You're in a car. It's dark, and you're lost.
Your friend needed a ride home from the party- so of course, being the loyal friend you are, you cave and offer her a lift. On the main road, you missed the turn, and now you're venturing further into the strange neighbourhood, trying to find a way out. The area is rural; there are no landmarks for you to mark where you are, or where you've been. The dark, unlit streets don't help much. The only light comes from your headlights and the far-off porch lights behind trees and fences.
The expanses of land and dirt roads remind you all too much of a Texas-chainsaw style slasher flick. Imagination tells you that every tree, every street sign, every mailbox is a person waiting to cut your throat out. As you make your way down yet another unremarkable, unpaved street, trying to go on the vague directions from your friend, something catches your eye- a man?
Impossible. You look again, sure you had only seen a stop sign. But then- you slow, turn your head. Indeed there is a tall, scruffy-looking man standing there, on the side of the road. One hand seems to be tucked behind his back, probably searching for his phone. As you slow more, considering asking for directions, he smiles. Yellowing teeth are revealed, and he raises a dirty hand.
Maybe this isn't such a good idea.
But then again, you are lost. You stop in front of him, and he taps a long, cracked fingernail on your window, motioning for you to roll it down. You hesitate, common sense screaming for you to hit the gas.
It's late. You want to get home.
You roll the window down. From the passenger seat, your friend begins to say something- probably warning you. Ignoring her, you smile your most convincing smile, and flip your hair.
"Hello ma'am," he says in a deep Southern drawl, "You lost?" You nod. From next to you, your friend mumbled something.
"I'm a local, and- well, see, m'car broke down there-" He waves the hand that isn't behind his back. The end of the road is dark, and he could be lying for all you could see. He squints in the glare of the headlights.
"Could I meybbe- well, if it ain't too much a bother- I live on 44th street, o'er there." Again, he gestures vaguely. Your friend sits up.
"That's my street," she says, "If you could help us find it, we'd be grateful." The man laughs, and asks if he could get a ride home to get his other truck. You agree, and unlock the back door.
"Thankya ma'am." He mumbles, sliding into the seat. He leans forward, and gives directions. As you weave through another maze of rural road and expansive land, it seems that the houses become more spaced apart; and there are more stretches of trees. As you pass what seems like the last house for miles, you hear a scraping sound. You glance at the rearview mirror, and noticed something- the man is scratching at his cheek with something metallic. It glints in the faint light from the headlights. You make a motion to your friend to turn the light on, and you look again.
He has a knife. It's long, and very wide, and very sharp. He smiles, and now the yellowed teeth aren't so...quaint. He makes a gesture with the blade.
"I think this is it." You look out your window- nothing but forest.
"S-sir?" You stammer, "I don't know what you're getting at...but..." His smile grows cold, and he reaches the knife through the space between the headrest and the seat. The tip of the blade scrapes your neck, and you shiver. He opens the door, still holding the knife to your neck. Your friend starts crying as he exits the car. When you feel the blade leave your flesh, you sigh in relief. Your hand moves quickly to the lock as he closes the door. Anger flashes across his face.
He moves around the front of the vehicle, slowly dragging the knife over the hood, and then across the passenger side window. Your friend begins to cry harder as he draws his hand back. You pull out your phone, fumble to dial 911- but it's too late.
He brings his fist down, smashing the window. He brings his arm back again, the blade connecting with your friend's body, splashing you with hot blood. Tears stream down your face, and your hands shake so badly you drop the phone.
He unlocks the door, shoving your friend out of the way. You have no idea if she's still alive or not, but the body on the ground doesn't move. The stranger crawls over the seat, cocking his blade once more. As you close your eyes, the phone on the floor of the car rings once, twice. Someone connects, and as you glance once more at the man about to end your life, a voice echoes from the speaker, soothing and seconds too late.
"911, what's your emergency?"
You're in a car. It's dark, and you're lost.