I ran someone over one stormy night. The rain was relentless, visibility almost zero, and exhaustion made it impossible to focus. They appeared suddenly in front of my car, collided with the windshield, and disappeared beneath it. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even slow down. In my mind, it was survival or death, and I chose survival. I drove home, cleaned the car, and went to sleep—uneasy but oddly unbothered.A year passed. I avoided that road entirely—until a few months ago, when GPS mishaps led me right back. My wife noticed a strange mound of stones at the roadside. I had never seen it before, and neither had she, she said. Curiosity took over, and we stepped out to examine it. It was an awkward pile, reaching waist-high. It felt like a memorial, a crude marker of a life lost.
Then we heard it: movement in the woods. Shadows approached, and what I first thought were people revealed themselves as something else—tall, gaunt, gray-skinned, carrying primitive weapons. Fear rooted me to the spot. They closed in, twelve of them, silent but menacing.
The leader cut my palm and smeared my blood over the stone pile. My wife moved among them, calm, and told me she had witnessed the accident in a way I couldn’t recall. She insisted I had killed one of their young. Confused and terrified, I obeyed when she told me to lift the stones. Beneath lay the bones of a child.
“You took one of theirs,” she said. “And one of mine. Blood demands blood.”
The group attacked. I endured unimaginable pain, barely surviving, left broken until police discovered me buried under stones. Over the following months, as I recovered, I glimpsed my wife at times, though she had supposedly been missing since the attack.
I returned home, traumatized and alone. Authorities doubted my story; they found no trace of her or the attackers. Recently, I attempted a normal life, going on a date with someone from my past. But today, the memory returned in the form of a chilling question from her: “Why is there a big pile of rocks next to your driveway?”