.
Even now, I think about that night. Hiding in the dark, hearing him search. What if he had found me? Australia was supposed to be fun, a dream trip. Instead, it became a nightmare I can't escape. If you're traveling far, be careful who you trust on lonely roads.
"KOH TAO":
I had saved up for months to finally take that dream trip to Koh Tao in Thailand. The pictures online showed clear blue water, soft sand beaches, and friendly bars where people from all over the world hung out. I flew in alone, excited to relax and maybe learn to dive. When I got off the boat, the place felt alive with tourists walking around, carrying backpacks and laughing. I checked into a small hotel right by Sairee Beach, the kind with simple rooms and a view of the ocean. The manager, a quiet man named Somsak, handed me the key and said, "Welcome. Be careful at night. Some spots are dark." I smiled and thought he was just being nice.
That first afternoon, I walked down to the beach. The sun warmed my skin as I found a spot at a bar called AC Bar. It was crowded with young people drinking beer and listening to music. I ordered a fruit shake and sat at a table, watching everyone. That's when I noticed a couple at the bar. The girl had long blonde hair and a big smile; she looked about my age, maybe in her twenties. The guy with her had short brown hair and seemed kind, buying her a drink. I heard them talking with British accents. She said to him, "David, this island is perfect. No worries back home." He laughed and replied, "Yeah, Hannah, let's make the most of it. Cheers to new friends." They clinked glasses.
I felt a little lonely, so I waved and said, "Hi, mind if I join? I'm here solo too." Hannah turned and grinned. "Sure! I'm Hannah, this is David. We're from England. What about you?" I told them my name is Emma, from the US, and we started chatting. David asked, "First time in Thailand?" I nodded. "Yeah, I wanted some adventure." We talked about the best dive spots and how the food was spicy but good. Hannah shared, "We just got here yesterday. The hotel's nice, but last night I heard weird noises outside, like footsteps." David shrugged. "Probably just cats or something." I laughed it off with them, but something about her words stuck with me.
As the evening went on, more people filled the bar. A group of local men sat at a corner table, not talking much, just watching. One of them, with a scar on his cheek, kept looking our way. I caught his eye once, and he didn't smile back. It made me uneasy, but I pushed it away. Hannah and David seemed happy, dancing a little to the music. Around midnight, Hannah leaned over and said, "We're heading to a quieter part of the beach for a walk. Want to come?" I thought about it, but I was tired from the flight. "Maybe next time. Have fun!" David waved goodbye. "See you around, Emma." I watched them leave hand in hand, walking toward the darker end of the beach where the lights faded.
I finished my drink and headed back to my hotel. The path was narrow, lined with palm trees and small shops closed for the night. As I walked, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, but no one was there. My pulse quickened a bit. "Hello?" I called out softly. Nothing. I sped up, telling myself it was just my imagination. When I got to my room, I locked the door tight and lay down, but sleep didn't come easy. The room felt too quiet, except for the waves outside.
Sometime in the middle of the night, a sound woke me. It was far off, like a muffled cry, coming from the beach direction. I sat up, listening. Another sound, sharper this time, almost like a thud. My mind raced back to Hannah's words about noises. I went to the window and peered out. The beach looked empty under the moon, but shadows moved near the rocks. Was that a person? Or two? I strained to see, but it was too dark. The cries stopped suddenly, and everything went still. I waited, holding my breath, but heard nothing more. Scared, I pulled the curtains shut and got back in bed, curling up under the sheet. "It's probably just party people," I whispered to myself, trying to calm down.
The next morning, I woke early and went for coffee at a cafe near the hotel. People were whispering, looking worried. A woman at the counter said to her friend, "Did you hear? Two bodies on the beach." My hands shook as I paid. "What happened?" I asked. The woman looked at me sadly. "A girl and a guy, found this morning. Badly hurt. Police are there now." I felt sick and rushed out to see.
The beach was taped off with yellow lines. Officers stood around, and a crowd gathered. I pushed closer and saw the shapes covered with sheets. Blood stained the sand. One officer was talking to a witness. "They were hit with something heavy," he said quietly. "The girl... it was awful." I recognized the descriptions – blonde hair, British. It was Hannah and David. Someone had attacked them brutally on that isolated spot. A hoe from a nearby garden lay discarded, covered in red.
I backed away, my mind spinning. Who did this? I remembered the local men at the bar, the one with the scar. Had they followed? The police questioned everyone, including me. I told them about meeting Hannah and David, how they left for the walk. An officer nodded. "We have suspects. Two workers from Burma. But stay careful. This island has secrets." Later, I heard rumors from other tourists – that powerful families on the island protected their own, that the workers might be scapegoats. One girl whispered to me at lunch, "I've seen those locals act strange before. They watch tourists like prey."
