Whispers in the Dark

with Ellie Navarro

Avery had her phone clipped to the dash, camera facing her as the Nebraska highway stretched behind her like an endless river. The LIVE badge pulsed in the corner of the screen while comments scrolled by in an endless blur of emojis, usernames, and half-spelled warnings.Thousands of viewers clocked in just to watch her drive. It still blew her mind how many loyal followers she had amassed over the years, enough to get her a guest speaker invitation at CrimeCon this year. 

@reggie_truecrime: “Girl you’re brave af ”
@wanderlust676: “don’t u dare pull over”
@moss_stan: “ justice for Maya ”

She kept her hands steady on the wheel, forcing a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Okay, fam, welcome to Cold Trail, field recording, episode eighteen. I promised you the Dead Mile, so… here we are. Twelve-point-four miles of Nebraska asphalt where”, she glanced at the scribbled notes on the seat beside her, “five hundred forty-three people have vanished since 1970.”

Outside the windshield, golden prairie grass swayed under a soft breeze, the horizon broken only by the occasional skeletal tree or crumbling billboard. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. There were no buildings. No driveways. No farmhouses. Just flatland, road, and sky.

She narrowed her eyes at the two-lane highway rolling endlessly forward. The Dead Mile. This was it. This was where they all disappeared. It didn’t look cursed. It looked… boring.

“I’m going to read a few names,” she said, her voice quieter. “Because legends are easy to swallow. People aren’t.”

She took a breath.

“Maya Jules. Twenty-two. Last text sent June 4th, 2017. Mile marker seven.”

There was a pause. The name landed heavier than the others would.

“Javier Reyes, thirty-four. Hiker. Gone, 2004.
Lindsey Crowe, seventeen. Car left running, 1992.
Donna Talbot, fifty-eight. Tourist. 1980.
Tyson Hill, nineteen. Whole backpacking group disappeared. 1999.
Jaylen Moore, twenty-nine. Mechanic. 2016.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the road. The chat lit up with candle emojis, broken hearts, people typing “Justice for Maya”. Then,

@roadsidechow: “IS THAT THE SIGN??”
@gourmandghost: “BRENNAN’S!!! best meatloaf EVER”

Avery glanced up. Neon flickered in the distance, low and warm through the bugs on her windshield. Red and green light blinked in slow rhythm against the wide-open sky.

She narrowed her eyes.
The sign read:

BRENNAN’S DINER
World-Famous Meatloaf! Since 1959!

“Right,” she muttered. “Some of you told me to stop there.”

She gave a dry little scoff.

“Apparently the best meatloaf in the state. Bon Appétit, ranked and everything. Just off the edge of a national missing persons black hole. Classic.”

She hit the blinker and eased onto the exit ramp.

“We’re gonna dive into it all,” she said to the camera. “Aliens? Government cover-up? Highway serial killer? You know how we do it. But first, a pit stop. Quick detour,” she told the camera. “You people rave about this place. I could use coffee that wasn’t birthed in a truck-stop urn.”

The chat exploded in a mix of “NOOO”, “film it or it didn’t happen”, and skull emojis.

“I’ll be right back.” Avery said blowing a kiss to the screen and then tapping End Live, the screen darkened. For a second, the only sound was the hum of tires over cracked pavement and the low hiss of wind through the half-open window.

Avery drove toward the diner, its glow getting stronger, more inviting. Just coffee, and maybe some meatloaf, she thought. In and out.

The bell above the door jingled with a crisp, old-fashioned ring as Avery stepped inside Brennan’s. The warmth hit her first, real warmth, not the suffocating heat of sun-baked asphalt, but something gentler, lived-in. It smelled like cinnamon and something savory, something roasting.

Avery paused at the threshold.

The interior was a snapshot from the past. Cream and cherry-red booths. Chrome edges that gleamed. Ceiling fans that barely moved. Behind the counter, a chalkboard menu in curling script: MEATLOAF SPECIAL – $8.95. All Day. Every Day.

Every eye in the diner turned to her at once. Not hostile. Just… watchful. A heartbeat later, they smiled, almost in unison. Nods, small waves, an older couple even raised their coffee mugs in greeting.

“Welcome in, sweetheart,” called a woman from behind the counter. Her voice was sugar and smoke. She looked like the kind of woman who always had flour on her apron and something baking in the oven. Her name tag read: MARLENE.

Avery nodded politely and made her way to a booth by the window. A waitress, maybe in her late twenties, pin-up styled with a perfect red scarf around her ponytail, appeared with a glass of water before Avery had even unzipped her hoodie.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Please,” Avery said.

“You got it, hon.”

Everything about the place felt practiced, curated, like a roadside museum someone forgot to shut down. And yet it breathed. It mattered to these people.

