You’re driving down a stretch of cracked highway, the desert night folding around your headlights like ink. The radio buzzes quietly — classic rock, some distant voice crooning about lost love or the open road. Nothing unusual, until you spot her.

Trish Jenner.

She’s standing by the roadside, waving frantically. Her shirt’s torn, there’s a smear of blood on her arm, and she’s shaking like the weight of the world is slumped on her shoulders. At first, you think “victim of some roadside assault,” the usual story. You pull over, the gravel crunching under your tires, and open the door.

She doesn’t hesitate. Slides in beside you, eyes wild and darting. You catch the faint scent of sweat and fear, but there’s something else — something colder, like she’s carrying shadows under her skin.

“Thanks,” she breathes, voice ragged but firm.

“Where you headed?” you ask, eyes on the road ahead.

She swallows, glancing back into the night. “Anywhere but here.”

You nod and start driving, the headlights carving a path through the desert’s emptiness. Silence settles between you, thick and uncomfortable, until she breaks it.

“He’s after me,” she says, voice low. “The Creeper.”

You turn sharply, heart skipping. “The Creeper? You mean that… thing? The winged monster with the axe?”

She doesn’t answer right away, just stares ahead, jaw tight. “He took my brother.”

That silence hangs heavy. The name alone sends a cold spike down your spine. Stories you’ve heard, whispers about the Creeper — a creature that preys every 23 years, a hunter of bodies, a terror wrapped in myth and nightmare. And now, it’s here, chasing her.

You glance at her, the lines of exhaustion and raw fear carved deep across her face. She isn’t just running from a man; she’s fleeing a nightmare made flesh.

“Where is he now?” you ask, voice steady but low.

Trish’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. A shadow looms behind the trees lining the road, vast wings spreading like black sails, an axe gleaming wickedly in the moonlight.

“There,” she says, barely a whisper. “He’s not letting me go.”

Your hands tighten on the wheel. The Creeper’s silhouette moves with unnatural grace, its presence suffocating the air in the car.

“We keep driving,” you say, more to yourself than her.

She nods, biting her lip. “He bought me. Like a prize, a possession. There’s no running.”

You want to say something reassuring, but the chill crawling over your skin says otherwise.

The road stretches endlessly, a ribbon of asphalt swallowed by desert night. Every mile you put between you and the roadside stop, the closer the monster seems to grow. Its wings beat soundless, an ominous rhythm that echoes in your chest.

“So, what do we do?” you finally ask.

Trish’s voice is sharp, eyes fixed on the road. “We survive. One mile at a time.”

You swallow, resisting the urge to glance again at the shadow stalking just beyond the treeline. This isn’t a simple ride. It’s a chase. And you’re the driver for the hunted.

The Creeper flaps its wings, a low rumble vibrating through the air. The night holds its breath.

You grip the wheel tighter, the hum of the engine your only shield against the darkness behind you.

“No turning back,” you mutter.

Trish’s hand brushes yours briefly — a spark, a plea, a promise.

The road ahead is long, and the monster’s patience, infinite.

But you keep driving. Because sometimes, the only choice is to face the darkness head-on.