I pursued relentlessly. Her scent was still in the air, somewhat still traceable. I have to find her.

The truck was very fast, and she had somewhat of a head start, but I do not pause, do not tire. She needs to rest, I do not.

I will find her.

Sometimes I drop to the long ribbon of road beneath me. I sniff the air sometimes even go on all fours, press my ear to the road, and sniff the air. I am ravenous, I pant with effort. I cannot wait until I find her.

Very few vehicles passed by.

Nearby my ass. I think. It feels like I've been driving for hours and my gas is low again. I curse the trucker, than immediately regret it and take it back. Without him I wouldn't have gotten even this far after all. I think longingly of my wallet with cash-which is still back at the schoolhouse. Almost all my possessions are back there.

But it doesn't matter. Possessions are completely worthless compared to your life, your freedom. I will never take anything for granted again.

Soon I will be free. In hindsight I can see the flaws of my recent escape. I was hasty, didn't put that planning into it, there was some supplies I should have taken....but it's not like I've had a lot of life experience escaping from monsters, and I'm determined to not to have to do it again.

My thoughts drift from the past to the future. I realize I'm going to have trouble thinking about this, I put my arm around my stomach. What will happen what would they do? A blurry parade of options passes before me. My family will help, but what will they do? In a way I feel relief, the decision will be out of my hands. Would they even believe me.? Now I regret not taking something else-proof of the Creeper's existence. Then I chide myself for being stupid. The proof will come in a few months I feel sharp little pains all inside my stomach.

I have to calm myself down, I can't think about this. I can't lose focus. I don't think of the future. Just a little goal in front of me.: Get to the town. Then: Get to a phone.

I know I have to stop crying, stop acting like a weak little girl. I have to be strong. How ashamed I feel of myself, how incompetent I feel! I just focus on the goal, the cute, quaint safe little town.

I've seen nothing that can tell me how far away it is, or if it even exists. I once passed a sign but I was going too fast to read it, and I didn't feel like going back to look at it. I'm sure it's just ahead; just another bend and I'll see it.

I catch her scent. I see a human hive of activity in the distance. Bright lights push back the darkness and I hear in the distance the rumble of heavy trucks. I grow excited, surely she came here. I knew she would run back to her own kind. Whether or not they would accept her is another matter.

The truck makes a familiar sputtering sound, "Oh noooo" I moan, even though I no it's inevitable, the needle is down, and I recognize this sound. The truck is out of gas.

Don't panic. I try to reassure myself. I knew it would happen eventually, I just hoped I would make it to the town first. I try restarting the car, but it won't, it refuses me. I have no choice, I have to walk it.

I think I can see lights in the distance, which comforts me. I start hiking on the desolate gravelly road. I'm in my pajamas, I have on a coat and some shoes. This is all I have.

The moonlight fades, and I look up fearfully, dark clouds. The tall wild-looking grass sways. I hear a coyote howl in the distance.

I walk faster.

I am fascinated. I am always fascinated with her scent, and I can smell hers all around.

This is not a very settled area, merely a few dirty looking buildings, and large trucks hauling big white boxes in the back.

I wonder if she is here. I try to catch her scent again. Most humans don't notice. There are not many here, I sniff around discreetly. The few humans continue on, oblivious as always.

I trace the scent to one of the trucks, a tall man dressed in black leans against his truck, smoking nonchalantly.

I dislike the scent, but underneath I can smell something. I can smell her. Circling around cautiously and staying in the shadows I observe the man. Another is pumping something into his big truck, it smells like fuel.

When he is done the man pumping the fuel goes to the man smoking. He casually flicks the object in his mouth onto the ground, which he stamps on with his boot.

I take a moment to admire his boots.

I look up for a moment and see the man with the boots hand the other some money. They say something, I can't quite hear what, then they depart.

I circle around again, I doubt the woman is here, perhaps she is with the man with the boots, the thought which enrages me. I see no sign of her. He gets into his truck and starts it up. I sniff the air again.

The big truck lumbers off and I land discreetly on to it, feeling the wind in my hair, feeling the excitement of another hunt.

John "Snakeskin" Rutherford picked up the speaker on his radio, hoping to contact his friend. He got his CB radio handle from the fancy snakeskin boots he always wore. He was very proud of them, and kept them spotless.

He was also feeling a nice warm sense of satisfaction one gets when helping someone who desperately needed it.

