When I in elementary school I would wake up early so I could get to the bus stop on time. After a while I began to notice the same black car parked across the street everyday. But I didn’t really think much of it. A month of so later, my friend and I again noticed the black car, but this time it was following our bus. We would whisper about it as we kept turning in our seats to see if it was still there. When we’d get to school we’d tell our friends about it. Then we’d all discuss what it may be in the corner of the field by the fence. During one of our little discussions we saw a car that had circled our school enough times for us to realize it wasn’t normal.
That car was the black car that parked across my bus stop, followed my bus to school, and was now circling my school.
We were scared. We didn’t know what to do or if we could even do anything. We had eventually collectively agreed it was most likely a kidnapper. From that point on our conversations and recess breaks were spent looking for sketchy cars and talking about kidnapping. We spoke of our own fears and even experiences concerning kidnapping. But nothing could take our minds off my friend and I’s current situation
We tried our best to get home as quickly as possible and keep an eye on the car when it was parked by our bus stop or school. It eventually began to park across the street from my house. I could see it from the upstairs window, I would stare at it when I got home from school. I remember one time it wasn’t there. The next day at school my friend, who was at the same bus stop as me, told me the car had followed her home and had parked across the street from her house. Just as it had done to me.
We got really scared after that. And after another recess discussion, my friend and I deiced to call the cops on her phone. After school we waited in my house for the car to park and, from what we could tell, to be empty.
We had ran up to the car, planning to write the license plate number down. My friend fumbled with her phone’s keyboard as I kept watch.
I remember this intense fear, this adrenaline, like it had just happened.
I looked into the car, to see if there was anything inside. The windows were slightly tinted, which made it hard to see inside, especially with the glare from the sun. But as I squinted, leaning forward, trying to see inside, I thought I could make out some sort of figure in the drivers seat. I had gasped in realization as I locked eyes with the owner of the black car. Sitting inside, watching us write his license plate down. Staring. Watching. I couldn’t breathe. I was like a deer in headlights. Time felt slow as I watched this murky figure lift his arm and click the ceiling light of the car. I could see his blank stare, that horrifying grin, and the knife he was holding against the steering wheel. I felt lightheaded. I wanted to run, but I just couldn’t move.
My friend, thankfully, looked up and saw me staring. She took one glance at the front window, grabbed my wrist, and ran as fast as she possibly could. All I could hear was the pounding of our shoes on the hot pavement and the distant sound of a car door slamming. I turned, only for a moment, and saw the man standing by that black car, still grinning.
We ran into my house, locked the doors, and called the police. It took a few tries to gather the courage to actually tell the operator what happened, but we did. All the while, we were shaking and on the verge of tears.
I don’t think I ever saw that black car or that man again. But I still get that fear when I see a Black Car to this day.
Be careful my fearful friends