Chapter 1: The Body in the Trunk

It was the middle of the night when I, exhausted and strung out, drove straight into a DUI checkpoint. My wife and I were both scared out of our minds. I sat there in the driver’s seat, shaking so badly my teeth nearly rattled. But here’s the part that would make anyone’s blood run cold: my wife was in the trunk, her eyes wide open. The police cruiser’s lights were blinding, flooding the darkness with red and blue. I dug my nails into my palm, but nothing could stop the trembling. My heart felt like it was going to rocket out of my chest.

The dashboard clock glowed 12:41 a.m. in that sickly blue only old cars seem to have. The air was thick—stale coffee and sweat, the kind that clings to your skin. I glanced at the empty passenger seat, where my wife’s purse sat, her favorite scarf half-hanging out, like a ghost from her old life. Every muscle in my body was strung tight, ready to snap. Somewhere far off, a coyote howled—just another sound swallowed up by the sirens and the constant whir of the checkpoint generator.

"Blow into this."

I took the breathalyzer from the trooper’s hand and blew. He checked the reading, but didn’t wave me through. "You feeling okay, sir?"

The plastic of the breathalyzer left a weird taste, and the faint whiff of the trooper’s aftershave lingered. I caught his badge—Trooper McKinley, Nebraska State Patrol. His voice had that flat, seen-it-all tone that comes from too many midnight shifts.

"I’m fine," I managed, barely keeping it together.

My voice sounded foreign, raspy—barely holding together. I barely recognized it. I tried to steady my hands on the wheel, but they kept twitching. The trooper’s eyes bore into me, and for a split second I wondered if he knew—God, could he?—could he see right through my skin, all the way to the guilt crawling underneath?

He stared at me, stone-faced, and the seconds dragged out forever. Sweat trickled down my forehead, my hands shaking even harder. In the rearview, I saw the driver behind me sticking his head out the window, looking pissed. The line behind me kept growing, cars piling up by the minute, headlights glaring.

Somewhere, a car radio played muffled classic rock, like the world was moving on without me. Exhaust drifted in through my cracked window. Someone was tapping their steering wheel, impatient, the soft thunk a drumbeat of nerves.

The trooper’s jaw clenched as he reached out. "License and registration, please."

My license was in the glove box. I leaned over to grab it, feeling his eyes track my every move—my skin crawling under his stare. I handed him the license, and he checked the photo, glancing from it to me and back again. The ID was legit—I just prayed he’d let me go soon. Behind me, horns blared in a messy chorus. The cars waiting in the opposite lane were all watching, eyes fixed on me.

My fingers fumbled with the registration slip, the paper crinkling way too loud in the tense silence. His flashlight beam darted over the dashboard, picking up every fleck of dust. My mouth was dry as sandpaper, and I kept my eyes down, hoping he wouldn’t notice how hard I was breathing.

But he didn’t let me go. Instead, he said flatly, "Pull over to the shoulder."

My stomach dropped. For a split second, I wanted to floor it and run. My wife’s corpse was in the trunk. God, if they found her... But I managed to hang on to a shred of reason. Running was suicide. I wouldn’t make it two miles. Trying to escape would just seal my fate. All I could do was play along, keep calm, and pray I could bluff my way out. So I did as he said. Pulled over. Killed the engine. Took a deep breath. Tried to calm down.

The world outside shrank to a pinpoint. I could hear cicadas buzzing somewhere in the weeds, the distant hum of the interstate. I squeezed the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white. I whispered a silent prayer—God, just let me get through this. Just this once.

The officer who stopped me handed the breathalyzer to another cop and walked over to my window.

"Everything okay, officer? Was I over the limit?"

He ignored my question, just started circling the car.

I knew he was checking for signs of an accident. In the rearview, I watched as he stopped by the trunk, frowned, and stared at it. "Pop the trunk."