That night, I couldn't stay. I packed my bags, heart racing every time I heard a noise outside. As I waited for the boat to leave, I saw the man with the scar walking by, staring right at me. He smiled this time, slow and cold. I looked away, fear gripping me. What if he knew I had seen him watching? On the ride back to the mainland, I kept thinking about Hannah's laugh, David's kind words. Their holiday turned into a nightmare, and I had been so close. I still wonder if those cries I heard were theirs, begging for help that never came. Koh Tao looked beautiful from afar, but up close, it hid darkness I never expected.
"DARK CORNERS":
I still think about that honeymoon every now and then, the way it started so full of joy and ended in a way no one expects. Emma and I had saved up for months to go to Mauritius. The pictures online showed endless blue ocean and palm trees, a place where couples go to forget the world. We landed at the airport, grabbed our bags, and took a taxi to the Legends Hotel. The driver chatted with us about the best spots to see turtles, but we were too busy holding hands to pay much attention.
Our room was on the ground floor, with a big bed and a view of the garden. "This is perfect," Emma said as she unpacked her dresses. She was always the organized one, folding everything neat while I tossed my shirts in a drawer. That first night, we walked along the shore, her head on my shoulder. "Promise we'll come back here someday," she whispered. I nodded and kissed her forehead. "Of course we will."
The next few days blurred into happiness. We woke up early for breakfast buffets with mango and eggs, then lounged by the pool. Emma tried snorkeling for the first time and came up giggling about the colorful fish. "You have to try this," she told me, pulling my arm. I did, and we floated together, pointing at things underwater. In the evenings, we'd dress up for dinner. One night, over grilled fish, she looked at me and said, "I'm so glad I married you." Her smile made everything feel right.
But on the fourth day, during lunch in the main restaurant, something shifted. We were sitting at a table near the window, picking at salads and sandwiches. Emma suddenly put down her fork. "I forgot my book in the room," she said. "And those biscuits they have – I want a couple for later." I offered to go get them, but she waved me off. "No, stay and finish your food. I'll be quick." She stood up, leaned over to peck my cheek, and walked away, her sundress swaying.
I watched her go through the doors toward our building. The restaurant was busy with other guests chatting and waiters carrying trays. I ate a few more bites, checked my watch. Five minutes passed. Then ten. I figured maybe she stopped to talk to someone or got distracted packing her bag for the beach later. But after fifteen minutes, a little worry crept in. I pushed my plate aside and decided to check on her.
The path to our room wound through flowers and small fountains. I called out her name softly as I got closer. "Emma? You okay?" No answer. The door was slightly open, which struck me as odd because we always locked it. I pushed it wider and stepped inside. The air felt still. Her book lay on the bed, untouched. "Emma?" I said louder, moving toward the bathroom.
That's when I heard a faint drip of water. The bathroom door was closed. I knocked gently. "Hey, you in there?" Silence. My hand turned the knob, and the door swung open. Water ran from the faucet into the tub. And there she was, lying in the water, fully clothed, her eyes open but not seeing. I rushed forward, yelling her name, pulling her out. Her skin was cool, and there were marks around her neck, red and angry. I shook her, begging her to wake up, but she didn't move.
Panic hit me hard. I ran out into the hallway, shouting for help. "Somebody, please! My wife – something's wrong!" A hotel worker came running, a young guy with a mop. "What happened?" he asked, eyes wide. I dragged him back to the room. "Look! Call a doctor, call the police!" He stared at the scene, then bolted to get others. Soon, more staff arrived, and then security. They kept me outside while they checked her. One manager put a hand on my shoulder. "Sir, please wait here. We're handling it."
The police showed up fast, in uniforms, asking questions. "When did she leave the restaurant?" one officer said, notebook in hand. I told him everything, my voice shaking. "She just went for her book and biscuits. Who would do this?" They searched the room, found a key card that wasn't ours – a master key, like the ones cleaners use. "Someone came in," another officer muttered. They took me to a small office for more talks. "Did you argue with her? Any problems?" I shook my head, tears coming. "No, we were happy. This is our honeymoon."
Hours dragged on. They questioned hotel workers one by one. I sat in a waiting area, staring at the floor, replaying her last words. "I'll be quick." Why didn't I go with her? The lead detective came back later. "We think it was a burglary gone bad. She surprised them, and they... panicked." He paused. "We're arresting two cleaners. They had the key, and one confessed at first, but now he's saying he didn't."
The trial came months later, back in Mauritius. I had to fly there again, alone this time. The courtroom was hot and crowded. The two men, Avinash and Sandip, sat there looking scared. Witnesses talked about seeing them near our building that day. One said he heard a struggle but thought it was nothing. The prosecutor showed the key card logs – it was used right before I found her. "These men entered to steal," he said. "When Mrs. Emma came in, they attacked her from behind, strangled her to keep her quiet, then tried to make it look like an accident in the tub."
But the defense poked holes. "No fingerprints on her neck," their lawyer argued. "The confession was forced – they beat him to say it." I testified too, describing how I found her, my voice breaking. The jury listened, but in the end, after weeks, they said not guilty. The men walked free. The judge apologized to me, but it didn't help. "We'll keep looking," the police promised, but years passed with no new leads.