Her gaze drifted to the wall near the register. Curious, she stood and walked slowly toward it, her footsteps quiet against the tile floor. There, lovingly arranged under soft lighting, was a large corkboard covered in missing persons flyers. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Laminated. Neatly clipped. Surrounded by artificial sunflowers and hand-cut paper hearts.

A wooden sign hung above it in careful script:

“In Loving Memory of the Ones Still Out There. Dead Mile Is Cold, But We Keep the Hope Warm.”

Avery leaned in, scanning the faces, names, dates. Her breath caught.

Right there in the off center on the left: Maya Jules. Same photo. Same smile. Same flyer she remembered printing.

She blinked hard. Her eyes stung.

“Good people around here,” said a voice nearby. Avery turned to see Marlene herself approaching, a steaming mug in each hand. She set one down in front of Avery and kept the other for herself.

“We don’t forget our travelers,” she added, her smile soft but steady.

Avery didn’t sit. She kept her eyes on the board.

“She was my cousin,” she said quietly.

Marlene followed her gaze. “Maya?”

Avery nodded. “Yeah. I printed that flyer.”

“Well,” Marlene said after a beat, “we’ve kept it safe.”

“I’m doing a segment on the Dead Mile actually,” Avery continued, her voice firming up. “My podcast. I, I’ve been putting it off for years.”

Marlene’s eyes didn’t waver. “That’s a brave thing to do.”

Avery finally sat, hands wrapping around the mug. She looked again at Maya’s photo, then at the pie case, then around at the smiling locals chatting like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong.

She reached for her recorder.

“Just coffee,” she whispered.

But her hands were already shaking.

The plate landed in front of her with a gentle clink.

Thick slice. Crisped edges. Dark gravy bleeding into a pile of mashed potatoes so fluffy they looked whipped. A single sprig of parsley on top, because of course they did things properly here.

Marlene smiled, hands folded behind her back. “On the house, sweetheart. House specialty. Just how she would’ve liked it.”

Avery blinked, then looked up at her. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Would it be alright if I recorded a little bit? For my followers?”

“Of course!” Marlene beamed. “We love visitors spreading the word.”

She stared at the plate for a beat. Then, slowly, she pulled out her phone, clipped it back into the mount she set beside the booth, and opened TikTok. The LIVE icon lit up.

“Alright, true crime fam,” she said, angling the camera to show the plate. “This is Brennan’s Diner, right outside Marrow, Nebraska. Some of you begged me to stop here and try the meatloaf. Bon Appétit-ranked. Number eight in the country. And listen, I’m not easily impressed.”

She took a bite.

Her face froze. Then melted.

“Oh my god.”

The chat started climbing.

@c0ldcafepod: “u look like ur gonna cry”
@sami_jules: “is it really that good??”

Avery shook her head, speechless. She took another bite, chewed slowly. The texture was unreal, tender without falling apart, juicy without being greasy, perfectly seasoned with something she couldn’t name.

“It’s… incredible,” she said finally. “I don’t know what they’re doing in that kitchen but, this is probably the best meatloaf I’ve ever had.”

Marlene appeared again, refilling her water. “Family recipe. We’ve been at it a long time.”

Avery glanced up, smiling, then back to the camera.

“If you’re ever passing through Nebraska? Stop. Here. Seriously.”

She ended the stream there, still chewing, still dazed.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t just comfort food. It was something else. And she was already craving another bite.

Avery finished the last bite of her meatloaf and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Her phone was off now, tucked screen-down on the table. She looked up as Marlene came by with a small plate of piece cherry, still warm, with a perfect lattice crust. Just what she needed to finish the meal.

“Hey,” Avery said, lowering her voice slightly. “Would it be alright if I asked you a couple of questions? For the podcast. No camera, just audio and questions.”

Marlene’s smile didn’t waver. “Of course, sweetheart. Ask away.”

Avery clicked on her voice recorder and set it gently between them.

“How long has Brennan’s been around?”

“Since 1959,” Marlene replied proudly. “Started by my folks. We’ve been feeding travelers ever since.”

“Did you always live around here?”

“Born and raised in Marrow. Never had much reason to leave.”

“And the Dead Mile?” Avery asked, careful to keep her tone neutral. “What do people around here think it is?”

Marlene gave a soft sigh. “We think it’s a shame. All those people, just gone. We don’t have answers. Only prayers.” Marlene’s voice softened. “We wish we knew what it was, if it’s something natural, or man-made, or… I don’t know. Something worse. Folks talk about all kinds of theories, but none of them bring anyone back. We just try to hold on to their names. Make sure they’re not forgotten. That’s all we really can do.”

