The Loose End

The road stretched out like a half-forgotten and frayed ribbon—curling, dipping, and dragging me through the vast void between farmland, ditches, and fence posts. My Prius purred along. The faint crinkle of a plastic bag—housing styrofoam food containers—shifted on the passenger seat, offering the only faint sense of purpose. Another FoodDash delivery. Yet another stranger with a superhero name, waiting on lukewarm Pad Thai and those sad little chopsticks that never break clean—because nothing says “cultural appreciation” like a 2-star craving at 11 p.m. with a 4-star price tag attached.

Country roads always felt like purgatory or an abandoned episode of The Twilight Zone. Out here, where the stars ducked behind fog and the cows habitually sleep with one eye open, everything felt like it could turn on you within a single exhale.

My phone buzzed against the dash. FoodDash lit up the screen.

Seriously?

I hit ‘Answer’ with an exasperated sigh. “Yeah? What is it?”

Static. Then a high-pitched foreign voice, glitchy and garbled, broke through: “… get, no—safe… dis—area…”

“I can’t hear you,” I snapped, leaning forward but keeping my eyes on the precariously writhing road ahead. “You’re breaking up. Repeat, please.” Then, under my breath, “Or shut the hell up.”

Another burst of digital distortion. The voice, eerily composed despite the crackling line, filtered through: “Where are you…? I don’t… see you on the map. Huh. That’s… weird. Are you… moving?”

The call’s cut short.

“How am I expected to make sense of that?”

I popped the phone back onto its holder, only half-focused on the curve ahead—until I saw her.

On the opposite side of the road, a figure shuffled in the same direction I was going. A bulky woman, her silhouette was draped in what looked like a white scarf, wrapped about her head and shoulders. Folded in her arms was a package or sack—impossible to make out which. She lumbered more than walked, her body hunched like Frankenstein’s Igor.

Just past her, half-lost in the mist, the crooked outline of a scarecrow clung to a leaning post like it might slip free at any moment. The breeze played with its frame, making tendrils of twining hay flicker in the wind like fingers strumming a guitar. One arm jerked, spasmodically, in the gust as if it were attempting to warn me.

On this winding stretch of nothingness, bordered by bales of hay, endless rows of swaying cornstalks, and the occasional line of trees threatening like silent sentries, she stood out like crackling film reels flickering to life. The scarecrow bidding farewell to her in the distance with vicarious gestures.

I instinctively slowed, glancing in the rearview as the fog swallowed her up, leaving the desolate road. Something about her made my stomach knot—not because she was there, where no one should be on a night like this, but because the old woman shouldn’t be wandering out here at all.

The phone buzzed again. FoodDash.

I rolled my eyes, answering without looking. “Yeah, I’m still driving. Hang on a second, and let me pull over.”

Up ahead, barely visible in the haze of my headlights, was a level turnout. Gravel. A side lane branching off the roadway through the tall thicket.

Finally.

I veered right without much thought, the sound of pinging rocks as the car hit a sudden lull, lurched—and then… sank.

Too late.

The Prius groaned as it dipped down into the gravel trap, tires spinning uselessly. A runaway truck lane. Not a rest stop. “There was no sign…” I checked my mirror as if seeing a sign now would make any difference in my situation.

As the car sighed, the visor collapsed, smacking into my forehead. A small silver nail file, long forgotten, tumbled from its hiding spot and landed square in my lap.

My sister’s voice rang out in my memory, the echo of a hundred past warnings: “One sharp turn and that thing’s going to stab you in the eye. What kind of psycho keeps weapons in their sun visor?”

I muttered something under my breath and shoved it in the console, under the parking break. Suddenly, the reality set in as I became aware I couldn’t even call a tow truck, much less afford one clear out here.

The hot bag of food tilted toward the door, mocking me with its carefully packed absurdity. Chicken Tikka Masala? Who orders that in Farmville?

My hazards ticked like a quickened heartbeat. Red reflections pulsed in the fog behind me—and that’s when I saw her again. The woman. Still lurching forward. Coming up behind me on my side of the road. She must have known where I was headed. Her scarf flashed like a ghostly warning in the reflection of my taillights.

“Keep moving, old woman,” I muttered with disgust. “Can’t help myself, let alone you.”

But then came the rapping—three sharp taps on the driver’s window.

I flinched, heart hammering against my ribs, as my head twitched to the left.

Out through the foggy glass, the scarecrow stood again—just outside, its shoulders slumped, arms lifted like a marionette in wind. Strands of mocking hay fluttered from its sleeves, twitching with a jaunting and taunting rhythm.

Then the tendrils began to gnarl—knitting together, hurriedly winding around the figure’s face and shoulders, encompassing them like a starving boa constrictor hurriedly encircling a bunny.

They twined into a scarf.

A scarf of soft, white fabric—except I could still see hints of straw woven in, as if the threads hadn’t quite finished changing.

I blinked.

And she was there.

Just outside the window. Real now. Solid. Her bulky frame filling the pane, the bundled shape clutched tightly under one arm.

The passenger door handle sprang, and my head spun around to see her frame lowering herself into my passenger seat.

