*** NOTE ***

Hopefully this is a good spot to post this. I used Chat GPT to "guide" each paragraph. It's 97% AI written. I marked where I wrote a transition that the AI 

wouldn't write. I also replaced the pronoun "he" to "it" and changed some tenses. The pix were all generated by Perchance AI Picture Generator. Feel free 

to move the post to a more appropriate section if necessary. I hope you all enjoy the story!

Dark Figure

A dark figure crept silently toward the 1976 Chevette, its matte paint catching the faintest glint of moonlight. The night was still, heavy with anticipation. With 

practiced ease, the figure popped the hood and leaned in. One by one, it disconnected half the spark plug wires, each click of separation sounding thunderous 

in the silence. Satisfied, the figure eased the hood shut, careful not to let it slam. Then, melting back into the shadows, it waited — a predator watching for 

the moment confusion turned to panic, as the woman approached her car, unaware of what lurked just beyond the streetlamp’s reach.

***

Melissa slid a new pair of nude No Nonsense pantyhose on, smoothing them up her legs with practiced care. She stepped into her pleated skirt — beige, 

crisp, familiar — and zipped it at the side. A pair of red suede flats, slightly scuffed at the toes but still her favorite, waited by the dresser. She slipped them 

on and gave her reflection a once-over in the mirror.

Her long blond hair shimmered under the vanity light, soft waves brushing her shoulders. She fluffed it with her fingers and sighed — not with vanity, but 

with quiet resolve. Another long day ahead, another early shift. She leaned closer, checking for mascara smudges, then grabbed her purse and keys.

Somewhere beyond the walls of her small apartment, a predator waited in the dark.

Melissa locked her apartment door behind her and descended the narrow staircase to the parking lot. The sky was still ink-black, just a hint of violet on the 

horizon. She wrapped her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. Early mornings always had that cold, hollow feel — but this one felt... different.

Her flats clicked softly on the pavement as she approached her Chevette. It sat exactly where she left it, under the flickering halo of a dying streetlight. She 

paused, keys in hand. Something felt off, but she couldn’t place it — a stillness, maybe. Or the way the shadows clung too tightly to the corners of the lot.

Shaking it off, she opened the driver’s door and slid in, tossing her purse onto the passenger seat. She inserted the key and turned it.

Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr.

The engine whined. Then silence.

She tried again.

Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr. Choke. Whine. Nothing.

Her stomach tensed. "Not today," she muttered, turning the key once more. 

Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr.

Still nothing.

Out of habit, she reached for the dome light switch. It flickered on, casting a pale glow. Her fingers hovered over the ignition, but her eyes lifted, drawn to 

the rearview mirror. And that’s when she saw it.

A shape.

Just beyond the streetlamp.

Still. Watching.

Her breath caught. The hairs on her arms stood up.

Her knee bobbed anxiously as she pumped the gas pedal, feeding fuel into a carburetor she knew was set too lean.

Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr...

The engine coughed, wheezed, but refused to catch. Just that rhythmic, helpless churning.

She pumped again, harder this time, her red suede flat slapping the pedal in a desperate rhythm. The Chevette rocked slightly with each surge of effort. 

Her eyes darted around the lot, scanning the darkness. Nothing. Just silence and a distant hum of a streetlight.

Still, something in her gut twisted.

Her breath fogged the windshield. She leaned forward, squinting through the glass. No movement. No shapes. Just long, empty shadows.

She tried again.

Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr.

A faint metallic tap echoed from somewhere behind her car. Subtle. Intentional.

Melissa froze, her hand hovering over the ignition. Her heart thudded once, heavy and loud in her ears.

She reached for the door lock.

Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr—putt—putt—putt—knock-knock—putt—pfft.

The engine sputtered reluctantly to life. A weak, uneven idle trembled through the car. Melissa exhaled, tension loosening just slightly in her shoulders—but 

only slightly. Something wasn’t right.

It always took a few tries to start. The Chevette was old, temperamental, but she knew its quirks. This wasn’t that. The engine usually rattled to life with a 

coughing sort of rhythm—sputtery but strong. This? This was... off.

It almost sounded like it was choking. Stumbling over itself. Like part of it had been muted.

She gave the gas pedal a light tap.

The engine hesitated. Then responded—weakly. Laggy. Like it couldn’t find its footing. Like something vital wasn’t firing.

Her brow furrowed.

