Back Roads

The reflection in the mirror was not my own. Instead of my thin, sleepy face, behind the steamed-up glass, I was looking at the back of a bald head with rolls of skin on his thick neck and the black temple tips of glasses tucked behind his ears.

Not again. I thought. I wiped steam from the mirror and opened the door to air out the room.

The man walked away stiffly, shrinking in the mirror. Arms awkwardly straight at his sides. He seemed like a big man, with broad shoulders. He wore the same white T-shirt every time I saw him, tucked into black slacks which were a little too tight. Love handles folded over his snug belt.

There was no buzzing light above him, like the one in my bathroom. He was outside, beneath low gray clouds cooling the white sun overhead. Tall grass lined the edge of the road. Bugs buzzed, birds chirped, and gravel crunched beneath his feet.

Finally, he stopped. Towering over a pair of dirty, dainty, bare feet on the ground beneath him. He twisted a hatchet in his hand and I knew what was going to happen.

A soft, squeaky voice said something I could not make out.

“It doesn’t matter. No one will hear you,” he said in his eerily deep voice.

My breath was quick and shallow. I gripped the counter between us tightly, terrified of being ripped from where I was and thrown in front of him. A series of high pitch screams flooded my ears as he bent over the pair of feet, lifted his hatchet into the air, and violently hacked away. I matched the scream with my own. Blood flew with each blow. Her scream faded, gurgled, and ended. Mine did not.

He turned to me. His chest heaved as he looked right at me. His glasses were white with sunny reflection and red with flecks of blood. Streaks of blood decorated his once clean shirt.

I let go of the counter, flung backward, and stumbled out of the bathroom onto the hallway floor. My towel remained snuggly wrapped around my chest.

“Jordan?” My Dad yelled, rushing into our hallway. “What’s going on? Are you ok?”

I was wide-eyed and hyperventilating. “It-it-it was h-h-him a g-g-gain,”

“Him again? Oh Jordan,” Dad said with a heavy sigh.

“In-in-in the mir-mir-mir-ror,” I stuttered.

He stepped over me into the bathroom, uncapped an orange prescription bottle on the counter, and peeked inside. The pills rattled when he shook it. Then, he wiped the mirror dry and looked deeply into it with his palms flat on the counter. I watched him, hoping he would see what I saw but knowing he would not. He hung his head and pinched his nose before crouching beside me and hugging me gently.

I finished hyperventilating once I realized he was sobbing.

“Dad?” I asked.

He held me tight for a moment, then leaned back, his hands on my shoulders comfortingly. I had never seen my dad like that before. Not even at mom’s funeral. His cheeks were shiny with tears. His eyes were bloodshot and desperate.

“Jordan, I know you’re having a hard time since your mom was killed. But so am I kiddo. You are all that I have left in this world,” his voice cracked, and tears welled again in his eyes.

“Dad,” my voice cracked too, and we cried together.

“I am barely holding it together and I need you to be ok. I know you haven’t been taking those pills your psychiatrist prescribed to you. We should have needed two refills by now and that bottle is still mostly full.”

“I was going to take them after my shower dad I swear.”

“Jordan,” he said firmly. He clenched his eyes and tears flooded out.

“Ok Dad, I’m sorry. I’ll take them ok. I promise.” We hugged again and after several minutes of pulling ourselves together, began our day.

Fourteen months ago, my mom was murdered. She dropped me off at school one morning, kissed me on the forehead like she always did, and told me she loved me and to have a good day like she always did. If I knew then that I would never see her again I wouldn't have rolled my eyes. When I got home that afternoon my father was ghost white as he talked to the police.

Dad didn’t let me watch the news about it or look it up online. I only learned she had been murdered from what the other fifth graders at school whispered a little too loudly.

I didn’t have visions at first, just nightmares. Horrific dreams of my mother’s brutal murder, over and over again. I would scream to wake myself up. My Dad would burst into my room, tired and delirious from nightmares of his own.

“Savannah,” he would sometimes say, calling for my mother.

We would hug and I would cry until I fell asleep in his arms, wishing to wake up next to mom. This became normal for us.

The visions started with the next kill. I watched in the mirror as he hacked a woman to death on a dirt road, with a bending weeping willow behind them. I thought I was asleep standing up. I screamed but I didn’t wake. I looked at him and I swear he looked right at me.