She looked so sad and pitiful, asking the waitress for a phone then looked close to tears when she ran out of the diner. Later he eavesdropped on her conversation with the gas station manager. She was stranded, poor thing.

It was surprising how she reacted though, twisting away from the sound of his boot steps like a frightened cat. Initially very wary and edgy around him she eventually seemed to realize his intentions were good and gratefully took his money for gas.

She had very long, somewhat matted looking hair, and was oddly dressed. It looked she was wearing a coat over pajamas.

What he remembered most however was her eyes: big, dark and desperate. He suspected she was pregnant underneath odd looking clothes.

"Ricochet you there?" he spoke into his radio, searching for a friend he knew should be around here. He was about to repeat his friend's call sign again when he heard a loud THUMP on the roof of his cab.

He stopped talking abruptly, wondering what the hell that was. The radio crackled slightly, he put the piece he was holding back into its holder. As he did so he caught a flash of something horrible in the corner of his eye.

He swerved his rig around slightly in panic, then caught himself. Luckily there was no else around to injure on the road. He shifted and slowed down his truck. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

John was still nervous, but already halfway convincing himself it was nothing. It was just my imagination, nothing to worry ab- "AHHHHHH!"he erupted out loud as his newly regained calm was shattered by the fact a hideous dark claw had punched it's way through the roof of his truck.

He screamed shrilly as he swerved around the road, trying to dodge the blindly groping claw. Having the good sense to keep his foot firmly on the brake he threw himself sideways onto his seat. The rig screeched to a halt. When he looked up, the hand was gone.

But the hole was still there.

The crucifix he kept hanging and his mirror was swinging slightly, and tapping his windshield gently. Tap, tap, tap. It was the only sound in the air.

The world beyond his glaring headlights was dark and foreboding. He groped in his glove compartment for his pistol. He knew he couldn't just sit there under the hole so, still scared out of his wits, he quickly opened his door and got out, quickly.

He hoped to see whatever was on his roof immediately but nothing was there.

John took a deep shaking breath. He knew what he saw. He wasn't crazy. He looked around. Nothing. Some trees moved genly in the breeze. Highway Nine looked peaceful.

It seemed all he had heard came flooding back in an instant, all the stories told about this place blurred through his head, on top of which was a young girl's warning. A girl who looked at him with big desperate eyes.

He swiftly turned around, cocking his gun.

No one was there. But he felt eyes on him.

The monster crept closer. He had looked in the truck and found no sign of the girl, to his disappointment, but the man still intrigued him.

After no one seemed around he turned back to his truck. Unfortunately someone was already waiting for him there.

--------

I paused to unstick some burrs from my body and pebbles from my shoe. I am tired already. My stomach hurts. I am heavier and much less energetic now than I was a few months ago.

I can't see the awful BEATNGU anymore, and the town definitely seems closer. I think I can even see a hint of dawn over the horizon. However the moon has long since set, and it's terribly dark.

I've heard coyotes in the distance, and at one point I though they were coming closer. I think I'm too big to be attacked by a coyote, but I carried a few heavy stones just in case. After a while I just got so tired I dropped them.

Just a few minutes, I think. A few minutes to recover.

No, I tell myself. Just get to the town, then you can rest.

I keep trudging forward.

After relieving him of his boots, hat and some of his skin, I can only smell a brief connection to the Breeder. They met, and maybe touched briefly. The thought makes me feel uneasiness.

He moaned and thrashed pitifully, I found a small bed in the back and I wrapped the weakened man into one of his white sheets and stuck him in there out of the way. He moaned weakly, occasionally.

Despite my anger and desperation to find her I was delighted with the truck. It had much more powerful than my usual one. I was able to turn it around and barrel it down the correct direction of the highway, to where I knew the Breeder went. A little torture idol on a string swung around as I did so.

On my way a crackling caught my attention.

"Hey Snakeskin."

I ignored the voice coming from the radio.

"Hey Snakeskin ya there?"

I pushed some buttons, not understanding how such a thing worked. It crackled and hissed.

"Snakeskin buddy, you ok? Talk to me man." The voice sounded worried. I picked up a piece at the end of a long curly wire, fully intending to break it and silence the noise.

However as I did a notion came over me and I smiled slightly.

"Snakeskin it's Richochet, wha-" I clicked the button.

"Rick-o-shay." I rasped out. He interrupted me. "Who is this?! Where is Snakeskin?" the voice demanded.

"This is Eater," I said, then added. "Snakeskin's been skinned!"