She glanced down at the dashboard. No warning lights, not that she trusted those. She flicked the headlights on. They buzzed to life, casting a cone of 

pale yellow against the still parking lot.

She looked up, suddenly alert again.

Was that a shadow moving between the dumpsters?

She blinked. Nothing.

Her eyes went back to the rearview mirror.

Still nothing.

But the feeling hadn’t left. That crawl at the base of her spine. That subtle whisper in the back of her mind:

You’re not alone.

***

The dark figure crouched low in the tangled brush at the edge of the lot, shrouded in shadow and still as stone. Only their eyes moved, tracking every 

motion with cold fascination.

Melissa bounced subtly in her seat as she pumped the gas pedal again, her red suede flat tapping in frustration. The engine coughed, sputtered, 

faltered—just as planned.

The figure didn’t smile. This wasn’t about joy. This was ritual. Precision. Control.

This is what it did.

Slipping in and out of lives like smoke, never leaving a trace but always leaving a mark. It didn’t want to hurt anyone—at least, not in the way that left 

bruises. This was better. Cleaner. Sharper.

Make the pretty ones late. Make them scared. Make them question themselves, their car, their instincts.

Just a few moments of chaos. Just enough for the world to tilt.

The figure leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing as Melissa glanced in the mirror again, unease written plainly across her face.

Yes. She was feeling it now. The doubt. The edge.

It watched her reach for the gearshift. Still idling. Still weak. Still vulnerable.

But not yet.

Not quite yet.

***

At age three, the dark figure had witnessed something it couldn’t yet comprehend. Its mother’s car had stalled on a quiet, isolated road—one of those 

hot, heavy afternoons where the air felt like syrup. She had been a nurse, always tidy and proper in her nude support pantyhose and thick-soled white 

shoes. That day, as she leaned across the bench seat, cranking the ignition with mounting frustration, something stirred in the child’s mind.

The rhythmic shake of the car. The strained whine of the engine. The soft shimmer of nylon across her legs.

It was a moment—fleeting, electric—that settled deep into a part of the brain too young to name desire, but old enough to remember sensation.

Years later, the babysitter came. Blonde, loud, always in short skirts and pantyhose that caught the light. She, too, had a temperamental engine—an 

aging hatchback that took several attempts to start. Whenever it failed her, she’d curse under her breath and pump the gas pedal with sharp, frustrated 

movements.

And every time, the figure—then still a child—felt it again. That same strange electricity. That aliveness.

There were no words for it. No instructions for how to file that feeling away. Just the understanding that something powerful had been set in motion.

Now, grown, hidden in the brush and watching Melissa struggle with her Chevette, the feeling returned. It always did. The stutter of an old engine, the 

bounce of pantyhose-clad knees, the soft panic in a woman’s eyes as her car failed her—it wasn’t about pain. It wasn’t even about control.

It was about reliving something both formative and forbidden.

The dark figure didn’t want to harm anyone. But the moment... that moment of helplessness, of friction between elegance and frustration... it was a drug.

Just for a few minutes. Then it would disappear again. Quiet as a breath.

***

Melissa rubbed her thighs gently, her fingers brushing over the smooth nylon. The soft tension of the pantyhose grounded her, reminded her of being a 

little girl watching her mother get ready for work—structured, composed, invincible.

She had always liked wearing pantyhose. They hugged her legs like armor, invisible to most but unmistakable to her. In moments like this—alone, in 

the dark, a vulnerable woman with a failing car—they made her feel less exposed. Less like prey.

Stylish, yes. Practical, absolutely. But more than that... they were her shield. A quiet comfort against the world’s sharper edges.

She turned the key again.

Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr...

Nothing.

Her foot bounced rapidly on the gas pedal, sending quick jolts through the car. The Chevette lurched slightly with each surge, the engine coughing but 

never catching.

Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Then to the passenger side window.

Still no one.

But the hairs on the back of her neck lifted again, slow and deliberate. That sixth sense—female intuition, maybe—tapped her gently on the shoulder.

She stopped pumping. Let the car sit.

Waited. Listened.

Only the buzz of the streetlamp. The creak of a distant swing in the wind.

And maybe—just maybe—the sound of something shifting in the bushes.

Melissa reached for her purse, slowly.

Melissa glanced into the passenger-side mirror as her hand dipped into her purse. Her fingers brushed against a familiar plastic crinkle—a spare pair of 

pantyhose—and then wrapped around her phone. A low sigh escaped her lips.