Avery nodded, checking the recorder. “Do people come through here often asking about it?”

“Now and then,” Marlene said. “Usually podcasters or bloggers. Like you. But you’re the first that’s ever had someone on that wall.”

Avery’s hand tensed slightly. “Yeah.”

She turned off the recorder and stood. “Mind if I ask a couple folks at the counter too?”

“Go on, sugar,” Marlene said. “Just don’t spook the eggs out of ‘em.”

At the counter sat two women in matching windbreakers, middle-aged, with hiking packs tucked under their stools.

“Mind if I ask you both a couple questions?” Avery said. “I’m doing a podcast on the Dead Mile.”

The first woman, chatty and cheerful, nodded enthusiastically. “Oh sure! I love podcasts. Didn’t even realize we were near that spooky road until we got off the highway.”

Her friend gave a sheepish shrug. “I’d never heard of it. We just stopped for the meatloaf.”

Avery scribbled notes.

“Did anyone warn you about it?”

“Not really. GPS took us straight through. It looked like any other road.”

She thanked them and turned toward the corner booth, where an older man with a grease-stained hat and sun-scarred skin sat alone, sipping black coffee.

“Sir? Do you mind if I ask,”

“Nope,” he muttered, not looking up.

“I just wanted to get a local perspective.”

“Don’t got one.”

Avery paused. “Do you think the Dead Mile is dangerous?”

He looked up then, eyes hard and dull. “I think some places keep secrets because they’re meant to be kept.”

Then he went back to his coffee.

Avery stood in place for a moment, recording still running.

Then she switched it off and returned to her booth. Turned out not everyone was welcoming after all. 

Avery stepped out of Brennan’s into the dry Nebraska air, cooler now with the sun beginning its slow descent behind the horizon. The gravel crunched under her boots as she made her way toward her car. The fields stretched out flat and quiet, the highway to her left yawning toward the Dead Mile.

She glanced back at the diner. Through the front window, she saw Marlene wiping down the counter, the two hikers chatting over dessert.

The old man, the local, was still in his booth.

He wasn’t eating. Wasn’t drinking.

Just watching her.

His expression was blank, unreadable. Avery held his gaze for a second too long. Then turned and opened her car door. She checked her bag, made sure the recorder was fully charged. She was heading back out. Once she arrived she’d be on foot this time, to walk the stretch of road where Maya had last been seen.

Twelve miles of nothing.

Behind her, Brennan’s glowed in the growing dark. And the man in the window didn’t stop watching.

Avery walked the shoulder of the Dead Mile with her recorder in one hand, boots thudding softly against the cracked asphalt. Cars passed occasionally, but not often, sometimes it was as long as ten minutes. Long stretches of silence separated each distant engine hum, each flash of headlights cresting the horizon.

She hit record.

“Alright. Field notes. It’s 6:42 p.m. Sun’s going down. I’m walking the stretch between mile marker six and mile ten. So far, it’s quiet. Dead quiet. Fitting, right?”

Wind moved through the tall grass like breath.

“Let’s talk about one of the biggest theories. Alien abductions. I know, it sounds ridiculous. But it keeps coming up, and not just on Reddit threads. There are multiple reports of missing time, stalled vehicles, bright lights seen from miles away. No footprints. No blood. Just people… gone.”

She kept walking.

“One guy, truck driver, 2003, swore he lost two hours. Had a logbook showing he should’ve arrived on time, but he was late with no memory of stopping. His dash cam glitched. Froze. Then restarted exactly two hours later. Never found a thing.”

Another car passed in the distance. Avery didn’t look up.

“Some people say there’s a military testing site buried somewhere under the plains. Others think it’s something older. That this land is… marked. But the alien angle sticks with people because it explains the clean vanishings. No violence. No signs of struggle. Just… subtraction. You hear stories, like the couple in ’94, Mark and Lena Whitmore, who were driving from Lincoln to Denver. They called their daughter from a payphone in Marrow. Said they’d stop for gas, then keep going. They never made it. Their car was found abandoned just off the shoulder, doors locked, gas tank still half full. Nothing inside was touched. Not a fingerprint. Not a shoe print. Like they’d been plucked clean out of the world.

There was also a local girl in the eighties, teenager, who swore she saw a long shape hovering in the sky above the Mile. Silent. Blacker than night. Her account was dismissed as hysteria until two other people, years apart, described something nearly identical. Always above the Dead Mile. Always silent. Always gone by the time anyone else arrived.

People laugh at the alien theory because it’s convenient. But convenient doesn’t mean wrong. If something can take you without a sound, without a sign… maybe it doesn’t need to make sense.”

She stopped at the faded white line of mile marker seven. Looked down.