--------

It had happened very suddenly. I stopped, out of breath, keeping an eye on the lights of the tiny little town. I gasped, not much farther now.

As he drove recklessly down the side spur that led to the little town he nearly slammed into his own beloved truck, left in the middle in the road.

The monster screeched to halt, kicking up tons of dust. The man in the back rolled forward and groaned in agony. Sniffing wildly he jumped out of the truck and ran to the smaller black one.

Its door was still open, his inhaling became frantic. She was not in here. He sniffed the ground, she had fled on foot. He took to the air.

-----------

I was pushing myself onward when it came out of nowhere.

By the time I had processed the fact that something was behind me my coat and pajama top and already been pulled over my head and I was being dragged brutally back.

Of course I screamed. I screamed and screamed but no one came. I felt like a rag doll, a strong arm pulled me heedlessly across the rocky ground. I kicked uselessly. In my desperation I hit my feet to the ground and realized I can try some resistance. I dug my heels into the round, my captor merely gave me a harder yank and my right shoe fell off. I struggled ferociously, so hysterical that couldn't think straight, I realized later how foolish I was to resist. But all he did was merely tighten his grip and dig his fingers into my flesh.

The next thing I remember is was being slammed onto a flat hard surface. I screamed again. My captor did not respond in any way. I could feel my pajama bottoms being ripped. I called for God, my mother, anybody. No one came and interfered.

I remember his hand still holding my shirt over my head, I couldn't see him. I remember one of the buttons was caught in my mouth. I remember feeling horribly stifled.

A lot of what happened that night is now just a painful blur, or a black out. Every time I think about it my mind winces and closes, trying to protect me from such a painful wound.

For a moment I wondered if this was even the Creeper, since it seemed so different from before. There was no passionate licking or sniffing. He didn't eagerly dip is head in between my legs. For some reason the possibility of being kidnapped and taken by a complete stranger horrified me even more.

He just pounded brutally and angrily into me. It hurt, a lot. I think it hurt even worse than the first time, and I had been a virgin then. I don't how long it took, longer than usual. Several times he stopped, growling. When I thought he was done he merely did it again.

And again.

"Oh God." I moaned to myself. I think he went on all night.

When I though he was finally done, I was weeping, begging. I was a puddle. I think I peed myself in terror.

"Please," was all I could say coherently. "Please, please." I had never felt such pain before in my life. I could barely breathe for the crying, and my cries were nearly silent because I was so overwhelmed. I just laid there shuddering and choking.

I saw indeed it was the Creeper; he looked at me without expression. I knew he was enraged. He liked to manipulate me, liked me to feel pleasure while he did horrible things to me. Now he didn't bother, he just hurt me.

I also realized where I was, in the back of his truck. I was laying face up, the doors were open around me. My legs dangled down, or they would have if he wasn't holding them and spreading them apart painfully.

When he was done using me he simply heaved me up and tossed me fully in the back. Like I was a sack of garbage.

Wait, I thought because I didn't have the strength to say it out loud, but he already slammed the door shut. I caught one last glimpse of his cruel, angry face.

How long I laid there I don't know. I thought I heard him going to the driver's seat and trying to start it, which of course it wouldn't do. I thought I heard him go off into the distance, but what he was doing there I couldn't guess. Instead I heard noises coming from the side of the truck.

The next thing I could remember was an uncomfortable jostling. With every jolt from the road a searing pain shot in between my legs. I didn't know if my eyes were open or closed; it was too dark to tell. But I realized that we were moving, going back up the road.

Going back to hell.

I might've cried, if I wasn't crying constantly already.

It smelled awful in here. It smelled only of rot and death. I felt like gagging with each breath, it only contributed to my difficulties breathing. The noxious scent was so thick I could taste it.

For a long while I simply laid there, weaving in and out of consciousness, completely limp. After some time, I don't know how much, I tried to stand, I fell over. I stayed there for a while then I tried again, the car made a particular hard swerve and toppled over again.

I thought he did it on purpose.

The third time I managed to get to my feet and cling for dear life to one of the doors I wailed in agony, but the truck did not slow. I groped blindly for a handle but of course there was none. I was trapped.

My bare foot touched something wet and sticky. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. The horror struck me what have been laying on? I could feel several lumpy things. I could feel sharp things crusted with some dried fluid. It didn't take a lot to imagine what all this was.