"Ugh... I have to open the dance studio for morning practice in 20 minutes," she muttered, anxiety tightening her chest.

She scanned the parking lot again.

Empty. Still. Too still.

Her fingers flexed around the key. She gave the gas pedal a few more quick pumps, her flat slapping softly against the floor mat. Then she twisted the 

ignition again.

Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr-Rrrr-rrrr.

The engine wheezed and coughed like an asthmatic smoker. Not even close this time.

She let out a frustrated groan and rubbed her thighs through the pantyhose, the silky texture a small comfort in an otherwise unraveling moment.

"What’s wrong with this car?" she asked aloud, her voice breaking the silence like a pebble dropped into still water.

Nothing answered.

No footsteps. No voices. Just the engine’s sad sputter fading into silence and the faint creak of metal cooling.

And yet… the feeling persisted.

She was being watched.

Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—

PRRRRTTT!—prrrt—prrrt—prrrp—pit—pit—pup-pup—prrrrrt—bah—bah—bah-bah—vrrrrooooommmmm—prrt-prrt-prrt.

The engine came to life with a lurching, gasping protest. Melissa sat back, shoulders sagging in relief, hands still gripping the wheel like it might bolt.

She didn’t smile—but she almost did. She let the engine idle, her breath syncing with the soft tremble of the old Chevette.

Maybe—just maybe—she’d make it in time. If the lights weren’t bad. If the traffic gods were kind.

She reached for the gearshift, eased it into reverse. The tires groaned slightly as the car rolled halfway out of the space—

—and then—

CLUNK.

Silence.

The engine stalled. Again.

The dash lights blinked, then dimmed. The only sound was the soft hum of the streetlamp above.

Melissa’s mouth hung open, disbelieving. She didn’t curse. Didn’t scream. Just stared at the dashboard, as if willing the car to apologize.

Behind her, in the thicket of shadows, the figure’s breath slowed.

She was right where he wanted her—halfway out, halfway gone, halfway safe. And now… stuck.

Melissa’s foot pressed rhythmically on the gas pedal, her movement steady, desperate but controlled. The cabin filled with the subtle scent of fuel and 

fading hope.

Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr.

Her other hand twisted the key again, jaw clenched.

Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr.

Her knee bounced. Nylon brushing fabric. The Chevette groaned. It was close. Teasing. Mocking her.

PRRRRRT! —prrt-prrt-prrt—POOF!

A muffled pop sounded from under the hood—soft, but sharp enough to make her freeze. A faint puff of gray smoke curled up past the windshield. Something 

had let go.

Melissa blinked. "What the hell—?"

She shut off the key and sat motionless, eyes fixed ahead, ears straining. The smell changed. Oil and carbon. Hot metal.

She looked around again.

Still no one.

But now, she wasn't just stranded. She was broken down.

Helpless.

***

From the brush, the dark figure in black slowly rose to a crouch.

The moment had come.

The dark figure remained perfectly still—nothing more than a shadow among shadows—yet every nerve in its body burned with a quiet thrill.

She was beautiful. Unknowingly radiant in her struggle. The pleated skirt riding up just slightly as she shifted in frustration. Her pantyhose-clad legs moving 

with precision and desperation, her foot pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing—like a metronome set to panic. The car groaned, whimpered, 

sputtered beneath her. And still, she fought it.

It was like a performance—her own private ballet of machinery and emotion—and the dark figure had front-row seats.

The way she moved with the car… not just inside it, but with it… it was hypnotic. Intimate. She was coaxing it, commanding it, surrendering to it—dancing 

with it.

It didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. It was so close to the edge of something electric, something powerful. The tension was exquisite. Delicious.

And still, it waited. Not yet. The best part was watching it all unfold—the moment when frustration curled into fear, when the illusion of control slipped away 

like a gear grinding loose.

That moment was coming. It could feel it.

She was stalled. Alone. Vulnerable.

And she didn’t even know the dark figure was there.

***

Melissa rubbed her thighs harder, the friction of nylon against her palms grounding her, holding her together. It wasn’t just the cold—or the nerves—it was 

that primal sense, the one that whispered when something was wrong even if the world looked still.

Her legs were trembling. She forced them to stop.

She was pretty. She knew it. People reminded her often enough—students, strangers, men who smiled too long in the grocery store. Normally, she carried 

that knowledge like a tool, a quiet kind of armor. But now?