“Maya was last seen near this spot. June 4th, 2017. No skid marks. No phone found. No witnesses. It’s like she stepped off the edge of the earth.”

Her voice wavered for a moment. Then steadied.

“If you’re listening to this, and you have stories, reach out. Anonymous tips welcome. Anything helps.”

Silence again.

Nothing but the wind and the long, empty road ahead.

She started walking again, then clicked the recorder back on.

“There’s another theory. One people don’t like talking about as much, the government cover-up. I’m not saying black helicopters and men in suits, but there’s a line of thinking that the disappearances are systemic. Controlled.”

She adjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“Think about it. No press coverage. No federal investigations. Missing persons cases that go nowhere, paper trails that evaporate. Families that get brushed off with ‘sometimes people just leave.’ But too many of them didn’t have a reason to. They were happy. They were in contact. Then they were gone.”

Avery’s voice lowered slightly, her tone more clinical now.

“The idea is this: the government, some buried division, some nameless agency, is taking people. Testing. Studying. Maybe it started during the Cold War. Maybe it’s still going. Think radiation, psychological warfare, isolation endurance. Using this long, dead road as a controlled site.”

She walked a few more paces in silence, boots grinding against gravel.

“Adrian Martinez, twenty-six. Reported seeing strange blinking lights and a heat shimmer on the road before losing consciousness. He woke up five hours later in a ditch with no recollection of what happened. His phone was dead. When it powered back on, his call history was wiped.”

Avery stopped, turned slightly toward the fading sun.

“It’s not aliens for some people. It’s not ghosts. It’s people, real ones, doing something out here that no one wants to admit.”

She clicked the recorder off. Let the silence stretch for a few minutes before clicking the recorder back on.

“Another popular theory is human trafficking. I know, it sounds like something ripped from a thriller novel. But the numbers line up. Remote location. Sparse patrols. Just enough traffic to blend in, but not enough to draw attention.”

She crossed the road slowly, looking down the empty stretch ahead.

“The theory is that the Dead Mile is a corridor. A funnel point. People get taken off this road, loaded into unmarked vans or trailers, and driven out through side roads that don’t show up on maps. From there? Who knows. Out of the state. Out of the country. Underground networks.”

Her voice dropped to a murmur.

“A girl named Dana Wells went missing in 2010. Her case barely got press. But her mom swore she heard a voice in the background of Dana’s last call, telling her to keep quiet. Dana said, ‘I can’t talk right now,’ and hung up. Phone never turned on again.”

She walked a little further, the wind tugging gently at her hair.

“That’s the most terrifying version to some people. That the Dead Mile isn’t cursed. It’s coordinated. It’s a place where people vanish because other people make them vanish. And they’ve been doing it for a long, long time.”

She clicked off the recorder again.

Still nothing but sky, asphalt, and the long breath of wind rolling through the grass.

Avery reached the end of the Dead Mile just after ten. Her legs ached, and the wind had grown colder, cutting sharper across the fields. She clicked on her recorder one final time for the night.

“That wraps the walk for today. I’ll go into more detail about every single theory on our live podcast session this Thursday, alien abduction, government cover-up, human trafficking, and a few others that are even darker. In the meantime, I’ll keep gathering notes, exploring, and hopefully landing more interviews with locals.”

She clicked it off.

A half hour later, she was hitchhiking. A quiet man in a pickup headed toward Marrow slowed and waved her in. She climbed into the passenger seat, shutting the door with a soft click.

After a few minutes of silence, Avery cleared her throat. “Would it be alright if I asked you a couple of questions? About the Dead Mile?”

The man kept his eyes on the road, then gave a small nod. “Sure.”

“Do the locals have any theories about the Dead Mile?”

He let out a slow breath, his voice quiet, almost sad. “Not really. Folks don’t talk about it much. Not the way you’d think. We hear things, sure, but nobody wants to say them out loud. They’d rather not feed the fear, I guess. I wish I had answers. I wish we all did. But I’m just one person.”

Avery didn’t press further. She just nodded, recording the tone of his answer more than the words. Instead she watched the road rewind beneath them.

It was past eleven when she returned to her car. She slung her bag into the passenger seat, sat back, and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

That’s when she realized, she was starving. She hadn’t eaten since the pie hours ago, and her body was demanding something solid.

She glanced up. The neon flicker of Brennan’s was still glowing just up the road.

“Alright,” she muttered. “One more meal.”

She pulled back onto the road and headed toward the diner before booking a room at the only motel in Marrow.

The bell above the door jingled again as Avery stepped inside Brennan’s for the second time that day. The glow of the diner lights felt warmer now, heavier with the scent of butter and something just starting to char in a skillet.

This time, it wasn’t Marlene behind the counter.

