It was deep into the night when Mom picked me up to drive us back home. After we pulled out of the rest stop, I noticed the black sedan parked behind us started its engine at the exact same moment Mom did. It followed us the entire way. Same direction. It stopped when we stopped. It signaled when we signaled. It kept a consistent distance of about fifty yards. I was one hundred percent certain: we were being followed by a stranger. My mind raced, calculating how to shake them or how to call for help. But I would soon find out that the reality was far more terrifying than anything I could have imagined. 1 After we exited the interstate, Mom started to feel it too. She glanced nervously at the rearview mirror. "That black Volkswagen... it’s still behind us." I had told her back on the highway that I felt like we were being tailed. Even though traffic was light, there were other cars around, so the tailing wasn't immediately obvious. It was Mom's first time driving on the interstate at night, so her nerves were already fried. When I first mentioned it, she brushed it off, saying I was paranoid, too afraid to take her eyes off the road to check. But she had floored it to 90 mph and changed lanes three times. Now that we were off the highway and on the lonely county roads, the traffic had vanished. Yet, the black car remained. There were two routes home. Mom had deliberately chosen the one that took five minutes longer. A stranger wouldn't take the long way. But the black car did. The narrow county road was poorly lit. Just our white SUV and that black sedan, one after the other. Its high beams were blinding, stark and intrusive in the darkness. Mom finally started to panic. I had just finished my driver’s ed course before heading off to college. I didn't have my license yet, and I hadn't driven solo, but I knew the rules. This was a narrow two-lane road. Dotted yellow lines separated the directions. Passing was legal. Night driving is exhausting, especially after a high-speed highway run. I tried to soothe Mom’s rigid posture. "Mom, don't panic! Maybe they live in our town too and just happened to take this route. Let's slow down. Force him to pass us." Mom nodded frantically, "Right, right." She hit the brakes. The speed dropped instantly to 25 mph. The sudden deceleration was jarring. Compared to the highway speeds, it felt like we were crawling. Mom was too tense; she had braked too hard. The distance between us and the black VW shrank rapidly. It looked like an imminent rear-end collision. I silently swore that once I got my license, I’d never let Mom drive again. I stared at the side mirror, heart in my throat. But the black car had reflexes like a cat. It slowed down just as abruptly, maintaining that fifty-yard gap. It showed zero intention of passing. Mom frowned. She steadied herself and slowed down even more. 20 mph. Then 15 mph... The black car was like a phantom shadow. It slowed down in perfect sync. The distance was locked in. Now, both Mom and I were terrified. This car was definitely targeting us. 2 We fell into a heavy silence. The radio signal turned to static as soon as we hit the backwoods. Mom turned it off, leaving only the low hum of the engine and the sound of our tires on asphalt. The GPS showed we were still thirty miles from home. Mom’s brow was furrowed tight. She didn't say a word, but the speedometer told me she was accelerating again. 30, 40, 50... 60 mph. On this winding county road, that was dangerous. I frantically scrolled through the map on my phone, looking for any populated areas, gas stations, or police stations along the route. If I found one, we would drive straight there. Nothing. The closest station was in the opposite direction, forty miles away. I quickly texted Dad, explaining the situation. I shared my live location and told him to drive our truck to meet us halfway. With Dad coming, surely the black car wouldn't be so bold. Dad replied instantly. He hadn't slept, worried sick because he had to work late and couldn't pick me up himself. I told Mom that Dad was on his way. The tension in her face relaxed slightly. I exhaled, feeling a bit safer. Meeting Dad meant cutting the danger zone in half. I reached out to pat Mom’s shoulder and realized her muscles were rock hard from stress. Looking back, I realized we were targeted at the last rest stop. We had stopped for gas and a quick bite. While Mom was in the restroom, I sat eating a burger. That’s when I felt eyes on me. It was a stranger. Dark complexion, maybe early twenties, tall. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled down low, despite it being night. The overhead lights cast a shadow over his face, hiding his eyes. It made me uncomfortable. I fidgeted, checking my clothes to see if I was revealing anything. By the time I saw Mom coming out and looked up to glare back at him, he was gone. Back in the car, I remembered thinking about those online threads warning women drivers. Mom’s car was white with cute decals—a clear "female driver" signal. Mom started the car. At that exact second, the headlights of a black Volkswagen parked two rows back flicked on. I had a bad feeling then. A gut instinct that the car was waiting for us. I glanced at the windshield but couldn't see the driver's face. He was wearing a black baseball cap. The same one. The car wasn't cold, but goosebumps erupted all over my arms. As Mom pulled out, that car followed. And it hadn't stopped since. I looked at the dashboard. Mom was pushing 70 mph now. "Too fast," I thought. "Way too fast for this road." My heart pounded in rhythm with the engine. Trees blurred past on both sides. A deer jumping out now would mean a fatal rollover. My palms were sweating. But I didn't tell her to slow down. The fear of the stalker outweighed the fear of the crash. We just wanted to get to Dad. But then, the black car behind us did something new. It started flashing its high beams frantically. 