Before I moved, I made it a point to never go out alone late at night. As a single woman living alone, that wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. But when I moved out to the country—the middle of nowhere, really—I thought it would be safer. That’s what everyone told me, anyway. “There’s no crime out there,” “nothing ever happens in those tiny towns.”
I shouldn’t have gone out that night, but I’d been holed up in the house alone for days and I was running out of food. I remember my stomach growling, loud and angry, reminding me that, not only had I neglected to eat that day, but that the taco place in town was open late. Besides, I’d been bringing a lot of work home with me over the past few weeks, and I figured I could use a break.
I liked the quiet and privacy the new house offered, but anything more than the post office, a tiny library, and an auto parts store was–at minimum–a 20-minute drive away. A pain, sure, but I thought I could use some time in the car, blasting some music and drowning out the rest of the world for a little while.
I hopped into the car, cranked up the radio, and started what was probably going to end up being an hour-long round trip for some chips and tacos. Just down the street, I was forced to shield my eyes from the blinding white light pouring in through my passenger side window. Right, I though. My neighbor’s floodlights. I almost always forgot about them until I drove by was harshly reminded.
I didn’t know my neighbors very well; we’d only run into each other a few times in the week or so I’d been in town, but I knew it was a young family. I asked about the lights once, and the woman who lived there—Sherry, I think her name was—told me they were motion activated and as sensitive as they could make them. Even though there was little crime in the area, they installed them as a precaution to scare away anyone who might come sneaking by the house at night.
It was probably a good idea to take precautions just in case, but I wished the motion sensors didn’t pick up every car that drove past the house. Despite my best efforts at blinking them away, the newly formed spots wouldn’t leave my vision. I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that I would just have to be extra careful while driving until my vision cleared up.
The drive to the taco restaurant was easy enough; few people were out this late on a weeknight. It was just the road, the trees, and me. There were a few turns here and there, but most of the trip was over one long stretch, weaving and snaking through the woods that occupied most of the space out here.
As expected, the taco place was almost abandoned. Other than the few vehicles parked in the spaces reserved for employees, it looked like there was only one other vehicle in the lot. It was tucked back in the corner, almost hidden under some un-trimmed trees. In the dark, it didn’t look like anyone was inside, but the motor was running, humming quietly as I drove around to the back of the building to go through the drive through.
Having received my meal, I pulled up to the driveway to get back onto the road. As I stopped to make certain that the coast was clear before turning out, I saw the headlights of that truck in the parking lot come to life.
That’s odd timing I thought. But it was getting late, and the restaurant would be closing soon, so I brushed it off. The employees had probably just chased everyone out of the dining room so they could start cleaning up for the night, and whoever was driving the truck had probably come from there. I made a left turn back onto the main road, and a few seconds later, the truck did the same thing. Again, I didn’t really think much of it. Most people turned left out of that parking lot; making a right would just put you on an empty road and up to the highway. I turned my music back up and pressed on, mildly annoyed by how bright the truck’s headlights were. Sure, we were in the middle of nowhere, but this road still had streetlights for a few miles.
The truck continued to stay behind me. Every so often, it would drop back and expand the distance between us, but it was still there. I took some deep breaths, trying to calm myself down.
This is the only way to go. We haven’t gotten to any turns yet I told myself. There was no reason to get all worked up over nothing. But no sooner had I managed to calm myself down that I passed through the first intersection on the way back home. I turned right. A few moments later, the truck also turned right. My heart dropped into my stomach and fear begin to creep up into my chest to take its place. I tried to reason with myself, to convince myself that it was just a coincidence. We’d only taken one turn, there wasn’t any reason to believe the truck was following me. There was no reason for my palms to be sweating as much as they were, or for me to be spending more time looking into the rear view mirror than through the windshield.
We approached another intersection. Despite the lack of traffic at this hour, the stoplight was still functioning normally. Fear began to crawl up my throat, thick and sticky like bile. I approached the intersection, its light bathing me in a red glow. I had to stop. And stopping meant the truck would have time to catch up to me. Its blinding headlights washed out the red stoplight as the truck got closer. I braced myself as it pulled up so closely behind me that I thought it was going to hit my rear bumper, but the impact never came.
I waited for the light to change. It took everything in me not to look into the rear view mirror; it wouldn’t do any good and there wasn’t anything to see anyway. Fingers twitching, leg bouncing, I stared straight ahead. I waited.