A young man stood there instead, maybe late twenties, tall, with tousled dark hair and sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was leaning on the counter, flipping through a stained order pad. When he looked up and saw her, he smiled. Not wide. Just easy.

“Evening,” he said. “Back for round two?”

“Guilty,” Avery replied, brushing wind from her face.

“Grab a seat wherever you like,” he added, already reaching for a clean menu. “Kitchen’s still going. And if you’re craving that meatloaf again, you’re not the first.”

He paused, setting the menu down gently. “My mom was sure you’d be back. Said you had the look of someone who needed one more good meal.” He offered a softer smile. “She said it’s on the house.”

Avery thanked him with her best smile and slid into the same booth as before, recorder and notebook still tucked in her bag. No podcasting tonight, just food. Just comfort.

He brought her water and a fresh cup of coffee without asking, then returned moments later with the meatloaf. Another perfect slice. Same dark gravy, same creamy potatoes, same glistening top that looked almost lacquered.

Avery took a bite.

Her shoulders dropped. Eyes closed.

It was just as heavenly as the first, rich, savory, so well-balanced it felt engineered. Like something carved from memory. Familiar and strange all at once.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said, looking up at the young man as he passed. “Still incredible.”

He gave her a wink. “Told ya.”

She smiled, and took another bite, slower this time to hide the blush spreading on her face. 

The young man lingered near the counter while Avery ate, checking on a few late tables and wiping down the soda machine. Every now and then, he’d glance over and give her an easy smile, like he was glad she came back, like she was the best thing he’d seen all day.

Then, casually, he called out, “Be back in a few, just need to run to the restroom.”

He disappeared through a narrow hallway off the side of the kitchen door, swinging it gently closed behind him.

Avery set her fork down.

She couldn’t help it, the thought had been nagging her since the first bite. It wasn’t just that the meatloaf was good. It was identical. Same crust. Same seasoning. Same temperature, even hours apart. And no one, not even the best diners, hit that kind of consistency without mass production.

It didn’t make sense. Not unless it came pre-made. Industrial-grade. Bulk-ordered. Maybe they just added touches, heated it a certain way, used a signature gravy.

But it wasn’t sitting right.

Avery looked around. No one else was near the counter. The hikers from earlier were gone. The old man never came back. Marlene hadn’t reappeared.

She stood slowly and crossed to the swinging kitchen door. Pressed a hand against it. Listened.

Nothing.

She pushed through.

The kitchen was spotless. Too spotless. Gleaming steel, plastic-wrapped trays, spice racks all lined up like they’d never been touched. She moved slowly, scanning for ingredient bins, labels, a walk-in fridge, anything that might explain what was actually in the meatloaf.

Avery found a counter stacked with cooling pans. One was empty, crust flakes left behind. The other held a partial loaf, sliced clean across the middle, still warm. She leaned in. No packaging. No label. Just foil underneath.

She opened the nearest drawer. Clean knives. A sharpening rod. Parchment paper.

She was about to open a cabinet when something creaked behind her.

Footsteps in the hallway.

Avery froze. Her eyes darted around the kitchen until she spotted a narrow storage nook between the walk-in freezer and the stacked boxes of takeout containers. She ducked behind it just as the door swung open.

Two sets of boots crossed the threshold.

One voice, older, rougher, grumbled, “The bitch wouldn’t stop screaming. I told you it was a mistake taking her that quick.”

Avery’s heart slammed against her ribs.

The younger voice, the one she recognized, laughed. His name tag had read Mark. “They never do,” he said, easy as breath.

Avery didn’t dare move. Her body was locked in place, the air around her thick with grease and steel.

“What about the pretty little podcaster?” the older one asked. His tone was casual, almost amused.

Mark gave a low whistle. “She’s a looker, I’ll give you that. Wouldn’t mind keeping her around.”

Something shifted under Avery’s boot.

She looked down.

A single human tooth gleamed up at her from the floor, yellowed slightly at the root, blood still dark in the crevice.

She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

And above her, the brothers kept talking like she didn’t exist.

Their voices began to fade, trailing off in another direction, deeper into the hallway, maybe toward the walk-in freezer or some back storeroom. Avery waited, listening to every echo, every shuffle of boots until the last murmur disappeared.

She exhaled shakily and shifted her weight, slowly easing out of her hiding spot. Her hands trembled as she steadied herself against the counter. Her only thought: she had to get out. Now. The things they said.. who they ‘took’, she had to run.

She crept toward the door, each step silent, deliberate, her heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted to warn the room. Just a few more feet.

A low voice, behind her. “Gotta be quiet now. Wouldn’t want to scare off the rest of the meat.”

Avery stiffened but just as quickly bolted towards the door.