Back home, I couldn't sleep well. I'd wake up reaching for her side of the bed. Friends tried to help. "You should travel again someday," one said over coffee. "Not there, but somewhere new." I shook my head. "I don't think so. What if it happens again?" The news called it a rare crime in a safe place, but for me, it proved nowhere is truly safe. Tourists come and go, but some workers see easy targets. They wait for a moment when you're alone.
I read about similar cases later – people vanishing or hurt in resorts. In one, a woman in Bali was killed by her own family over money. In another, backpackers on a Thai island got attacked on the beach at night. It makes you wonder who's watching when you relax. For us, it started with biscuits and ended with questions no one answered. Emma's laugh echoes in my mind, but so does that dripping water. If you're planning a trip, lock your doors. Stay together. Because in paradise, bad things can hide behind the smiles.
"NOT FREE":
My new bride Lena and I touched down in Cape Town after our wedding bash in India. The air smelled fresh with ocean salt as we stepped off the plane. We spent a few days on safari first, spotting lions and elephants up close. Then we checked into a fancy hotel by the water, with views of mountains and boats bobbing in the harbor. Lena loved it. "Alex, this is perfect," she said, hugging me tight in our suite. We unpacked her new dresses and my shirts, planning dinners and walks.
On our second night back in the city, we wanted to see more. The taxi driver from the airport, a guy named Zola, had given us his card. "Call me anytime," he told us with a big grin. Lena dialed him up. "Let's eat somewhere local," she suggested. Zola picked us up in his van, chatting about the best spots. "Strand has good food," he said. We drove out, windows down, her hand in mine.
Dinner went well — fish and salads, laughing over stories from the wedding. "Remember your aunt's dance?" Lena giggled. I nodded, paying the bill. Back in the van, Zola asked, "Where next?" Lena wanted to see a township, hear some music. "Sure," Zola replied, turning off the main road. The streets got narrower, houses closer together. Lights flickered less. I glanced at Lena. "This okay?" I whispered. She squeezed my fingers. "Adventure, right?"
Suddenly, the van jerked. Two men jumped in front, guns pointed. "Out!" one yelled at Zola. He raised his hands, face pale. "Please, no," Zola begged. They shoved him hard onto the pavement. The van sped off. Lena screamed. "What do you want?" I asked, voice shaking. The man in the passenger seat turned, gun at my head. "Money. Phones. Everything." I handed over my wallet, watch, our mobiles. Lena clutched her bag. "Take it," she said, tears starting.
They drove fast, swerving through dark lanes. One kept the gun on us. "Don't move," he growled. Lena leaned into me. "Alex, I'm scared." I held her. "It'll be over soon." Minutes felt long. Then they stopped. The driver yanked me out. "Go!" he shouted, pushing me into the dirt. I stumbled, looking back. Lena's eyes met mine, wide with fear. "Lena!" I called. The van roared away.
I ran after it, but it vanished. Alone in the empty street, I waved down a car. "Help! My wife!" The driver stopped, called police. Officers arrived quick. "What happened?" one asked. I explained the hijack, Zola, the men. "Find her," I pleaded. They drove me around, searching. Hours passed. No sign. Back at the station, I paced. "She has a bracelet, white gold," I described. Detectives nodded. "We'll look."
Morning came slow. A call: They found the van abandoned. My knees weakened. "Is she there?" The officer paused. "Sir, come with us." At the scene, tape blocked the area. They led me close. Lena lay in the back seat, still. Blood on her shirt. A hole from a bullet. "No," I whispered, falling forward. Medics covered her. "Shot once," someone said. I touched the van door. "Who did this?"
Police arrested suspects fast. First, one of the gunmen, from a print. Then another. Zola turned himself in. At first, they said random robbery. But stories changed. "Your husband planned it," one confessed. I stared at the detective. "What? No!" They questioned me hard. "Why hire that driver?" he asked. "He seemed nice," I replied. They searched our room, my calls. "Insurance? Money issues?" I shook my head. "We were happy."
The driver Zola cut a deal. "Alex paid me to set it up," he claimed in court. "Make it look like hijack." I listened in shock. "Lies," I told my lawyer. The other men echoed him. One said, "He wanted her gone." Media swarmed. Headlines called me guilty. Friends back home doubted. "Did you?" one asked on the phone. "Of course not," I snapped.
Trials dragged. One gunman got life, but his story fell apart. "Tortured to say it," his lawyer argued. The middleman lied too, admitted it later. In my hearing, the judge listened to tapes, read texts. "Evidence weak," she ruled. "Not enough." Acquitted. Free. But the family glared. "Apologize," Lena's brother said outside. "For what?" I asked. He walked away.
Years later, questions hang. The shooter died in prison, sick. Others serve time, but their words shifted like sand. Was it random? Or deeper? I moved back home, but sleep evades. Every car horn startles. Lena's photo on the table smiles.
"Adventure," her voice echoes. Now, I check locks twice. Strangers' eyes follow. The killer's face? Maybe one walks free. Or closer. The fear never leaves.