Three Faces of Dread

The old sedan coughed and sputtered as he eased it into the gravel lot, tires crunching like brittle bones underfoot. He killed the engine, stepped out, and slung his backpack over one shoulder, its weight a familiar comfort against the chill of the morning.

Across the lot, a pickup truck squatted, its windows black as a raven’s eye, engine idling low and steady, a beast lying in wait. He glanced at it—nothing more—and started up the trail, the low hills ahead whispering promises of solitude.

Ten minutes in, boots scuffing the dirt, he saw her. A woman, coming down the path he was climbing, her face plain but pleasant, like a faded photograph you’d find in a thrift store frame. “Good morning,” he said, tipping his head. “Morning,” she replied, her voice soft as a breeze through dead leaves.

They passed each other, and he kept going, the rhythm of his steps steady, the world quiet save for the rustle of branches overhead.

Another ten minutes up the trail, the path twisting like a snake through the scrub, and there she was again. Same woman, same steady stride, coming down toward him.

He didn’t clock it at first—his mind was on the hill ahead, the ache in his calves—but then it hit him, a cold prickle at the base of his skull. He stopped and turned to watch her retreating figure, her shape shrinking toward the parking lot.

Same jacket. Same walk.

His gut twisted. Hadn’t the woman just gone that way?

He shook it off or tried to. He pressed on, the trail narrowing now. As he rounded a bend, he saw the same woman standing in the middle of the trail.

Same woman, same face, close enough to see the faint lines etched around her eyes, the faint smirk tugging at her lips. No sound but the thud of his heart, loud as a hammer on an anvil.

Panic clawed up his throat. He didn’t say a word—just spun on his heel and bolted, legs pumping, backpack slamming against his spine.

Behind him, he heard the slap of her shoes on the dirt, gaining. She chased him with no other sound, just the relentless pursuit, a nightmare stitched into the daylight.

He hit the parking lot at a dead sprint, fumbling for his keys, damn near dropping them before he yanked the car door open. He threw himself inside, jamming the key into the ignition as the engine roared.

Gravel sprayed as he reversed, tires screaming as he peeled out, the highway a blurry salvation ahead. In the rearview, he saw her—standing there, watching, not even winded.

She turned and walked calmly to the idling truck. The door swung open like it’d been waiting for her, and she climbed in.

Inside, two others sat, mirror images of her—same face, same smirk, three peas from a pod. Triplets.

The one he’d run from settled into the seat, brushing dirt from her hands. “I told you it would be fun,” she said.

And all three laughed.