She wasn’t fast enough. An arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her back, another hand clamping down over her mouth before she could scream. She thrashed against him, heels scraping tile, but he was too strong. His grip was solid. Cold.

Tears welled in her eyes as he bent close to her ear, breath hot. “I guess Mark gets to keep you after all.”

He began dragging her backward through the kitchen, boots scuffing the tile. Avery kicked and bucked, twisting in his grasp with every ounce of strength she had left.

The hallway loomed ahead, narrow, dim, lined with industrial shelving and the door to the walk-in freezer yawning open like a mouth. She couldn’t let him take her back there.

She slammed her elbow into his ribs. He grunted, but his grip only tightened. Her shoes scraped the floor, searching for traction.

Panic turned to fire in her veins. She threw her head back hard enough to make him curse, and his hand slipped from her mouth for half a second.

“HELP!” she screamed, voice cracking.

But no one came.

“Stupid girl,” he growled. “You just had to go poking around.”

Her fists beat against his forearm, her knees aimed for anything soft, but he was too strong. Her tears blurred everything as he hauled her into the hall, closer to whatever waited in the dark.

“You’ll calm down,” he muttered. “They always do.”

Avery’s heels scraped metal. The freezer. She could feel the cold rolling out across her legs.

She tried to dig in, claw at the doorframe, anything. But she was slipping.

And the only thing louder than her ragged breathing was the sound of the latch clicking open behind her.

She opened her mouth to scream again, but before she could, he pulled something from his back pocket. A cloth. It pressed hard against her face.

The smell hit her instantly, sharp, chemical, cloying. Her muscles jerked and spasmed as her lungs refused the scent. She kicked, scratched, tried to twist free.

Her vision blurred. The hallway stretched and folded in on itself. Her fingers clawed at the man’s arms, her own body turning heavy, unresponsive. Her legs buckled. Her head lolled. Darkness crashed down, swift and suffocating. And then, nothing.

Avery woke to pain.

It wasn’t sharp, at first. Just a deep, pulsing throb at the base of her skull, the kind of ache that felt like it had settled into the bones. Then came the sting. Her wrists, sore and raw, bound tightly behind her back. Her shoulders cramped. Her legs bent awkwardly beneath her.

She tried to open her eyes, but the light was too dim, her vision too blurred to make anything out beyond vague shapes and shadows. She was on the floor. Cold tile pressed against her cheek. Her breathing came in short, ragged gasps. Every inhale burned.

Then, voices. To her right. Muffled at first, but rising.

Mark. “Let me keep her, Momma. You been saying you want grandkids.”

Avery’s blood turned to ice.

Marlene answered, her voice tight with irritation. “This one’s a fighter. She’s not gonna be tamed easily.”

“She could be,” Mark said, too quickly. “She’s smart. Pretty. She talks a lot, but she listens, too. You just have to break her in a little. Tell her Tom.”

“You’re too soft,” another voice said, the older one. The one from the kitchen. “She’s too much risk,” Tom continued. “We should’ve gutted her already. Let it cool and feed her out with the next week’s batch.”

Mark sounded almost desperate. “She’s well-known, alright? People would look for her. She’s not like the others. A bunch of her followers already know she came out here.”

There was a pause. Marlene clicked her tongue. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

Avery stayed frozen, every nerve on fire, her breath locked in her throat. Her vision cleared just enough to see the edge of a table leg. A drain in the floor. Her arms burned. Her head swam.

They were deciding whether she lived or died like it was nothing. Like she was a cut of meat.

Tears slipped down her cheek, silent and hot. She had to get out.

She didn’t realize when he got there.

Mark knelt in front of her with a small metal bowl of water and a damp towel, eyes soft as if nothing about this place, nothing about what she’d seen, was wrong. Avery shrank back instinctively, heart pounding. Her legs didn’t move fast enough. Her body felt cemented by fear.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said gently. “I won’t let you get hurt. Not if you stay with me. I’ll take care of you. Make sure you’re happy.”

Avery shook her head, tears rolling down her face. “Please… please let me go.”

His brow furrowed, his expression almost mournful. “I can’t. You’ve seen too much.”

“I won’t say anything,” she sobbed. “I won’t release the episode. I’ll quit the podcast. I’ll disappear. Please.”

Mark gave a sad smile and reached forward, wiping the vomit and sweat from her face with the towel. “I’m sorry, Avery. I really am.”

Then he stood and walked out, leaving her tied on the cold tile with a body strung up beside her and hope bleeding out into the drain.

Time passed. Hours, maybe. The flickering light never changed, so there was no sky to track, no sun to measure. Avery sat in silence, wrists burning, the air heavy with blood and bleach. Her breath had calmed, but her thoughts hadn’t.