Now it made her feel exposed. Marked.

Prey.

She bit her lip and pushed her foot down on the gas pedal again, pumping steadily, like a heartbeat.

Tap—tap—tap—tap.

The car remained still, silent except for the soft creak of her movements and the rhythmic hiss of nylon brushing vinyl.

Her eyes swept the lot. Again.

Left. Right. Rearview.

Nothing.

But the dread wouldn’t leave. It clung to her like humidity. Heavy. Wet. Invisible.

She spoke out loud—partly to shatter the silence, partly to convince herself she was still in control.

“Come on, come on… don’t do this to me now…”

Her hand hovered over the ignition key again, heart pounding louder than the quiet night.

***

In the brush, the dark figure crouched lower, trembling—not with fear, but with exhilaration. The tension in its chest was unbearable now, like a taut wire 

ready to snap. Watching her rub her thighs, seeing the way she fought her fear—it was beautiful.

But it was time.

With a slow, practiced movement, it reached down and picked up a small rock. Not too large—just enough to make a sound. It studied her through the 

leaves, waited for her to glance the other way, then—

Toss.

The rock arced silently through the night and landed a dozen feet away from her car, skittering against the pavement near the opposite hedge.

Clack.

Melissa jerked her head toward the noise. Her breath caught.

She stared into the dark for several seconds, frozen.

Nothing moved.

She reached for the ignition again, hand shaking now. Foot still on the pedal. Eyes fixed on the direction of the sound.

The dark figure didn’t move. It didn’t need to.

The seed had been planted.

Fear had arrived.

And it was almost time to bloom.

***

Melissa gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached. Her foot was planted hard on the gas, the pantyhose stretched taut across her leg. The 

engine sputtered beneath her like it was drowning.

Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—Rrrrrrr—Rrrrrr—

prrrt—prrrt—prrrt.

Finally, it caught—barely.

She shifted into reverse, the gear grinding slightly, and the rear tires gave a weak squeal as the Chevette lurched back. The whole frame trembled. It felt 

like piloting a dying animal.

Melissa’s heart pounded as she spun the wheel, shifting hard into drive.

prrrrp—prrt—vrroooommmm.

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t safe. But it was moving.

She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, surprised to find a tear there. She hadn’t realized she was crying. That made her even more afraid.

The car jerked forward toward the street—toward escape.

She reached the edge of the parking lot, nose just inches into traffic. A pair of headlights rushed by, indifferent.

She tapped the brake.

And the engine died.

Just like that—silence.

Dash lights dim. No vibration.

Dead.

Melissa sat frozen, foot on the brake, one hand hovering over the gearshift like a chess piece paused in midair.

She looked left.

Then right.

Then—

something moved behind her. Not in the mirror. In the corner of her eye.

Her fingers trembled.

She didn’t dare look back.

Melissa twisted the key again.

Nothing.

No crank. No cough. Just quiet.

She pumped the gas again—this time more gently, as if coaxing the car like a stubborn child. She turned the key once more.

Still silence.

“Oh my God… what is wrong with you?” she growled, her voice low, panicked, more to herself than to the car. Her words cracked like branches underfoot.

She stared at the dashboard as the lights dimmed completely during the turn of the key, then flickered back to life when she released it.

Dead. Not dead. Dead again.

Her breath came short and shallow.

Melissa pulled her hand away from the ignition and forced herself to breathe. Deep, slow. One. Two. Her fingers slid down to her thighs, gripping the soft 

nylon there. The pressure grounded her again, if only for a moment. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips.

She looked around the street.

Still no movement.

Still no help.

Just darkness.

She leaned forward, scanning through the windshield—past the blinking streetlight, past the hedges bordering the lot. Her eyes combed the shadows.

Nothing.

But her gut said otherwise.

There was something out there.

Watching. Waiting.

She could feel it like static in the air.

***

The dark figure crouched low and moved with measured steps, its feet making no more sound than the breeze through the brush. It kept parallel to the 

Chevette, eyes fixed on her through gaps in the hedges.

It had seen the dashboard lights flicker—off, then on again. Something about it fascinated it. Was the battery failing? Was she doing something wrong? 

It didn’t know. It only knew that the dance wasn’t over yet.

Her face was lit faintly by the glow from the instrument panel—soft, tired, frustrated. Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear the words. It imagined what she 

might be saying. Pleading. Cursing. Crying. Maybe all three.