The words hit me like a gut punch. The world seemed to tilt, the air inside the car suddenly too thin. I felt like I was drowning, my lungs refusing to fill.

All the blood drained from my body.

My fingers went numb. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears, louder than the distant highway.

"It’s kind of a mess back there," I stammered.

"Why’s that?"

He looked at me, the red and blue lights flashing across his face, sharp and shadowed.

I could see the skepticism in his eyes, the way his lips pressed into a thin line. He was just waiting for me to slip up, to hand him a reason to dig deeper.

"There’s a bunch of unpublished manuscripts and contracts in the trunk," I managed, swallowing hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "I’m under contract not to show them to anyone."

It sounded weak, but it was all I had. The lie tasted sour in my mouth. I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked. Figures. I pictured the boxes in the trunk, the way I’d crammed them in around her. I wondered if the officer could smell the fear rolling off me.

He was quiet for a moment, then pulled out his phone and called the county dispatcher. From what I could hear, he was checking if there’d been any accidents nearby. My heart thudded in my chest. After a minute, he hung up and came back over.

My legs were bouncing under the dash. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror—wild-eyed, sweaty, a man with everything to lose. I tried to steady my breathing, counting to four with each inhale.

"Your name’s Carter Hensley? That rings a bell. Are you famous or something?" He still had my license, holding onto it like he owned it.

The question caught me off guard. I forced a weak smile, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it felt.

"Not really. I’ve just written a few books."

He nodded, not surprised. "You write horror novels, right? I think I’ve read one."

Relief flickered in my chest, a tiny ember in the darkness. I grabbed onto it with both hands, hoping it might save me. Maybe, just maybe, being a minor celebrity would get me out of this mess.

So he was a fan. No wonder he didn’t grill me about the trunk. A faint hope flickered in my chest. Maybe, since he liked my books, he’d let me go. I tried to play along: "Wow, that’s an honor. Give me your address, and I’ll send you a copy of my next book when it’s out."

I forced a friendly chuckle, but my voice cracked. I could feel sweat trickling down my back, pooling at the base of my spine. I gripped the pen so tightly my fingers hurt.

There was a pen in the car, but no paper. On the passenger seat was the diagnosis I’d gotten that day from the therapist’s office. In a panic, I opened the folder, tore off a strip of white paper with shaking hands, and handed it over with the pen. He didn’t take it, but glanced at the diagnosis. "What’s that?"

My heart skipped. I wanted to hide the paper, to pretend it was nothing. But the officer’s eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

I hesitated. "It’s from my psychiatrist. I went today."

My cheeks burned with shame. I hated how small my voice sounded. I never wanted anyone to know about the diagnosis, least of all a cop who might already be judging me.

I felt exposed, like he could see right through me. But he reached out his hand. "Let me see."

His tone brooked no argument. I handed it over, my fingers trembling. It felt like I was handing over the last shred of my privacy.

I had no choice but to hand over the diagnosis. I felt like a deer in headlights—or maybe a fish on a hook. Either way, I couldn’t say no. The officer looked down, unreadable, and muttered, "...bipolar disorder, panic attacks...tremors, palpitations...daily valproate..."

He read the words quietly, but I heard every syllable. Each one felt like a nail in the coffin of my dignity. I looked away, staring at the glowing numbers on the dashboard. I hated how exposed I felt—like he was reading my soul, not just a piece of paper.

By the end, his tone sounded like he’d figured it out. I guessed he’d found the “reason” for my freaked-out behavior. That made me feel a little relieved. Sure enough, he handed the diagnosis back and said, "Looks like you really aren’t feeling well. Why didn’t you just say so? I almost brought you in."

He almost sounded sympathetic. I could see his posture soften, just a bit. It was the first kindness I’d been shown all night, and I nearly broke down right there.

"The way you acted just now, you looked guilty as hell."

I managed a weak laugh, hoping it sounded normal. My hands were still shaking, but I tried to hide them in my lap.