She sat there with nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat and the memory of voices.

The Dead Mile. The missing persons flyers. The meatloaf.

Maya.

The realization sunk in like ice through bone. She had eaten it. She had eaten him. Or someone. A person.

She gagged again, but there was nothing left. Her body was empty, wrecked.

She tugged at her restraints, biting down a scream as the rope cut deeper into her skin. The knot was tight. Too tight. But it had been tied in a hurry. She twisted her wrists slowly, carefully, testing where it gave most.

Every movement sent fire up her arms.

Her breathing grew shallow again. Inch by inch, she leaned forward. The chair they had finally put her in creaked. She turned her wrist at the right angle and felt one side shift, ever so slightly.

She remembered something, something small and stupid. A podcast guest once said if you dislocate your thumb, you can get out of almost any binding.

Avery gritted her teeth so hard it felt like they might crack. She closed her eyes, braced herself, and twisted her left hand at an unnatural angle. There was a pop, a wet, grinding snap that made bile surge in her throat. The pain exploded through her hand like wildfire, radiating up her forearm. Her thumb had either dislocated or broken clean through. She couldn’t tell. Couldn’t care.

She gasped, the breath tearing out of her lungs, but she didn’t scream. She couldn’t afford to.

The cord at her wrist slipped just slightly. She ground her teeth harder and forced her mangled thumb through the gap.

And finally, blessedly, her hand was free.

She held in a sob and worked on the other, blood slicking her palm, her fingernails torn. It took longer, too long, but she managed. Her arms were numb. Her legs weak. But she was loose. And now… she just had to move without making a sound.

Every step was agony. Her muscles screamed, her thumbs throbbed like it was being crushed in a vice, but Avery forced herself to crawl upright, legs wobbling beneath her. The floor felt miles long. The walls seemed to press inward.

She didn’t know where she was. This place, the second kitchen, wasn’t marked. No windows, no visible doors besides the one they’d come in through, the one they’d dragged her through like a sack of garbage.

It was a maze.

She crept through it, blood drying sticky down her wrist, her heart thudding against her ribs like it knew how little time she had. Each turn brought another wall. Another locked door. Another dead end.

She couldn’t breathe. She was losing time.

She leaned against a metal rack and let the tears come. They slid down her cheeks in silence. She was so afraid. The kind of fear that made your body forget how to hope.

She almost thought she was hallucinating when she saw a door. Different than the others. It was at the end of a narrow corridor with concrete floors and rusted mop buckets. Metal, scratched. A dent near the bottom, like it had once been kicked in panic.

Avery limped toward it.

It had to be the exit. It had to be.

She grabbed the handle with both hands and yanked it open, and stopped.

She was staring into what looked like a living room. A real, domestic space. Beige carpet. A TV on a stand. A worn recliner with a floral blanket folded over the back. Lamps. Doilies. A damn coffee table. Her brain struggled to process it. Her body trembled.

From deeper inside the house, Marlene’s voice, muffled but too close:

“Did you hear that?”

Avery turned and bolted.

Her bare feet pounded the tile, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through her broken thumb, through her raw wrists. The corridor behind her felt like it was collapsing, the walls closing in as she ran. Her vision swam. She could hear them. Two sets of footsteps, one heavy, one fast, slamming into the floor behind her. Mark and Tom.

“Move!” someone shouted behind her, but she couldn’t tell who. Her lungs screamed. Her legs burned.

She didn’t know where she was going. Every turn was a guess. Every hallway looked the same. She veered left, then right, narrowly avoiding a cart of broken trays. She slipped, caught herself on the corner of a table, and kept running. The pain in her hands, an afterthought. 

Tom’s voice echoed behind her, furious and ragged. “Fucking find her!”

Panic seized her chest like a vice. She could feel their breath at her back, could hear Mark’s boots pounding closer.

She rounded another blind corner and nearly slammed into a shelf. She dropped low, scrambled beneath it, then burst into another hallway, this one lined with crates and metal lockers.

Nowhere. No light. No signs. No windows. Just a maze of death.

Her breath came in gasps. Her eyes scanned wildly for anything, a door, a gap, a vent. But all she saw were shadows and flickers of her own reflection in steel. She could hear them gaining.

Her legs pushed harder, beyond pain, into the threshold of pure adrenaline. She knew, knew, if they caught her now, she wouldn’t get a second chance.

“Don’t make it worse, girl!” Tom barked.

Her foot caught on something and she let out a small yelp. Who could have ever predicted that Avery, so smart and observant, would turn into a movie cliche? 

She slammed into the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. And the footsteps kept coming.

