Late at night, Mom was driving me back to our old family home upstate. Just as we pulled out of the highway rest area, I noticed a black sedan start its engine at the exact same moment. All the way down the road, it followed our every move. It took the same turns, paused when we paused, and blinked its turn signals in perfect unison with ours. It hung back, keeping a steady fifty yards behind us. I was absolutely certain of it. We were being stalked. My mind raced, frantically trying to figure out how to shake them or call for help. But I had no idea that the truth was infinitely more terrifying than a simple stalker. 1 Once we exited the interstate, Mom began to sense it too. She glanced nervously at the rearview mirror, her knuckles whitening on the wheel. "That black Volkswagen is still behind us, isn't it?" I had told her earlier on the highway that I thought a car was tailing us. Traffic had been light, but with multiple lanes and occasional passing cars, the tail wasn't completely obvious. It was Mom's first time driving on the interstate at night, and her nerves were already stretched to their limit. When I first brought it up, she laughed it off, telling me I was letting my imagination get the best of her. Still, she didn't dare take her eyes off the road to look back. Instead, she silently pushed the speedometer up to ninety, changing lanes three times. But now, off the interstate, the roads were emptying fast, and the black car was still right there. There were only two routes back to our house, and Mom had deliberately taken the one that added five minutes to the drive. Nobody heading in the same direction would make that choice. Yet, the black car followed. We were on a narrow county road now, bordered by thick woods. The streetlights were few and far between. It was just the two of us, a white sedan and a black sedan, our headlights cutting harsh, ghostly beams through the dark. Mom was visibly panicking now. As soon as I got into college, she had paid for my driving lessons. I didn't have my license yet, and I'd never driven alone, but I had finished my road training and knew the basics. This county road was a narrow two-lane strip. The yellow divider line was dashed, meaning passing was allowed. Driving in the dead of night is exhausting, especially after a high-speed sprint on the highway. I tried to soothe Mom's rising panic. "Mom, take a breath. Maybe they just live in our town and took the same detour. Let's slow down. Force them to pass us." Mom nodded quickly, eager for a solution. "Right. Okay. Good idea." She tapped the brakes, dropping our speed to twenty-five miles per hour. The car lurched with a heavy, sudden deceleration. Coming straight off the highway, the drop in speed made it feel like we were crawling at a snail's pace. Mom was too tense, and she had hit the brakes a bit too hard. The gap between us and the black Volkswagen shrank instantly, so fast I thought they were going to rear-end us. I silently swore that the moment I got my license, I would never let her drive again. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stared at the passenger side mirror. But the driver of the black car had lightning-fast reflexes. They braked just as hard, maintaining that exact fifty-yard cushion. They had absolutely no intention of passing. Mom frowned, trying to stay steady this time as she eased her foot further off the gas. Twenty miles per hour. Then fifteen. The black car was like a phantom, slowing in perfect synchronization. The distance between us remained as precise as if it were controlled by a computer. Cold dread washed over both of us. There was no doubt about it now. They were hunting us. 2 Silence filled the cabin, heavy and suffocating. Once we hit the county road, the late-night radio station began to break up, filling the car with a harsh, grating static. Mom turned the radio off, leaving only the low, metallic hum of the engine beneath our feet. The GPS screen showed we were still thirty miles from home. Mom set her jaw, not saying a word, but I watched the speedometer climb again. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. On a winding, unlit backroad, this was getting dangerous. I pulled up the navigation map, scanning the route ahead to see if there were any well-lit residential areas or main roads. Or a police station. If there was a station nearby, we would drive straight into the parking lot. But there was nothing. The nearest sheriff's office was in the opposite direction, nearly forty miles away. I took a deep breath, opened my phone, and texted Dad. I told him what was happening and asked him to drive out in his truck to meet us. Then, I shared my live location. If Dad was with us, there was no way this creep would keep following. Thankfully, Dad replied instantly. He had been working late and couldn't pick me up himself, which was why Mom had gone. He was too worried to sleep. I told Mom that Dad was on his way. The tight lines around her mouth softened slightly. I let out a long breath, feeling a wave of relief. If Dad was driving toward us, the distance to safety was cut in half. I reached out to pat Mom's shoulder, only to find her muscles as rigid as stone. Thinking back, we had been targeted at the last highway rest stop. Our tank had been nearly empty, so we pulled in to refuel and grab a bite. While Mom was in the restroom, I sat at a booth, eating a burger and waiting for her. That was when I felt a heavy, unsettling gaze on me. It was a stranger, a tall, dark-skinned man who looked to be in his early twenties. Even though it was midnight, he wore a dark baseball cap pulled low, casting a thick shadow over his face and hiding his eyes. The stare was intense, making my skin itch with discomfort. I looked down, self-consciously checking my clothes, feeling incredibly exposed. When I finally saw Mom walking toward me in the distance, I summoned the courage to look back up, ready to glare at the creep. But he was gone. We finished our food and walked back to the car. Mom's car was a white crossover, decorated with cute steering wheel covers and dashboard trinkets. It was obviously a woman's car. I had read online that predators specifically target female drivers. Normally, I loved those little personal touches, but in that moment, I wanted to rip them all off and throw them out the window. Mom started the engine. At the exact same second, the headlights of a black Volkswagen parked