The dark figure knelt behind a low wall, no more than twenty feet away now, hidden but dangerously close. It could see the way her foot still hovered 

near the gas pedal. The way she rubbed her thighs through the pantyhose again and again—out of comfort, or tension, or maybe both.

The flickering lights intrigued him.

It crouched lower, completely still again, like a predator just before the lunge. Its breathing slowed, eyes unblinking.

It didn’t plan what he’d do next.

It never did.

It only knew he couldn’t look away.

***

“Oh!!!”

Melissa’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand trembled on the key, but when she twisted it, nothing happened.

Not even a click.

Not even a whimper from the engine.

The dashboard lights didn’t just dim—they vanished, swallowed whole by the dark.

Her foot pumped the gas pedal out of sheer panic. She knew it wouldn’t do anything, but her body needed something to do. The nylon of her pantyhose 

whispered and crinkled with every motion, like dry leaves underfoot. It felt loud—too loud.

And then she heard it.

Breathing.

Not her own.

Not her own.

Heavy. Slow. Controlled.

Followed by something worse:

Click. Click.

A rhythmic sound. Not metallic. Not mechanical.

Footsteps?

Her head jerked toward the passenger window, but the night was too deep, too black. Nothing but the reflection of her own wide eyes staring back at her.

The sound was getting closer.

Her fingers dove into her purse, searching blindly—phone? Keys? Anything?

And then—

Another step. Closer.

She wasn’t alone.

***

The dark figure crouched behind the hedge, eyes narrowed, barely breathing.

Melissa's car had swayed slightly—rocked on its springs as she twisted and shifted in the seat, her leg pumping the gas pedal over and over again. The 

sound of the linkage—click-click… thump, click—was strangely hypnotic.

It was a beautiful mess. Controlled chaos. Like watching a dancer struggle to find the rhythm of a broken song.

The figure tilted its head slightly, entranced.

What was happening in there? Why didn’t the car start? It wasn’t just the spark plugs. Something more was wrong. The battery? The alternator? It didn’t 

know. Didn’t care, really. But the fact that she didn’t know either—that was the thrill.

Still, something in it stirred.

Should it approach?

The thought pulsed like a second heartbeat in its ears.

How?

Not fast. Not loud. Not directly. She would panic. She might scream. Run.

But what if…

What if it circled around and knocked on the glass?

What if it simply appeared, like a shadow stepping out of the night?

The idea sent a chill through its system. A delicious, dangerous chill.

And yet… it remained still.

Watching.

Calculating.

Waiting for the right note in this performance to make its entrance.

***

The blur of motion caught her eye just as she opened her mouth to scream.

A runner—headphones in, ponytail swinging—jogged past the front of her car, a lean black dog trotting obediently at her side.

Melissa let out a strangled gasp.

“Oh my God…”

Her whole body slumped for a second, all the tension flooding out at once like a deflated balloon. She pressed a hand to her chest, heart hammering 

beneath her fingers.

She almost laughed. Almost.

Her breath came in short, embarrassed bursts as she watched the jogger disappear into the night without even glancing at her. The street swallowed 

them whole in seconds.

Melissa shook her head. “Get a grip,” she whispered. “It’s fine.”

The flicker of shame over her fear tugged at her face.

She looked back at the dash and reached for the key again—but paused.

Something still didn’t feel right.

The silence had returned.

But now it felt... heavier.

She scanned the side mirror. The lot was empty. Still.

But she didn’t see the dog’s breath in the air.

Didn’t hear the jogger’s footsteps fade.

And she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had wanted her to feel silly.

***

The dark figure hadn’t heard them coming.

The dog and the jogger had glided through the night like ghosts, their sudden appearance jarring and unnatural in the heavy stillness.

For one frozen moment, the figure had tensed—ready to flee, to drop to the ground or vanish deeper into the shadows.

But the dog didn’t bark.

Didn’t pull.

Didn’t even glance his way.

The dog trotted past with mechanical loyalty, keeping pace with its master. No pause. No scent caught on the wind. Just blind obedience and fading footsteps.

The dark figure exhaled slowly, silently.

Lucky.

Too lucky.

Its pulse had quickened—not in fear, but in something darker. The near exposure had stirred something in him. A thrill, a sharp taste of how close the 

edge was.

He turned his gaze back to the car.

She was still inside. Still stranded. Still vulnerable.

Still beautiful.