That night, there was a story on the news about a woman murdered and left on a dirt road. The reporter stood in front of yellow police tape on a dirt road with the same tree I saw in the mirror.

Dad thought it was a coincidence and that I dreamt it.

Then it happened a second time. Another woman, another dirt road. I watched the hefty man with a horrifying rage slice a poor woman to death. It was a different dirt road this time but I recognized it when I saw it on the news that night.

At this point, the police recognized these as the patterns of a serial killer they bluntly named 'the back road killer.' This was also the point where I realized my mother was his first victim.

That’s when Dad took it seriously and called the psychiatrist. She told me I was having hallucinations caused by post-traumatic stress disorder. That all of this was just in my head and prescribed me an antipsychotic that dulled every thought and sensation I had.

I hated them so, stopped taking them. The trade-off is I have had to watch his gruesome murders. Plus, I felt a type of duty not to avert my eyes every time he appeared in the mirror. I had to watch and see if I might find a clue to catching him.

Three weeks after this last episode the medication made my stomach turn as I went through my morning classes. Its gurgling and guggling were loud enough for my peers to hear. Upon seeing my flushed pale skin, my third-period geometry teacher sent me to the nurse just in time for me to vomit in the privacy of her office.

“It’s probably best if we just send you home. Can your father pick you up?”

“No. No, don’t bother him. He’s at work. I live right around the corner; I can just walk. I wore my Heelies today so I’ll actually just roll.” The nurse makes me gulp down some Pepto Bismol before releasing me to my trudge home.

A bit of fresh air, movement, and excitement of a free pass to skip class had me feeling refreshed. I decided to take a short detour to use my allowance to grab a pint of ice cream from the grocery store across from my house.

I eagerly tore off the plastic around the top, unwilling to wait until I got home. Then I froze.

In the reflection of the tinted black window of a store next door was the familiar bald head, his signature white T-shirt, and bulbous neck. He pressed his glasses up his nose and his head swiveled as he tracked a woman pushing a shopping cart to the far corner of the parking lot. Beside him I see me. My own reflection. It's not a hallucination. I turned and there he was, in the flesh. He looked both ways and crossed the lot with long intentional strides.

I looked back at the window for a reality check. Locking eyes with myself. “What do I do?” I mumble aloud. The answer came from my gut, like a sense of direction. Follow him. My gut gurgled.

The woman he was following got to her minivan, the trunk raised automatically and she began loading her many grocery bags into the spacious back. He approached her van nonchalantly, not even looking at her. Gives a quick surroundings check, and casually checks his watch. Just a normal businessman, with a briefcase going about his day.

Then, while she was bent over into the back, he pounced on her lightning-fast. I could barely tell what happened while looking right at them. They both vanished behind the stack of groceries and the trunk lowered without a sound. A moment later the red taillights glow and I was in a full sprint to the van. I gtt a brief second to look into the back window, enough time to see the woman thrashing against zip ties cutting into her wrists and ankles, kicking groceries all over the back seat, and moaning through a strip of duct tape wrapped around her head.

The car casually pulled forward. I didn’t get the license plate and I don’t know the make or model. Instinctively I squat down, shift all my weight to my heels, and roll along with the car. My heart pounds. I prayed to god my heelies don’t fall apart and he doesn’t get onto the interstate and that he doesn’t see me and kill me.

I’m hopeful but not certain my head is lowered enough he can’t see me in the mirror. We’re moving pretty slow so I extended my arms and got a good look at the license plate. XCO747. I heard once if you say something seven times in a row you memorize it. So I mumbled the license plate again and again.

I knew I should be calling the police but I didn’t dare take a hand off the bumper to grab my phone.

I prayed some more that someone sees a child holding onto the bumper of a car and calls the police. Or better yet, a cop sees and pulls us over.

Soon tall trees bent over us and closed in around us. We slowed down as the road turned to gravel. My heelys bounced and shook violently. I considered letting go at this point but I was too afraid. I reached for the trunk handle, and pulled on it firmly, resulting in only a rewardless thump of a locked car door. The breaks squeaked as we suddenly stop completely. I crawl under the car. Terrified he saw me and knows I’m here.

Finally, I’m able to take out my phone. My hands shake uncontrollably as I fumble to unlock the screen and dial 911. A sense of safety calms my nerves a bit when I get police dispatch on the phone.

“Police emergency.”