"Sorry, Mr. Writer, for wasting your time."

"You’re good to go. Drive safe!"

He stepped back and waved me on. I started the car and pulled away as fast as I dared. In the rearview, the trooper watched my black Audi disappear and muttered something about horror writers going crazy. I didn’t care. I was already gone.

I watched the flashing lights fade in the mirror, finally breathed out, realizing I’d been holding it forever. My fingers left sweaty prints on the steering wheel. I felt like I’d aged a decade in the space of five minutes.

The car sped through the night. The headlights cut a blurry path through the darkness, only lighting up a narrow stretch ahead. Suddenly, something in the rearview mirror made my skin crawl. My wife’s face stretched up from the back seat. Her skin was deathly pale and stiff, like plaster, her black pupils were huge, fixed right on me.

The smell of blood and gasoline filled the car. I blinked, hoping it was just a trick of the light, a leftover hallucination. But she was there—impossible, grinning, her lips splitting wider and wider. The night outside the windows seemed to press in, suffocating.

Terror shot through me. The car swerved toward the shoulder. At the last second, I snapped out of it and slammed on the brakes. The tires screamed. The car crashed straight into a streetlight pole. My head slammed into the steering wheel. Warm, sticky blood trickled down my temple. Ignoring the pain, I looked back. My wife was gone; the trunk had popped open from the crash, as if she’d been thrown out.

The world spun. I could practically taste metal on my tongue, and for a second, I thought I might pass out. The dashboard lights flickered. My hands shook so badly I could barely grip the wheel.

That thought had barely formed when I saw her in the side mirror. She’d been thrown from the trunk and was now climbing up from the pavement—using both hands and feet. She pushed herself up, arched her back, standing in a twisted, unnatural way like something out of a horror movie. Her neck rotated slowly, turning her face toward me at an impossible angle. Her deathly pale face stared at me, blank and hollow. Suddenly, she grinned, the corners of her mouth stretching all the way to her ears, revealing two rows of teeth—a smile straight from hell.

The streetlight flickered overhead, casting her shadow long and warped across the cracked asphalt. I pressed myself back in the seat, the leather squeaking under my weight. My breath came in short, panicked gasps.

My heart stopped. She could see me! My wife’s corpse suddenly lunged, crawling toward me on all fours. In a blink, she was at the door.

"Bang!"

She slammed into the car door, setting off the alarm, the headlights flashing wildly. She wasn’t scared. She pressed her whole face against the window, features flattened and twisted, neck stretched long, black pupils straining downward, glaring at me from a nightmare angle. Her stare made my skin crawl. Panicked, I stomped the brake and tried to start the car. But the engine just sputtered and died. Every warning light on the dash lit up; no matter how I hit the start button, the engine wouldn’t turn over. That was it—the car was dead. I sank into a despair I’d never known.

My ears rang with the blare of the alarm. I pounded the steering wheel, cursing under my breath. I could hear my wife’s ragged breathing through the glass, the sound wet and unnatural. The air in the car was thick with fear, choking me.

My wife found the door handle, yanking it furiously. The rattling made my scalp tingle. God, please let the lock hold. After a while, the door didn’t budge. She gave up, crawled onto the hood, and tried to get in through the windshield. She seemed to have lost all human sense, acting only on the instinct to attack, desperate to break in. I had no doubt that if she got inside, she’d rip me apart.

Her nails scraped long white lines across the glass. I watched, paralyzed, as her mouth opened wider, jaw distending. The only thing between us was a thin pane of glass. I could see her breath fogging up the windshield, leaving behind streaks that spelled out my doom.

In the rearview, the open trunk let in a bit of streetlight, outlining distant buildings in the night. I didn’t dare turn around. My wife—or whatever she’d become—was crouched on the windshield, baring her teeth and pounding. Her gaze was locked on me. If I so much as flinched, she got more agitated. I didn’t even dare look at the mirror for fear she’d notice and see the open trunk.