She hadn’t seen him. The jogger had passed. The dog was gone.

It was just them again.

The dark figure adjusted its stance, lower now, keeping to the shadows cast by the edge of the lot.

It could almost hear her breathing from here.

***

Melissa exhaled, cheeks burning.

“Dummy,” she muttered again, her voice tight with frustration and nerves.

She pushed the shifter firmly into Park and took another deep breath, holding it until the tremble in her hands subsided. Her heart still thumped from the 

sudden jolt, the imagined threat. The car was just rolling—a simple mistake. She hadn’t seen anything. There was no one there.

Right?

She reached for the key again.

One more try.

Rrrrrrr-Rrrrrr-Rrrrrrr-Rrrrrr...

The engine whined, the starter clattered like a desperate plea, but it was trying. That sound was music compared to the earlier silence.

Rrrrrrr-Rrrrrr-Rrrrrrr-Rrrrrr...

She pumped the gas slowly, steadily—no panic this time, just rhythm. Her pantyhose-covered foot pressed and released, soft and purposeful.

The engine sputtered, coughed.

Rrrrrr-rrrrrr—prrrt—pfft—putt...

She paused, holding the key in that last second before release, coaxing, begging.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Come on.”

Puttt—puttt—putt-putt...

The engine hovered on the edge of life, trembling.

Melissa's eyes scanned the rearview mirror.

Still nothing.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was closer now.

The engine chugged and sputtered, teetering on the edge of stalling again.

Melissa's pantyhose-covered foot danced awkwardly on the gas pedal—pressing, releasing, pressing again—trying to find some unpredictable pattern 

that would keep the engine alive. There was no science to it. Just instinct. Panic. Hope.

The dashboard lights dimmed slightly each time the RPMs dipped too low.

Putt—putt—prrrt—knock—putt—putt—vrrrrrr...

It was breathing. Barely.

She dared not take her foot off the gas.

Not for a second.

This car was her lifeline now—however fragile, however flawed. Being in motion meant safety. Light. Noise. Escape.

But it wouldn’t move yet. Not quite.

She stared through the windshield, her eyes flicking toward the shadows between the lampposts. The lot stretched silent and empty—but something about 

the darkness between the yellow pools of light felt... dense.

Her gaze drifted to the passenger side mirror again.

Nothing.

But the hairs on the back of her neck rose like a warning anyway.

She pressed the gas a little harder. The engine roared too loudly, then settled into a weak rattle.

“Just warm up,” she whispered to it. “Please.”

She didn’t notice the shape shift behind the dumpster twenty feet away.

Didn’t see the figure crouch lower, reposition, prepare.

She was focused on surviving the next stall.

***

The dark figure crouched, motionless, breathing shallowly through its nose.

That sound—click-slide—gear shift from Drive to Park. A delicate detail, but important.

The engine had died again. Of course it had.

She didn’t know how close she was to being completely stuck, the figure thought.

She didn’t know how close it was, either.

It tilted its head slightly, like a bird of prey observing from a tree.

So many variables...

Battery fading.

Starter weakening.

She was pumping the gas too much—flooding it maybe.

Still, she tried. That was part of the beauty. The desperation. The hope.

The car flickered back to life for a few seconds. Then stalled. Again.

From this angle, he could see her face in the side mirror—flushed, lips pressed into a thin line. Her breath fogged the glass just faintly. Her hands gripped 

the wheel.

She had no idea.

It stayed low, still behind the cover of the dumpsters, quiet as static.

Would she try again?

It hoped she would.

It wanted to see the car shake one more time.

It wanted to see that flicker of fear flash across her eyes just before it started—or didn’t.

And if it didn’t...

That might be the moment.

***

The car rolled forward with a reluctant lurch, like it was being dragged by invisible chains.

Melissa exhaled—just barely.

She kept her eyes fixed on the road as she turned the wheel, coaxing the Chevette into a wide, slow arc out of the lot and onto the empty street. The tires 

scraped faintly against the curb, then released.

Her foot stayed steady on the gas.

The engine rumbled beneath her—less like a machine and more like a groan.

But it was moving.

She was moving.

The street was empty in both directions. No headlights. No pedestrians. Just faded lane markers and shuttered buildings blinking under the faint orange 

haze of sodium lights.

She didn’t look in the rearview mirror.

She didn’t want to.

Behind the dumpster, the dark figure watched her taillights glow dimly through the misted air.

