July 7, 2016

17 More Gripping True Tales Of Sheer Terror From America’s Darkest Highways

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via Flickr - Dee Ashley
via Flickr – Dee Ashley

1. A Full Face Print

My aunts and I were on a road trip to visit my grandparents. We were driving almost 3000 miles to The NW territories Canada from Portland Oregon.

Most of the drive is long lonely highways. I decided it would be a good idea to bring along an Unsolved Mysteries book to pass the time. Because reading about murder is always good road trip fun.

We stop at a camp ground and just sleep in the van. I was sleeping in the front passenger seat. I thought I heard footsteps close to the van but didn’t see anything. When I woke up the next morning I glanced out the window and there was a full face print on the window. Like someone had been watching us during the night. Needless to say I didn’t sleep for the rest of the drive.

2. “He’s Getting Closer”

When I was younger, each summer and almost every New Year my family would pack the car and go on a road trip to visit family in Mexico. We never had any problems until one particular trip when I was 8.

Like every road trip before, we left our home in North Texas around 6 PM in order to reach our destination the next morning, so around 2 AM, we crossed into Mexico — and that’s when things got weird.

When you’re on the only stretch of freeway in the middle of the desert, you don’t tend to freak out about having the same car behind you for miles. It was practically pitch black outside our car windows — the only visible shapes being the dotted stars and the eerie silhouettes of the cacti. We’d been in Mexico for about an hour and still had few more to drive, and I remember sleeping but still being semi-conscious of what was around me because I didn’t have the skill to really fall asleep in a car. So when my mother suddenly spoke my dad’s name, I heard her.

“Miguel. That car behind us. It’s been behind us since we left Laredo.”

My dad peeked at the car shrugged off my mother’s tension.

“A lot of cars use this road. He’s probably going to Reynosa or another city.”

And he left it at that.

Despite his sureness, my mom kept a wary eye on the car behind us. By this time, my siblings and I were hyper aware of the car and entertained ourselves with watching the car through the gaps in the luggage that blocked the rear window. We got tired pretty quick.

“He’s getting closer.” My mother noted, and we turned to watch as the car inched closer and closer to ours. “He’s too close, Miguel.”

And she was right. By this time, the car was practically pressed against the rear of our car — and on a lonely stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere with another few hours until daylight, it was downright scary. We couldn’t do much. My dad didn’t slow down, didn’t stop, and he didn’t speed away either — he just drove. And the car followed.

The next thirty minutes were the most tense we had ever experienced. The Car would ease off sometimes only to press its blinding headlights against our rear once more — like he knew he was freaking us out and enjoying it. It was during one of the periods that The Car had pulled away that my mom spotted a police car up ahead parked on the side of the road and she didn’t miss a beat.

“Pull over! Right in front of the police. Pull over right now, Miguel!” And he did. And The Car kept driving. I wonder how confused the policeman must’ve been as he watched my dad park our car right in front of him. The policeman came over and asked what was wrong and my mother urgently told him everything. The Car, the way it followed us and taunted us.

The policeman took her claims seriously and told us of how people were victimized and had their cars stolen on these empty highways by thugs and criminals. And then he offered to drive behind us for a while to make us feel safe.

We drove off with the police cruiser behind us — relieved. Until about 10 minutes later when we saw something that confirmed the policeman’s words and my mother’s worst fears.

Ten minutes later, we saw The Car pulled over on the side of the road — waiting.

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