Yeehaw. This fanfic is based around Anna Dressed In Blood. It's a great book and everybody needs to read it.

Prologue

The full moon hangs menacingly above the pitch black landscape unravelling before me. I press my foot hard against the gas and roar down the empty country road. It's not that I'm scared of the dark; it's more about what's in it.

I let out a breath that I had no conscious clue I was holding. The headlights of my Chevrolet light up too little of the darkness before me, and I find myself straining to see even a few feet in front of the hood of the car. Long story short, it's not my car. A neighbour let me borrow her after a few rigorous months of moving the lawn, clearing the gutters, and painting his house.

Totally worth it though, because now I was flying down a deserted road in a hotrod. I could probably pick up a few chicks with this baby, too.

But that wasn't why I was here. That wasn't why I was speeding towards a dark shadow that had been conjured up on the side of the road.

It was him.

He looks like he belongs in a low-budget remake of Grease. His slicked back hair and leather jacket do him no favours. He holds a Zippo in his hand and flicks in time with a tune playing in his head.

The hitchhiker holds up a single thumb, and I pull over, opening my passenger side door. He slides in a little less gracefully than his 50's counterpart, but at least he's in. He closes the door, and makes himself comfortable, legs spread out and a cigarette lit.

There was no backing out now. I feel like I have just signed my own death certificate.

I pull back onto the road with a turn of the wheel, and we're off. He seems nervous; he fidgets too much, and it's insanely distracting. Finally, he speaks.

It's only a murmur, but I can hear him clearly. "Thank you."

I don't respond, because there's nothing to say. I don't feel right, and I have a sneaking suspicious that tonight's going to go down horribly.

"My girl," he says as he reclines further, one hand behind his head, and one to help puff his cigarette. "She's been waitin' for me."

"She sounds nice." I grit my teeth.

"Yeah." And that's it. Like that, our meek conversation is over. I tighten the grip on the steering wheel and ease up on the pedal. He notices.

"Something wrong, friend?"

Everything is wrong. I'm beginning to have second thoughts about this. The sound of tires crushing rock fuel my anxiety, and I slow down further. "This isn't my car. I can't really afford to pay for the damage if you decide to throw me off the bridge."

I look directly at him, and in my peripheral vision I can see the bridge closing in. I feel trapped. He knows I'm onto him.

Instantly, his features change. His hair is dishevelled and his cigarette has fallen from his lips. His pale skin is riddled with blueish-black veins, and his dark, sunken eyes have begun to ooze a substance similar to tar. Now he's just a mask of rotten skin, teeth like dull stone. He might be grinning – but it might just be the effect of his lips peeling off.

A few yards from the start off the bridge, he lunges forward and grabs the wheel, giving it a sharp tug and making the car fishtail uncontrollably.

This was why I came here. I move from town to town, stalking only the most infamous spooks the states have to offer. The Hitchhiker was no different. It had been said he's the cause of more than thirty deaths along this one stretch of road, and I believe the rumours. As charming as this guy was when he didn't have a stench similar to a rotten carcass, he could also change in an instant. I know that now.

I realise that if I don't act soon I'll be nothing but one of his kind, I lean down and grope blindly for my blade. He speaks then, his words coming out more as a string of violent hisses than anything else.

"It's not so bad, being dead."

"What about the stench?" I grunt as his talon-like nails dig into the flesh of my arms. I fight back, flailing my legs awkwardly until my shoe connects to his stomach and I use my entire body to kick him back against his door. I finally get a good grip on my knife handle, and as I lunge across the interior towards him, I slice. The blade cuts perfectly through his abdomen, and he lets out a pained grunt. I manage to quickly get the car back under control, and when I look back at him, my eyes widen.

He's back to what he was; all clear skin and green eyes,

"I worked all Summer for this money," he says softly. "My girl will kill me if I lose it."

My heart is beating a mile a minute, my hands twitching on the wheel and struggling to keep the car going straight,

"Your girl will forgive you. I promise." He doesn't have a chance to respond as I dig my blade into his flesh again, this time making a deep slice across his throat. A deep, black gash opens, and his brings his hands up to it, as if trying to close it again, but he can't. Black fluid oozes down his shirt and vintage jacket, and soon, he begins to shrivel.

He disappears soon enough, and it's like nothing even happened. There's no stain on the seat from where he was – it's completely dry. I slow the car and pull over to the side of the road. Pulling on the handbrake, I step out and inspect the damage. There's nothing asides from a melted tire, and it stinks like all hell.

My first thought is – my neighbour is going to kill me.