It didn’t follow.

Not yet.

Instead, he crouched lower, lips parted slightly in quiet disappointment—and satisfaction.

She got away.

This for now.

But it knew now how the car worked.

What it liked.

What she did when it failed.

And it had seen something in her eyes.

Fear, yes.

But not just that.

Something else.

A softness.

A strange kind of vulnerability wrapped in control.

He tucked that knowledge away like a souvenir.

There would be another chance.

There was always another chance.

<<< AUTHOR WRITTEN (transition) >>>

The dark figure quickly but silently crossed the sidewalk and got into a 1983 Dodge Ram. Looking down at the gas over matte black pantyhose, a 

black suede ankle boot pressed the gas pedal slowly as the figure watched Melissa's car drive slowly down the road. The figure looked into to the 

rearview and revealed a beautiful brunette. She grabbed her long dark hair and placed it over her left shoulder and then reached for the key while 

pressing the gas pedal.

cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww... thup-thup-thup... cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww... 

thup-thup-thup-thup-thup-thup... cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-vrrroooooo-cheww-cheww-cheww-cheww-VRRrrroooommmmmm

The engine finally started with a blast of smoke. Finally, she was able to follow Melissa to the dance studio and secretly put the spark plugs wires back and 

then joined in the dance class as usual.

<<< AI WRITTEN >>>

The brunette moved like shadow and muscle—composed, controlled.

Melissa had pulled into the studio’s small rear lot and made her way inside; the brunette had already slipped the hood of the Chevette open and 

reconnected the spark plug wires. One by one. Gentle clicks.

No trace left behind.

She closed the hood as if tucking in a child, and with a satisfied breath, she turned and walked toward the front entrance.

Inside, the studio lights glowed warm against polished wood floors and mirrored walls. Melissa was already unlocking the front desk, her pantyhose and 

pleated skirt silhouetted softly in the reflection.

"Morning," the Clara said, stepping inside like any other student.

Melissa turned and smiled faintly. “Hey, sorry I’m a few minutes late.”

Clara returned the smile, her eyes warm. “No problem. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just car trouble,” Melissa muttered. “Again.”

Clara tilted her head. “You got it running?”

“Eventually,” Melissa replied, laughing weakly. “It’s weird—by the time I got here, it was running fine.”

“That is weird,” Clara said.

Clara walked to the changing area, her eyes catching Melissa’s reflection in the mirror before slipping out of view.

She’d be behind her again in class, as always. Watching. Learning her rhythms.

And waiting for the next time.

Because there would be a next time.

***

After class, Melissa stood in the parking lot longer than usual.

The Chevette sat in its regular spot—beige and battered and unbothered, like it hadn’t choked and sputtered for ten full minutes that morning. She stared 

at it for a while, squinting slightly in the mid-morning light.

Why was it running fine when I got here?

She climbed in and closed the door, gripping the steering wheel, her fingers resting on the pitted vinyl.

Then she paused.

Her eyes drifted to the hood release under the dash.

Something tugged at her. Something quiet and persistent.

She pulled it.

Thunk.

The hood jolted up just slightly. She got out again, walked to the front, and lifted it the rest of the way.

Steam didn’t hiss out. Nothing smelled burnt. But something… something was off.

She wasn’t a mechanic, but she wasn’t clueless either. Her dad had taught her enough to get by. She leaned over the engine, resting her hands on the edge.

Her eyes scanned the wires. The hoses. The spark plugs.

That’s when she noticed it.

Three of the spark plug wires… looked newer. Cleaner. Like someone had touched them recently. Gloved, maybe. They were just slightly out of line with 

the others—almost like they'd been replaced and not quite put back exactly right.

She reached out, hesitated.

Then touched one.

It clicked. Not loudly. But just enough. Just enough to make her breath catch.

Her eyes widened.

She hadn’t touched those.

No one should’ve.

And if they were loose this morning… but fine now?

A chill ran across the back of her neck.

Melissa backed away slowly and lowered the hood.

Her heart pounded harder now—not panicked, but alert. Awake.

Someone had opened her hood.

Recently.

Her hands trembled slightly as she climbed back into the driver’s seat and locked the doors out of instinct. She looked around the empty lot.

Nothing.

No one.

But something had happened.

And she wasn’t imagining it.

Melissa: https://imgur.com/a/M7h3utP 

Dark Figure / Clara: https://imgur.com/a/ngKlLjx