Finally, the light turned green, and floored it and turned right again, faster than any turn I think I’ve made in my life. I thanked God that the roads were empty as I slid into the oncoming lane for a moment. The truck took the turn more slowly than I had, almost pausing at the intersection despite the light being green. And as I watched the truck made a right turn, I almost threw up. I choked back the bile in my mouth and wiped away the tears that had started to pool in my eyes. I took deep breaths. In, out. In, out. In, out. I couldn’t calm down. There was no part of my body now that wasn’t on alert.
Where was I supposed to go? I was nearly home at this point, and this road only went two places: my neighborhood and a dead end. I considered that the person driving could be someone living in my development but quickly dismissed the thought. Nobody in my neighborhood drove an old truck like that.
I wanted to drive to the police department, but I had no idea where it was or how to get there.
Maybe I can pull up the address on my phone, I thought. I peeled a clammy hand off the steering wheel and shoved it, shaking, into my jacket pocket. My heart sank even further when my hand found nothing but the inside of my pocket; I had left my phone at home.
I couldn’t pull up the police station’s address.
I couldn’t call for help.
I thought about pulling over, letting the truck pass me, but if the driver was bold enough to follow me on an empty street with their headlights in my eyes, I wondered if they were bold enough to pull over with me and try something right there on the side of the road. No, I couldn’t chance it.
Instead, I sped up, far surpassing the posted speed limit with the hope that I could get into my neighborhood before the truck driver saw where exactly I was going.
50, 60, 70 miles per hour. I was almost there.
I could hear my heart pounding like it was trying to break out of my chest. I looked through the rear view mirror again, and to my horror, the truck driver had sped up as well. There was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. I started to feel nauseous, started to feel as though I might slip into unconsciousness if I wasn’t careful. What should I do? Where should I go? If I could just get a good look at this truck maybe it would scare them off.
Then I remembered: the neighbor’s floodlights. I tried to calm down as I pulled into my development; I had a plan, and if it didn’t work, maybe I could scream loud enough to wake up enough of the neighborhood that someone would be willing to come out and help me.
I didn’t slow down nearly enough to make the turn safely. I felt my car strain to keep its wheels on the ground as I turned into the neighborhood. The truck was right behind me now.
It was okay, just a little bit more. Only a little further and everything would be okay.
Blinding light poured into my car again as I pulled into the neighbor’s driveway. I threw the car into park and ducked down into my seat, listening for the truck. I heard it roll down the street, more slowly now. I peaked up and out the rear window, hoping to see it go by. The engine rattled as it passed, and there it was: an old, beat up, red Chevy. I couldn’t make out a driver, and I couldn’t see any kind of license plate, but at least I had a description of the car. Sure, this was truck county, and it was plenty likely that there were a lot of beat-up trucks around here, but this was a start. People could at least be on the lookout.
The truck disappeared down the street, but I didn’t dare move. I turned back around in my seat and sank down as close to the floor as I could get, and I stayed there until long after I heard the truck pass again on the way out of the neighborhood. Eventually, I found the courage to start my car back up and finish the drive home, only a few more houses away. I didn’t usually park in the garage, but that night I made sure to, just in case that truck decided to make another trip up my street.
I woke up late the next morning still clutching the bat I had dug out of a closet the night before. Nothing had happened after I had gotten home, and I was happy to have made it through the night without further incident. I told myself I would find the police station later that afternoon to make a report; I doubted anything would come out of it, but it didn’t feel right to just let it go. With nothing else to do, I went about my morning as usual. I threw a robe over the clothes I still had on from the previous day, made my way down to the kitchen, put together a bowl of cereal, and sat down on the couch. I flipped on the news, exhausted. I’d only gotten a few hours of sleep at the most, to terrified that the truck driver would come back and find me to get any meaningful amount of rest. What jolted me awake was what was on the TV screen. It looked like a live broadcast from down the street.
From in front of the neighbor’s house. Sherry’s house.
A woman I recognized from one of the local channels was reporting on the story.
“We don’t have any details at the moment, but we do know that the gruesome attack occurred last night around 2 o’clock in the morning. Unfortunately, no member of the Johnson family survived. The police currently have no leads and are asking anyone who might have information that might aid in the investigation to come forward.”
I watched as police milled around in front of the house, occasionally coming in and out with what looked like evidence bags. A sharp ringing in my ears drowned out whatever else the newscaster was saying as I stared at the driveway where I’d taken refuge the night before.
I hadn’t realized that I’d dropped my bowl until I heard it hit the floor, pulling me back to reality. The camera had panned to the street where police cars sat, lights flashing. And there, abandoned across the street from the house, was an old, red Chevy without any tags.