She moved deliberately, taking her time. Her shape was somehow larger inside the car than it had been on the road. I jerked my head forward, squinted my eyes closed, pretending not to notice the sinking weight of her settling in beside me.

A faint plastic rustle broke the silence, followed by the warm, sour reek of someone who hadn’t bathed in days. Then came the soft crunch of styrofoam—my food containers giving way beneath her heavy wool coat—sealed shut with the stench of sweet sauce, sweat, and something far worse.

When I finally glanced sideways, it wasn’t her at all.

The face that turned toward me wasn’t veiled in a scarf or framed by soft folds of fabric. It was boldly square. Stubbled. Male.

A scruffy-looking man, maybe late forties, his hair stringy and clumped like it had been matted into place. His eyes were small and dark, but his expression—mocking, amused—was unmistakable. I instantly regretted looking.

Then came the haunting smell of hatred.

Body odor, ripe and thick. The sharp sting of ammonia drifted from the seat beside me, the pungent tang of urine embedded in fabric and skin. When he smiled, the shift in air brought a new wave of offense—vaping hot and putrid.

I stared and instinctively swallowed.

The steaming food bag I’d kept so carefully buckled into the passenger seat was gone—flattened beneath him like it never existed. He shifted his weight, and I heard a squelch from inside the bag, like the class nerd getting slugged in the stomach. The container had popped. The aroma of tikka masala now joined the chorus of foul odors, somehow making everything ten times worse than it was before.

“You just—” My voice cracked, caught between disbelief and fury. “You squashed the food.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept smiling, and shifted a bit, like that had been the point.

My hands gripped the steering wheel as I sat motionless, unsure whether to yell, shove him out, or throw the whole damn car into reverse and hope inertia cleared it up for me.

“Know what this is?” he snarled, then hacked up something from deep within his throat. He opened the door, spit outside with a wet splat, then closed it again like this was his car and I was his guest.

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t. I had no inkling of what to say.

My voice had abandoned me—thumbed a ride to anywhere but here. Left me sitting in that cold, silent cab with nothing but the throb of hazard lights and the smell of utter defeat.

“It’s either your last night alive, or the brand new beginning of a fresh start!” he jeered, eyes flicking sideways, reading me like an old California Thomas Guide.

I didn’t dare turn my head, but my eyes shifted toward him, noting his cocky-assed posture. Draped across his lap, puddled like forgotten laundry, was the scarf. Only now, what appeared to be the shape of a handgun was tucked beneath it.

There were no words.

Nothing I said would help. I knew that. He was waiting for a reaction, some flinch to feed on. But I refused to give in so easily.

Instead, I took a deep breath to refocus and spoke softly—maybe to him, maybe not.

“To be fair, I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” I said, keeping my eyes straight ahead, lips barely moving. “My car is stuck. And so are you, as long as you’re sitting in it. So you’re sort of stuck no matter what.”

“Is that so?” he queried, his voice thick with sarcasm, daring me to confront him. “Guess we’ll see who’s more stuck, little sister.”

Suddenly, my sister’s voice echoed through the back of my mind again, the same snide jab from years ago when I’d first shoved that file into the visor: “One sharp turn and that thing’s going to stab you in the eye…”

My fingers brushed the nail file wedged between the seat and console. It felt odd—yet, at the same time, like my best friend.

Still there—cold and distant.

Right where I’d left it.

And in that moment—when he looked away, just for a breath—I made my move.

My hand flew downward, grasping the nail file—clutching it, squeezing tightly.

I raised it high, and watched his eyes dilate as he realized his miscalculation, and drove the file hard and unyielding into his neck—several times, with a wet sucking sound.

The thin and wrinkled skin gave way beneath the point, parting like old paper, exposing the softened fibers below. The rushing river of blood flooded over my hand, rushed past the steering wheel, and sprayed across the dashboard in a single warm surge.

But—

The flesh wasn’t rough. Not stubbled. Not male.

The scarf shifted.

A faint plastic rattle filled the cab.

Groceries tumbled across the backseat—two bags. A head of lettuce. A jug of milk rolling to the floor. A package of Keebler Elf cookies, glowing faintly under the dome light, smiled up from the wrapper.

The cookies.

Now I remember her telling me she bought them for her grandkids. Visiting tomorrow. She’d stopped to give me a ride.

The blood on my hands was warm. Thick. Real. Placing them beneath my nostrils, I inhaled the sweetness. My tongue flicked out, tasting the sweet saltiness of death.

And her eyes—wide, confused—were locked on mine as the light drained from her face. Not anger. Not fear. Just… shock. A final, wordless question buried in the creases of her weathered skin.

White beams of light exploded outside the windows—floodlights. Movement. A cacophony of voices shouting.

“Drop the weapon, Barb!” an officer barked. “You’re surrounded, and this time, there’s nowhere to run!”

Sirens warped in my ears, the pain was excruciating as I clasped my spinning head in my hands, attempting to ground myself.

Barb?

My mouth opened.

It finally dawned on me.

I wasn’t the driver.

I was the one who’d escaped. Hitchhiked. Hopped into a kindly old woman’s car on her way back from the grocery store.

She’d said something kind when I first got in—something like, “Walking around on a night like this? You’ll catch your death.”

Guess she was wrong.