“Hello, I watched a woman being abducted from the Thriftmart parking lot and I followed the man on my heelys and I think he’s the dirt road killer,” I whispered frantically, yet so quietly I can barely hear myself.

“Slow down kid. You said you saw a woman being abducted in a Thriftway parking lot. Where are you now? Can you see-.”

I silenced the call when the car door clicked unlocked. The nerves started again. I had no idea where we were or what to tell the dispatcher.

Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he stepped out. I imagine him peaking that creepy face I’ve longed to see under the car. He stood still for a moment, probably looking around, listening. The woods were completely silent. He walked to the back of the van.

I imagined running, but, having no idea where I was, I didn't dare risk it unless he found me. He’d catch me and hack me to pieces or run me down with the van. The trunk swished open, and a broken bag of groceries fell at his feet. I heard muffled screaming and shuffling. Her black short-heeled shoes scrape the ground, kicking dirt as he wordlessly dragged her by her hair to the front of the van and dropped her like a rucksack. I could see her face then. She winced hard with the thud landing.

She plead for mercy with desperate muffled moans. Then she saw me. We locked eyes. Her cheeks were glossy with tears and she moaned what I understood to mean “help.”

It's about to happen again. I’ve seen it four times before now. The same thing happened to my mom. Only it’s not a hallucination. I think of my mother. In the same situation. Terrified. Thinking of me and dad before being killed by this same man.

I can tell by his wide stance he is towering over her, about to strike.

Inside of me tectonic plates shift, merge, scrape and rage erupts through every inch of my body. I kick and crawl my way out from under the car, faster even than when he grabbed this woman. I stand next to the driver's side door.

“Hey,” I shout. He turns. I’m shocked at how human he looks. He has a thin mustache, like that of an awkward teenage boy, large magnifying glass size lenses and his cheeks sag over his jawline. “I’m on the phone with the police and they’re on their way here right now.”

He steps toward me but I jump into the van, close and lock the door quickly. He hesitates, his eyes swimming with panic. Looks from me to her and back again. He’s not sure what to do. He charges the car and pulls rabidly on the handle. He left the keys safely beside me in the cup holder. The handle thuds.

I lay on the car horn. Holding it down relentlessly. He looks around again, steps away from the door, and retreats down the road. Stopping over the woman. She’s kicking and rolling off of the road. He snarls, raises his hatchet over his head, and stomps toward her.

“No,” I screamed, jumping in my seat. I gripped the steering wheel and my foot accidentally slammed the gas pedal, the engine roared. We all looked around nervously. The woman straightened out and rolls into the brush beside her. He stumbled backward, tripped over his own feet, and hits his head against a road stop at a trailhead.

It was my first driving lesson. It happened without thinking or calculating, my hand moved with a will of its own, swiping the car into gear as my weight remained pressed to the gas pedal. I am thrust backward into my seat, then forwards into the airbag when the car launches forward, the bumper smashing his head into the road stop.

When telling the police my story, I left out the part about the visions. They thought I was just a dumb and lucky kid. Which wasn’t entirely wrong.

Dad didn’t know how to react, so he didn’t. He just drove me home in silence.

Feeling I had some leverage for avenging his wife, I got bold.

“Dad?” I asked.

“Hmm.”

“Can I please stop taking those meds? They make me feel really sick.”

He took his eyes off the road to look at me. “As long as you promise me you won’t ever follow a serial killer anywhere ever again, we have a deal.”

“Deal.”

“Great. You want some ice cream too?”

I expected the visions to stop after his death. That night, I stood in front of the mirror one more time, just to be certain. Turns out, there was one more to be had.

One by one they filed into the room. Four brunette-haired, brown-eyed women who were murdered by the dirt road killer, stood behind me, smiling. Lastly, my mom walked in.

“Mom?” I asked. She took her place directly behind me and put her hand on my shoulder in the reflection. I could feel it resting there. Warm and comforting.

She tilted her head, and smiled at me, tearfully and proudly. I burst. Tears flooded my eyes and I watched her through blurry vision, afraid if I looked away she would vanish. I wanted to laugh with her again. Hug her again. She wrapped her arms around my waist, laid her head on my shoulder, and whispered, “Thank you,” as gently as a breeze.

I clenched my eyes, soaked in every second of it. I wanted to yell for dad so he could see her one more time too but, I could sense the fragility of the moment. I knew that when I looked up, that would mean goodbye.