It was late. The kind of late where the world feels hollowed out.
A lonely stretch of two-lane highway cut through a thick wall of trees. The asphalt was slick from rain and the ditches on both sides were full of muddy water that reflected the moon. There were no other cars, no sound except the hum of insects and the quiet buzzing of power lines that ran crooked along the road.
A sign half-swallowed by weeds read MOTEL—1 MILE, its white paint long gone gray. The forest pressed close to the highway, threatening to erase it. There wasn’t a house or a light for miles.
Past the curve, the trees opened into a clearing where a warehouse sat by itself—a concrete block of a building with its loading dock slumped and the door chained. Across from it stood a squat, L-shaped motel with seven rooms and a cracked parking lot. A neon sign blinked weakly, MOTEL—VACANCY, though half the bulbs were out, and the “VAC” part kept fading in and out like it was changing its mind.
The only thing moving was the sign’s flicker, throwing red and blue light across the wet pavement.
Anna sat outside her room, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee that had gone cold.
She’d been there two nights, traveling alone, heading nowhere in particular. The manager hadn’t asked questions when she paid in cash. He gave her a key with a taped-on tag that said “Room 7.” It was the last room, at the far end of the motel.
“It’s just you,” the manager said, “and I like my peace and quiet.” He went back to watching TV behind the counter.
Her car was parked near the edge of the lot, where the light from the sign didn’t quite reach. She could hear the buzz of the transformer on the pole and the soft drip of rain from the gutter. The night smelled like pine needles and diesel fuel.
Across the road, the warehouse sat quiet. Its single security light burned a dull yellow, throwing long shadows across the gravel lot. Every few minutes, Anna’s eyes went to it for no reason she could explain. Something about that building felt… aware.
She’d been restless all evening—too wired to sleep, too tired to keep moving. She checked her phone again: no signal.
It didn’t matter. There wasn’t anyone to call anyway.
She stood up and stretched. The sky was heavy with leftover storm clouds, and the forest behind the warehouse looked endless, overcrowded with tamarac and black spruce trees. The road in front of her was dark in both directions, the kind of dark that made it easy to imagine things that weren’t there.
She pulled her jacket tighter and stepped out toward the edge of the lot, her boots crunching against loose gravel. Somewhere deep in the trees, a coyote yipped once, then stopped.
She saw him when she turned back toward the warehouse.
At first she thought it was a trick of the light—a shadow moving wrong—but then the shape straightened. A man.
He was tall, wearing a hooded jacket and jeans, standing near the corner of the warehouse where the light didn’t quite reach. For a moment he just stood there, head tilted slightly, as if trying to decide whether she’d seen him.
Then he stepped forward.
Anna froze. The man crossed the gravel yard slowly, like he didn’t want to draw attention, even though he was the only thing moving in the world.
She looked back at the motel, as if to confirm her suspicions. A light glowed in the office, and in her room at the other end of the building. Every room in-between was dark and vacant.
What is a man doing out here at this hour, alone, on foot?
The man stopped halfway across the road and looked both ways out of habit. No cars came. He turned his head toward her, and though she couldn’t see his face clearly, she felt the weight of his stare.
She took a slow step backward, her boot sliding on wet gravel. Her pulse jumped. She could feel his intentions, and they were not welcome.
The man took another step, then another.
“Can I help you?” she shouted, trying to sound firm. Her voice came out thin.
He didn’t answer.
Anna turned away, keeping her pace steady. She didn’t want to look like she was running. She walked briskly toward the end of the building, where the light from the motel sign faded into shadow. Behind her, the man’s footsteps scraped against asphalt. She picked up her pace, heart thudding, and turned the corner of the building.
Out of sight, she ducked behind a soda machine and pressed her back against the wall, listening. Rain dripped from the roof. Her breath came hard but she tried to muffle it. She waited ten seconds, then twenty.
Nothing.
If he was pursuing her, she expected he would have appeared already.
Maybe he gave up, she thought. Maybe he just wanted to scare her.
She leaned forward and peered around the corner.
He was right there.
His face filled her view—eyes pale in the dark, his mouth set in something that wasn’t quite a smile. He was close enough to touch.
Anna gasped and stumbled backward, her shoulder hitting the wall. The man reached out, not quite grabbing, but close enough that his fingers brushed her sleeve. That broke her stillness.
She ran.
Her boots slapped against the wet gravel as she tore around the back of the motel and toward the trees. She didn’t look back this time. She just ran, cutting through puddles, her breath burning her chest. Branches snagged her jacket as she pushed into the woods.
Behind her, the man shouted something, but the sound was eaten by the trees.
She burst into a clearing—a flat patch of dirt surrounded by pines and stumps. The air smelled sharp and cold. She turned, chest heaving, and saw him step out from the shadows a few yards away.
They stood facing each other under the weak light of the moon.
The man’s face was pale and drawn, his eyes sharp and glassy. He looked older than she expected—maybe forty, maybe more. He was breathing hard, hands shaking slightly.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said.
Anna didn’t answer. She kept her distance, watching the way his shoulders tensed and released, like someone fighting with himself.
“I just—” He hesitated, taking a half step closer. “I saw you out here alone. Thought maybe you needed help.”
His body language was odd and uncomfortable. Anna took it as a sign of deception, and she was frightened by the skill with which he deployed his disarming words. To a woman less-aware, this man would be dangerous.
Her voice came out quiet but steady. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He swallowed. “Look, I don’t mean any harm. It’s just… you shouldn’t be out here either. You never know what kind of people—”
He stopped mid-sentence, as if realizing how that sounded.
Anna took a slow step toward him. Her fear had faded into something else—something colder. The forest around them was perfectly still. Even the air felt like it was holding its breath.
He looked confused. “Are you all right?”
She nodded once. “I’m fine.”
He exhaled, a shaky sound that fogged in the moonlight. “Good. I was worried.”
Anna tilted her head. “You should be.”
He frowned, taking a cautious step back. “What?”
She moved closer. Her eyes caught what little light there was, reflecting it strangely—like an animal’s. Her voice was calm, almost gentle, but it carried a weight that didn’t belong in the middle of a forest at night.
“I’m afraid,” she said.
He blinked, unsure whether he’d heard right. “Of me?”
She shook her head. “No.” She took another step forward. “I’m afraid of what I might do to you.”
The words hung there, heavy and final.
The man froze. Something in his face changed—a flicker of understanding, or maybe instinct. He stumbled back, tripping on a root.
Anna didn’t move. She stood over him, silent, the night bending around her. Somewhere deep in the woods, an animal called out with a haunting cry.
When he scrambled to his feet and ran, she didn’t chase him. She just stood there, watching until the sound of his footsteps vanished into the trees.
Then she turned toward the highway. The warehouse light was still burning, dim and constant. The motel sign blinked across the road, flickering like a heartbeat that refused to quit.
She walked back slowly, her boots leaving shallow prints in the mud. When she reached the edge of the lot, she stopped and looked once more into the trees.
There was nothing there. Only the night.
But it felt different now—quieter.
She did not fully understand what had been happening to her, but she knew, even in the darkest night, on the loneliest highway, she did not need to be afraid anymore.
Enjoy this? Read the companion story, The Last Roadtrip
Troy Larson is a writer, digital content creator, and broadcast veteran with hundreds of podcast and broadcast credits to his name. Reach out on Facebook and on Instagram.
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I like your writing style. It's lean and precise. And you have a good story to tell.