I began to feel dizzy, I couldn't breathe. Claustrophobia was setting in. I began banging on the doors, screaming, wanting them to break open and pitch me onto the road. I broke away from the useless doors and tripped over the lumpy things and began banging on the back, where he knew he could here me.

"LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT PLEASE." I screamed in hysteria. The skin on my fist scraped loose with the force of my pounding. "LET ME OUT, I'LL NEVER RUN AGAIN. P-P-PLEASE!" I sank down to my knees. I banged again, "CAN'T BREATHE!" I screeched. "I CAN'T BREATHE!"

After what seemed like forever the truck finally swerved and stopped. I curled up in the back.

The doors opened again, letting the grey dawn light flood in. I cowered and hid my face, but he dragged me out. He treated me like an inanimate object, dragging me along wherever he wanted. He trussed me up with my hands behind my back, cutting off my circulation. He tossed me in the front seat. I didn't remember much else.

--------

After this I wished I hadn't run. It made everything only more difficult. I was so afraid of his 'punishment' that I cowered and cringed like a beaten dog. Not that he ever hit me with his hands or any other object, even after my escape attempt, but now he was much harsher, far more brutal. I was bound in some way almost every minute of the day. I was forced viciously, and he was no where near as gentle as before, I was often bitten and scratched painfully. He still took care of me, made sure I would eat or wasn't hurt but there was a wall of ice between us now. He never spoke to me, and I just trembled in his presence. All of my rebellion was gone.

The next few months I thought of as the Crying Time for I was rarely not tied up and in tears. I had far less freedom then I ever had before.

--------

There were rumors floating around. There always were, but now they were flying thick and fast. Often they were different versions of the same one. He wandered from town to town. To every dusty hamlet on the map and a few that weren't. He visited every bar, every roadhouse, every diner. To where there could be people, clues.

The Hunter had expected there to be stories, rumors and unease, but what he hadn't expected was the reaction. Whenever a story was related to him he saw laughter. Every campfire tale and legend and anecdote, was related with humor, no matter how gruesome the subject matter. He could tell they were laughing it off. He didn't blame them, he knew he would too. If he didn't know better he would see it on the surface it was ridiculous.

But he began to notice something else. Every bit of laughter had a subtle undercurrent of nervousness in it. Despite how wide their smiles got their eyes betrayed their innate fear. It was a visceral, primal fear. Something that couldn't be denied, yet they tried and tried. They turned away from the horror. They couldn't cope.

He wondered how he coped sometimes.

The Hunter decided to not disguise himself. He knew he couldn't pass as a reporter or other curious outsider, and in his mind it felt vaguely dishonest. He would just be a rubbernecking local, swapping stories and rumors like the rest of them.

It took a while, at first it was vague. Yeah I heard some tourist went missing around here. Dumb city folk probably got lost they'll find them soon enough. He got hit by a car, that's what I read in the paper. It was just a silly story my friend's cousin told me Then came more substantial news. He took every newspaper he could get, he learned to be patient and extract information slowly.

His police radio was good, and he knew cops could be as gossipy as old hairdressers to each other, but were tight-lipped with civilians. He found a gold mine in the lonely old men who always seemed to sit on the porches in front of general stores. At a gun store in Poho he was able to talk for hours with patrons, always steering the conversation to the rumors and murders. He saw a lot of people there that day; the gunsmith did a roaring trade. He picked up some extra ammo.

At first he thought he could sleep in the cab of his truck, enjoy the stars, like he did when he was a kid, but the situation made him uneasy. After one night with the constellations he checked into a motel. This did little to relieve his unease, they were mostly horrible ratty places, the kind of place you expect to be run by Norman Bates. Motel 8 was the closest he could get to comfortable. But then again he didn't really expect to be comfortable on this expedition.

He wandered like a gypsy, marking every incident, (no matter how insubstantial it seemed) he heard of or came across on his map. Poho, Perwilla, Kisle, Bannon, Shiloh, Lincoln, Big Rock, Wheaton, he followed the gory trail of murder across the counties.

He could start to see a pattern somewhat on the map. He wondered why no one else saw it, until he remembered the denial and fear in people's eyes.

He was lounging on his motel bed, falling into the big valley in the center. He was about to drift off, having finished watching the news report, when a sudden noise made him jump.

He was about halfway off his bed with his peacemaker in his hand before he realized it was just his police radio crackling to life. He sighed and nearly turned it off, then heard one thing that caught his attention.

