Monica always impeccably dressed is a big city rea
Monica always impeccably dressed is a big city realtor drives through the swamps of a rural town. She gets her car stuck in mud. And after being unsuccessful at getting unstuck she calls for a tow. The tow truck driver gets her unstuck but then starts to pursue her on the backroads.
Monica’s stilettos clicked against the worn leather of her Mercedes, a stark contrast to the muddy ruts of the backroad. She’d been sent to evaluate a property in this godforsaken town, a dilapidated farmhouse surrounded by whispering cypress trees. It was a challenge, even for her, the city girl who prided herself on navigating any situation with a carefully placed smile and a well-timed quip.
The swamp air hung heavy, thick with the scent of decay and something else, something primal and unsettling. Her high-maintenance car, used to the smooth asphalt of the city, had protested with a jarring crunch as the tires sank into the mud. She cursed under her breath, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the leather seat.
After several futile attempts at rocking the car free, Monica gave up. She dialed for a tow truck, her voice a practiced calm despite the prickle of fear that was beginning to crawl up her spine.
The tow truck arrived an hour later, driven by a hulking man with a face like weathered leather and eyes that seemed to see through her carefully constructed facade. He chuckled, a guttural sound that resonated through the stillness of the swamp, as he surveyed her situation.
“Look like you got yourself stuck, lady,” he said, his voice gravelly and rough, his breath smelling of stale cigarettes and something else, something metallic and unsettling.
Monica felt a shiver run down her spine. She nodded, her voice tight. “Yes, I did.”
The tow truck driver, whose name was Silas, according to the worn badge clipped to his greasy overalls, worked efficiently, his every movement a measured, deliberate dance of brute strength. Soon, the Mercedes was free, the wheels crunching out of the mud like a creature emerging from the swamp.
Silas climbed back into his truck, his eyes fixated on her, and she felt a wave of unease. “You headed back to town, lady? I could follow you. Make sure you get back safe.”
His offer seemed less than gentlemanly, more like a threat, and her gut screamed at her to refuse. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had no choice, that he was already watching her.
“I’ll be fine,” she managed, trying to force a smile. “But thank you.”
Silas, however, didn’t budge. He just sat in his truck, watching her with those unsettling eyes. “I’ll follow just in case,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Monica’s heart pounded in her chest, her perfectly composed exterior crumbling. She reluctantly agreed, the feeling of being trapped, not just in the swamp but by this menacing man, gnawing at her.
As they drove, the air growing thick with the approaching dusk, Monica felt Silas’ gaze on her, a persistent, oppressive presence. He didn’t talk, his silence heavier than any words. The road, once a familiar escape, now felt like a cage, every turn another step into the unknown.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of blood orange and bruised purple. Monica’s heart hammered in her chest, her breath catching in her throat. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was still there, following her, a silent predator in the heart of the swamp.
They came to a fork in the road, and Monica made a sudden turn, hoping to lose him in the maze of backroads. But Silas’ truck followed, its headlights like predatory eyes, cutting through the gathering darkness.
She had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The swamp, once just a place of unsettling beauty, had become a prison, a silent testament to her fear.
In the rearview mirror, she saw the headlights growing closer, his face a dark silhouette in the truck’s cab. Then, the headlights vanished, leaving her alone in the consuming darkness.
She couldn’t be sure if he had followed her, if he was still out there somewhere, watching, waiting. The fear gnawed at her, a constant ache in her chest. She had been swallowed by the swamp, and the only thing she was certain of was that she would never be the same.