Avery scrambled to her knees, pain exploding down her side. She didn’t know how long she had. Seconds maybe. She pulled herself up with the edge of a shelving unit, heart hammering, vision blurring.

She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t going to make it. She turned down another corridor, but it was a dead end. Nothing but a stack of boxes and a locked service door. She slid between two low sets of shelves, a dark crevice barely wide enough for her to curl into. She pressed her back against the wall and folded her legs in, trying to vanish into shadow.

She was shaking. Sobbing silently now. The tears wouldn’t stop. Her breath trembled in and out, shallow and sharp. Everything hurt. She had no idea where she was. No idea how far the front door was. No idea if she was already bleeding out inside. She’d lost too much time, too much hope.

And then as she tried to control her sobs, she felt it. A weight in her boot. Avery blinked, stunned. She leaned forward and reached down with numb fingers, heart stuttering.

It was there. Tucked under the lining where she always kept it. Her second phone. Her emergency phone.

She almost laughed, choked on it. They hadn’t found it. They hadn’t taken it. It had been a suggestion from a follower years ago: always travel with a backup, one they don’t know about. And she had. Out of habit. Out of fear. She pulled it out with shaking hands, the screen lighting up her tear-streaked face. The footsteps were closer now, too close.

She didn’t hesitate. She opened TikTok. And hit LIVE.

The feed opened instantly. The little red icon blinked in the corner. Avery’s face filled the screen, dirt-smudged, streaked with tears, her eyes wide and unfocused. She tried to speak, but the words tangled in her mouth.

“H-hey, it’s, it’s Avery,” she stammered, her voice hoarse. “I, I don’t have long. Please listen.”

The chat exploded immediately. Comments poured in.

@truecrimegirlie: where are you??

@JaxOnTheTrail: is this real??

@podcastfam: what happened to your face???

Avery wiped her cheek and leaned closer. “It’s Brennan’s. The diner. It’s not,” she sobbed once, breath catching. “It’s not what you think. It’s them. They’re the ones. The Dead Mile,”

More comments surged.

@Midnight_Mia: call the cops!!!

@urbanarchive: girl RUN

@hazelxtrue: is she bleeding???

The camera wobbled as she shifted. “They take people. They feed, oh god, they feed,” Her mouth shook, the words slurring from exhaustion and horror. “Please. Share this. Someone,”

A noise in front of her. The scuff of boots. Her eyes widened. She screamed as two arms lunged from the shadows and yanked her out of her hiding spot. She shrieked and clawed at the shelves, her voice piercing as the phone fell from her grip and hit the floor, the camera flipping sideways.

The screen showed only the spinning ceiling above. Her screams echoed. And then a heavy boot slammed down over the phone. The feed cut to black.

Avery awoke to the sensation of pressure pulling at her arms—her weight suspended. Her feet dangled inches off the ground, her body strung up like a side of meat. The pain hit fast. Her shoulders screamed, wrists raw and bound tight above her head. Her legs trembled uselessly beneath her.

And they were standing there. All three of them. Marlene. Tom. Mark.

Marlene looked furious. Her arms were crossed, lips pressed into a flat, cold line. Tom stood beside her, breathing heavily like he’d been pacing. Mark… Mark just looked sad.

She whimpered, a choked sob escaping before she could swallow it down.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t do this.”

Mark stepped forward, his voice breaking. “Momma, let me keep her. I can take care of her. She could stay here, with me.”

Marlene’s glare didn’t soften. “You don’t keep things, Mark. She’s not a stray. She’s a liability.”

“I’m not!” Avery cried. “I won’t say anything. I’ll stay. I’ll do whatever you want, just please, please let me live.”

Tom snorted in disgust. “You’re just proving her point.”

Avery looked at Mark, locking eyes with him. “We can be a family,” she said, voice trembling. “You said you’d take care of me. I’ll stay, I promise. I’ll be good. Just, don’t let them hurt me.”

Tom’s voice cut through the room. “She’s seen too much. And she broadcasted it. There’s no undoing that.”

Marlene stepped forward. “You hear this?” she snapped. “She’s desperate. This one’s smart. She’s playing you.”

“I’m not!” Avery sobbed. “I had a breakdown. I made it all up. I’ll delete the podcast. Quit it. I’ll tell people I imagined the whole thing. Please.”

Mark turned to Marlene, pleading. “Please. I’ll handle it. Just give me a chance.”

Marlene’s eyes never left Avery. Her voice rang loud and final.

“No.”

Everything stopped. Mark closed his eyes. Tom went still.

Marlene stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Her hand reached into her apron and pulled out a long, curved knife.

Avery’s breath caught in her throat as Marlene approached. Her knees gave out, her entire body shaking with the weight of fear.

Marlene raised the knife and pressed it to Avery’s throat.