You Run Fast

A rainy night. A flat tire. Now Kayla’s being hunted and he always knows where she is.

The sky was low and gray that night, hanging like a damp wool blanket over the town of Marlow Creek. Rain had spit all day and finally stopped, leaving the roads dark and slick. The kind of night people stayed in, curled under blankets, watching reruns.
But not Kayla.
Seventeen, restless, and high on teenage invincibility, she crept down the stairs, keys in hand. Her father had long since gone to bed, the soft thump of the TV in his room her only competition against the creaking floorboards beneath her.
She wasn’t supposed to leave. That was clear. But nachos were calling her name, and a cold Dr. Pepper had haunted her thoughts since sundown. It wasn’t even a mile to the gas station. What could go wrong?
The air outside was wet, the kind of damp that clings to your skin. The driveway shimmered under the weak glow of the porch light. Kayla unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and let out a breathless laugh. It felt like a small rebellion, a harmless one.
The road was empty. Her headlights stretched far ahead, cutting through tree-lined silence. She rolled down the window a crack and let the cool night air in. It smelled like wet leaves and asphalt.
The gas station was empty except for the bored cashier half-asleep behind the counter. Kayla loaded up on snacks, paid, and was back in the car within ten minutes.
That was when everything changed.
She’d just turned back onto the road, the forest creeping close on both sides when the silence shifted. It was hard to explain not louder or quieter, just... heavier. A pressure in the air.
Then it hit. A loud bang. The car jerked sideways, tires skidding. She fought the wheel, heart hammering, and managed to ease it to the shoulder.
A flat tire.
Cursing, she pulled out her phone. No signal. Not even one bar.
Behind her, the trees rustled. A breeze, probably. Or a deer. That’s what she told herself.
But then she heard its footsteps.
She froze. She listened. There was a faint crunch of gravel. Then silence. She started walking quickly, trying to stay calm. But every few seconds, she heard it again, a step that matched hers.
She turned.
No one.
But the feeling was there, unmistakable.
She wasn’t alone.
Then, to the left of the road, something caught her eye. A truck, half-sunk into the woods. Rusted. Forgotten. The door opened, slowly swaying.
And near her car boots. Someone crouched low, watching.
She ran.
The footsteps behind her exploded into motion. They were fast. Too fast. She didn’t look back. Just sprinted, lungs burning, until the gas station lights flickered into view.
She threw open the door, breathless and shaking. The cashier stared, eyes wide. Kayla turned. The road was empty.
The police found the truck. Inside: a knife. Rope. Duct tape. But no man.
Kayla tried to go back to normal. Pretend it was over.
Until the text came.
"You run fast. Next time, I’ll be faster."
Kayla didn’t sleep for a week. Every creak of the floorboards, every brush of wind against the windows kept her on edge. Her father tried to comfort her, but his calmness only unsettled her more. He didn’t understand.
The police chalked it up to a failed abduction. "Some drifter. He probably moved on," they said. But Kayla had seen the way the man crouched. Waited. Watched. He wasn’t a drifter. He was hunting.
And he hadn’t finished.
Then things got strange.
A hoodie was left on the porch one morning. Not hers. Not her dad’s. Her window screen was found bent outward. The neighbor’s dog barked at their backyard for two hours one night straight.
Then came the second message.
"You're home by 10 most nights. Not tonight though."
She showed her dad. He called the police again. They came. Took statements. Shrugged.
She started sleeping with a knife under her pillow.
Kayla begged her dad to let her stay with her aunt in Atlanta. He resisted, saying running wouldn’t solve anything. But one night, she came home from school and found the back door open. Muddy footprints in the hallway. Her room was untouched, except for a note tucked under her pillow.
"I was close this time."
She left the next morning.
But even in Atlanta, things weren’t normal. She got a job at a bookstore, enrolled in classes, and tried to rebuild her life. But the text messages followed. Always from unknown numbers. Always specific. Always knowing.
One day, at closing time, her phone buzzed.
"Blue hoodie. Shelf three. You just laughed at the cashier’s joke."
She spun around. No one stood there. But someone had been.
Her manager walked her to her car that night. The next morning, his tires were slashed.
Kayla stopped waiting for help. She bought a burner phone and a lockpick set. She started digging, visiting forums, and reading case files. She connected the dots.
A missing girl in a nearby town was last seen at a gas station. A series of disappearances along backroads. All unsolved. All sharing one detail:
The same rusted truck.
She went back to Marlow Creek, against every instinct. Not to hide. But to end it.
She waited. Alone. At night. A decoy car. Flat tire planted. Lights off.
She waited knife in hand, phone recording.
And when he stepped out of the trees, finally, silently, she didn’t run.
She turned on the flashlight and said:
"I run fast. But now I know how to stop."
To be continued...