Fiction Stories: Scary Story About a Woman Jogger and a Hitchhiker

This story came to mind while I was in St. George, Utah, and it seemed perfect for Associated Content's scary story contest.

Death in the Tamarisk

Brittany cocked her head and stared at the paved trail running parallel to the Virgin River. Was it safe to jog it in the early dawn light? Her bangs blew into her eyes as a gust of wind passed. Brushing them aside, she wondered for the umpteenth time about coloring her hair. Life just wasn't fair--prematurely gray at twenty-eight. It felt like a bad joke that Mendelian genetics had played on her.

She glanced at the dark sky, at the icy-white moon as it faded on the horizon, and at the two vehicles in the parking lot near the trailhead. Did the dented truck with rusted fenders belong to a mugger ... or worse? The Lancaster Bicycle Patrol pickup sitting next to it was a good sign, and her anxiety lessened. "There's a cop out there on a bike, so it should be safe enough."

Taking a deep breath, she bent over to tighten the laces on her shoe. The word "Avia" on the tongue taunted her, and Brittany snorted in annoyance. "I hate hot pink. Designers must think all women are balls of fluff, and we wear pink to proclaim our femininity."

Since she was alone at the trailhead, no one debated her statement ... unless the sigh of the wind through the tamarisk counted as a reply. Brittany stretched her calf muscles and started into a slow jog.

*******

He'd hitchhiked into southern Utah from Nevada and the last person to give him a ride sat at an abandoned rest stop, listening to country western music. Well, not exactly listening. It's hard to listen when a person is dead.

The hitchhiker's eyes grew hungry and spittle formed in his mouth at the memory of the deed. He swallowed hard, moved his cap, scratched at the matted hair beneath, and cocked his head as the wind whispered in the tamarisk.

Excitement caught in his throat as he fingered the weapon in the waistband of his food-stained khakis--dried blood clung to the hilt of the knife. The blackness in his soul rose, like a dark cloud that shrouds a Halloween moon, but he knew he shouldn't give in. Vacation was over. He'd hitchhiked to Las Vegas and back. His own car waited nearby, and all he had to do was drive home, take a shower and go to work.

Wait! What was that sound in the distance? The slap of athletic shoes against pavement? He hunkered down in the brush.

*******

Brittany paced herself, felt the endorphins kick in, but resisted the urge to put on a burst of speed. No need to break any records; the 5K was still several weeks away.

After a few minutes of easy jogging, she spotted a patch of yellow swaying in the wind. Sunflowers in the desert--growing in a place with no water and still blooming in October. Brittany giggled at the flowers' happy faces, gave them a wave, and then increased her pace.

A mile down the path, Brittany wiped her forehead on her sleeve. What had happened to the breeze? The sun shone over the ridge, and looking ahead brought spots to her eyes. Maybe it was time to take a quick breather and let the sun move higher in the sky so it wasn't burning holes in her eyeballs. Close by, a graveled path ran to the river--a nice spot to take off the shoes and dip her toes into the cool water. Brittany swerved to the right, and the crunch of gravel underfoot reached the tamarisk that grew nearby.

*******

The hitchhiker's breathing quickened as he heard her run past where he lay hidden. Surely, this was a gift to him from Lady Luck, a present just waiting to be unwrapped. He would take her and then kill her, dumping her body in the river where it would be found miles and days later. Tightness filled his chest as he watched her shapely legs move past. He blinked rapidly with excitement as she pulled off navy and white running shoes, and placed them on the ground nearby, at the edge of the river's bank.

Peeking over the top of the brush to see what she looked like from behind, he intended to savor the moment. But, wait--gray hair! Lady Luck had sent an old woman? That would make it easy. He pulled the knife and moved toward her.

*******

A shuffling noise in the sand impinged on Brittany's consciousness, and intuition told her that the situation she'd feared had come to life behind her. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide--trapped between the river and what stood in back of her.

She turned. The hitchhiker leaped toward her, the blade of his raised knife flashing in the sunlight--a glint matched by the muzzle flash from Brittany's Smith & Wesson as she pulled the .22 magnum from her pocket and fired.

All seven shots hit him in the chest and the hitchhiker crumpled to the ground, his knife falling near her stockinged feet. Bile rose in her throat at the sickening smell of his blood, but no tears fell. All she felt was shock ... shock at the name on the ID in his wallet: Officer Curtis Mellor, Lancaster Bicycle Patrol.

Dropping it next to him, she picked up her shoes, glanced at the hot pink logo on the tongue and looked back down at the dead man. Disgust filled her voice as she said, "Not all women are balls of fluff."

Then, U.S. Marshal Brittany Johnson pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed 911.

(Author's note: Although this story is fiction, be sure to check the above pictures that go with it.)