3 At first, it was just a couple of flashes. When Mom didn't react, the black car went berserk, strobing its lights continuously. The reflection in the rearview mirror blinded Mom. She raised a hand to shield her eyes, and the car swerved slightly. But she didn't slow down. The flashing got faster. And he was speeding up. He was closing the gap. He was right on our bumper. I could almost see the tense jawline of the man in the cap. Too close! Mom was forced to swerve into the left lane—the oncoming traffic lane—to try and let him pass. We were driving on the wrong side of the road. It was insane. Mom was sweating bullets. She tried to merge back into the right lane, but the black car wouldn't let her. He matched her speed, blocking her return, flashing his lights like a maniac. He was forcing us to stay in the wrong lane. "Maya, call 911!" Mom’s voice trembled. "This guy is crazy! He's trying to kill us!" If a car came over the hill now, we would hit head-on. There was no shoulder, just trees. Why? Why did he want us dead? I was hyperventilating. I forced myself to grab my phone. Suddenly, I heard a horn blast from far ahead. But I couldn't see any headlights. Blind spot. There was a blind spot ahead, probably a dip in the road or a sharp curve. The honk was a warning from a vehicle we couldn't see yet. I looked to my right. The black car was neck-and-neck with us. The man in the cap had his window down. He was waving his arm frantically at us. What was he doing? Then, the black car slammed on its brakes, dropping back instantly. "Mom! Car ahead! Merge right! NOW!" I screamed. A split second later, high beams cut through the darkness. A massive pickup truck crested the hill. I covered my eyes and screamed. The car jerked violently. I felt like I was in a boat capsizing in a storm. I imagined the sound of crunching metal, the silence that follows death. But the impact never came. I opened my eyes. The white light was gone. Mom was gasping for air, eyes wide with terror. We were back in the right lane. When I screamed, Mom had realized the danger of the blind hill too. The truck driver, an experienced local, had honked a warning. That honk saved our lives. I burst into tears. "It's okay, Maya. It's okay. I've got you," Mom stammered, reaching over to touch my head. Her hand was ice cold, but her shirt was soaked through with sweat. I looked in the mirror. The black car was back. It had sped up again and was right on our tail. No flashing lights this time. But his window was still down. His arm was hanging out, waving at us. He kept sticking his head out, trying to signal something. What did he want?! We were twenty miles from home. I dialed 911 with trembling fingers. We had a dashcam. Once we were safe, I was going to make sure this psycho went to jail. The call connected. "911, what is your emergency?" I opened my mouth to speak. Suddenly, a cold hand reached out from the back seat. A rough palm clamped over my mouth. A blade, ice-cold and sharp, pressed against my jugular. A voice, wet and raspy like it came from the bottom of a grave, whispered in my ear. "Shhh. Don't move." 4 Mom heard the noise and glanced back. She screamed. I screamed—a muffled, terrified sound against the hand. Mom jerked the wheel. The tires screeched as we fishtailed across the road. When the car finally straightened out, the air smelled of metallic rust. Blood. My shirt was wet and warm. "Maya!" Mom shrieked. The knife had slipped during the swerve. A long, shallow cut ran from my neck down to my collarbone. It wasn't deep enough to hit the artery, but it was bleeding freely. "Tsk, tsk. I told you not to move," the voice behind me said. It sounded almost annoyed. "Look at that pretty neck. Almost snapped it." He turned his attention to my mother, who was on the verge of a breakdown. "Don't slow down! Keep driving!" "You were driving like a demon a minute ago. Keep it up! Damn, that swerve hurt like hell." There was a third person in our car. I bit my lip to stop from crying out. Through the rearview mirror, I saw him. A man in his forties. messy, curly hair. His forehead was bleeding, blood dripping down a face bisected by a horrific scar. His eyes bulged, red and manic. He snatched my phone away. The dispatcher’s voice was tinny and small. "Hello? Ma'am? Is anyone there?" The Scarred Man hung up and tossed the phone. He reached forward, grabbed Mom’s phone from the dash mount—the one running the GPS—and threw both devices out the cracked window. "Who are you?" I thought, paralyzed. "When did you get in?" Mom was weeping as she drove. "Who are you? Please, we need a hospital. My daughter is hurt. Take the money, take the car, just let us go!" The Scarred Man bared his teeth in a gruesome grin. He tapped my cheek with the flat of the bloody knife. "Shut up! Turn right up ahead. Lose the black car behind us!" "Or I'll gut your daughter right here."
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