nearby flickered to life. An icy knot twisted in my stomach. I felt a terrible, instinctual certainty that the car was waiting for us. I glanced through their windshield, but I couldn't see the driver's face. The man kept his head down, wearing a dark baseball cap. The exact same cap as the man from the fast-food joint. The car heater was running, but goosebumps erupted across my arms. As Mom pulled out of the parking lot, the black car rolled out of its spot and slotted in behind us. And it had stayed there ever since. Looking at the dashboard, I saw Mom was holding a steady sixty-five, and she was still accelerating. No, this was too fast. My pulse raced in sync with the roaring engine. The road was flanked by thick stands of pine trees. If a deer or a person jumped out, any swerve would flip us into a ditch. My palms were slick with sweat. But I didn't tell her to slow down. The terror of being hunted had taken over, and I wanted what she wanted. Only twenty-five miles left. We had to keep moving, as fast as we could. Once we reached Dad, we would be safe. But as Mom accelerated, the black car didn't just keep pace. It began to flash its high beams aggressively. 3 At first, it was just two quick flashes. When Mom didn't react, the high beams began to strobe relentlessly. The sudden, blinding glare reflected off our mirrors, searing Mom's eyes. She threw up a hand to shield her face, and the car veered slightly. Still, she didn't dare slow down. The flashes became faster, almost frantic. The black car surged forward, closing the gap until it was practically riding our bumper. At its closest point, the glare illuminated the driver's profile, his jaw clenched, muscles tense under his baseball cap. He was too close. Panicking, Mom jerked the steering wheel to the left, crossing into the oncoming lane and slowing down, desperate to let him pass. But we were driving against traffic now. It was suicide. Mom knew how dangerous it was, her face slick with sweat that dripped down her neck. She tried to swing back into our lane, but the black car refused to give her space. It stayed parallel, matching her speed, flashing its lights, trapping us in the wrong lane. We were trapped on the wrong side of a blind, two-lane road. Mom's voice shook violently. "Addie, call the police! Now!" "He's crazy! He's out of his mind!" I had wanted to call earlier, but before this, the car had just been driving behind us. I didn't think the dispatcher would take a tailgating car seriously. But this was different. He was forcing us to drive head-on into potential traffic. If another car came over a hill, we would collide at highway speeds. On this narrow road, there was nowhere to dodge. He had to know this. This wasn't just harassment. It was murder. Why did he want to kill us? What did we do to him? Sweat poured down my forehead. I forced myself to take a ragged breath, trying to steady my trembling hands as I grabbed my phone. Just then, a faint, distant blare of a horn echoed through the trees. But there were no headlights ahead. What was that? In a fraction of a second, I realized the danger. The road ahead dipped sharply into a blind intersection at the bottom of a hill. The horn was a warning from a driver coming from the side road, letting others know they were pulling out. I looked to my right. The black car was right beside us now. The driver had rolled down his window, wildly waving his arm, gesturing at us. What was his problem? Suddenly, the black car slammed on its brakes. It dropped back, disappearing from my side window instantly. I screamed at the top of my lungs, "Mom! There's a car! Get over!" A pair of massive high beams burst over the crest of the hill, and the silhouette of a heavy pickup truck materialized right in front of us. I squeezed my eyes shut, shielding my face, bracing for the impact. The car lurched violently, tossing us side to side like a toy boat in a storm. In that split second, I heard my dad's voice screaming in my head, crying over our mangled bodies in a burning wreck. The sound of his grief was so low, so raw, and so real that it felt like he was standing right next to my ear. But the crash never came. Suddenly, the violent swaying stopped, replaced by the smooth, steady motion of the road. I opened my eyes. The blinding high beams of the truck were gone. Beside me, Mom was staring wide-eyed at the road, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. We were back in our lane. In the moment I screamed, Mom had realized there was a blind intersection at the bottom of the dip. A truck had been turning onto the road. Because of the terrible visibility and the trees, the driver had honked to warn anyone coming. It was the move of an experienced local driver. And he had no idea that his horn had just saved our lives. A sob tore from my throat, and tears streamed down my face. Mom's hand shook as she reached over to touch my hair, her voice trembling. "It's okay, Addie. It's okay. I'm here. I've got you. I'm going to protect you." Her hand was ice-cold, but her shirt was completely soaked with sweat. I couldn't begin to comprehend the sheer terror she must have felt in the driver's seat, staring down a head-on collision. If she hadn't swerved back in time, we would be dead. My gaze drifted to the rearview mirror, filled with a sudden surge of anger. Through the pitch-black night, a pair of headlights reappeared. The black car accelerated, quietly resuming its position behind us. The flashing had stopped. The driver's window was still down, and his arm was extended, waving at us, his cap poking out slightly. But I still couldn't see his face. What did he want from us? Anger and the lingering adrenaline of near-death mixed into a toxic cocktail. The GPS showed we were twenty-five miles from home. Crying, I picked up the phone that had slipped into my lap and dialed 911. We had a dashcam. Once we got to safety, I was going to make sure this lunatic ended up behind bars. The call connected on the second ring. Relief washed over me. I opened my mouth to speak. Suddenly, a freezing chill touched my neck. Out of the darkness of the backseat, a hand shot forward, clamping down hard over my mouth. A cold, razor-sharp blade pressed firmly against my carotid artery. A wet, raspy voice whispered directly into my ear, sounding like it had crawled straight out of a grave. "Shh. Don't make a sound."
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