"Yeah we got some rig-jockey that hurt himself pretty bad down that side spur road off the nine, you know towards Sheldon? He's still a couple miles outside the town though, we need a bus out there pronto."

He flipped the machine off.

It wasn't until the next day he realized that it was important.

The story had spread quickly over the trucking community.. He quickly began stopping at bars and restaurants that were on main trucking routes. He was greeted by grim faces and grimmer news.

"Snakeskin" as he was known on the CB network had just finished fueling up and was heading down the Nine, having just come from Spur Road. The company who hired him was still "investigating" the GPS records of his truck but it was rumored that he had suddenly turned around back to The Spur for some unknown reason.

Then there was voice.

"The Voice?" He asked, forgetting his decision not to appear eager.

The trucker in the red cap eyed him warily, and then frowned into his coffee mug. The Hunter signaled a waitress and quickly paid for it. The trucker took a long slow sip. He couldn't help but look anxious as he waited him to finish.

"They say after Snakskin turnin' hisself around there was voice askin' fer him on his CB. Said: 'Snakeskin? Where the hell are ya buddy?' no response, so he said. "Snakeskin, whaterya doin'? ' then they say they here clicking and static weird noises like that. Like someone was turnin' it on 'n' off. Then he asks for Snakeskin for a third time. Then the Voice came, they say it weren't Snakeskin's voice, but somethin' horrible like. Like no man no one's ever heard before." He took another sip.

The man was quietly agog, and let him continue.

"He said, 'Sorry, Snakeskin's been skinned!'"

He found the side spur to Sheldon pretty easy enough. The town was small, and he didn't bother going in it. He found what he needed on the highway.

The truck was still there, to his surprise, although roped off with yellow police tape. He figured it was they would haul it away for evidence soon. Predictably it was locked. He noticed dust on the car handle.

He was a fair tracker, his father having taught him on their many hunting trips. He let out a sigh in happy reminiscence, then focused on the task at hand.

The road was rough, mostly gravel and dirt, and the tracks were a few days old at any rate. He thought he could see the big rig's tires, then a second truck down the road. A second truck? He thought. That's what it looked like, a second smaller truck.

"Damnit" he cursed, as he squatted down along the road. A lot of the tracks became blurred; the vehicle tracks were the clearest ones. Maybe there was footprints. Maybe. It was hard to tell.

He heard a crack, like a twig snapping. He quickly looked up, he saw nothing. The sides of the road were just plain dirt and buffalo grass. He poked around carefully. He could see some moved bushes and flattened down grass. Whether this was from an animal or a human or…something else, he couldn't tell.

The signs were unclear, and he was about to give up and go into town and start looking around there. When something caught his eye.

The road was more disturbed here he noted. It was scuffed, with gouge lines. As The Hunter studied at the churned up dirt, something caught the very corner of his eye. At first he thought it was a rock, but it was too black. Then he dismissed it as a piece of tire or other road trash. But the image kept nagging at his mind. He approached it cautiously. He had to study it for a second, then it registered in his mind: A shoe.

No exactly completely out of place. People lost or threw stuff out on the roads all the time. It still struck him as eerie. The shoe was lying on its side, its laces were loose but still tied. He picked it up the shoe gingerly with one finger.

He wished he had a pencil or a stick or something, that way he wouldn't sully the evidence. He shook his head; you've been watching too many crime shows. He told himself.

When he held it he was struck by how small it was. It almost fit inside his hand. It was a black sneaker, very worn.

Whatever was written on it was faded, but he was able to guess 61/2 maybe 7. The faded "W" told him it was a woman's shoe, but he could have guessed that much himself.

Wait. Something jarred him. The trucker wasn't a woman, and he had gotten his handle from the big snakeskin boots he wore, or so he gathered. The little sneaker just didn't fit.

He puzzled over the shoe, considering to write at off as road junk, but something made him keep it. He turned the shoe over again in his hands. He kept it.

He still didn't feel like sullying the shoe so he wrapped it carefully in old plastic and sat it in the passenger's seat, where he continued to stare at it.

It intrigued him, but a disturbing thought began to blossom in his head, something irritating and horrifying, he wanted solve the puzzle but couldn't, and wasn't sure he wanted to. The Hunter suddenly understood the mentality of the people who flatly denied what he knew was true. He had been raised with the truth, touched the evidence with his own hands. As a result he began to look with contempt with those who deliberately kept themselves blind.

Now a part of him might be groping towards a deeper truth and his mind shied away form it like a nervous horse. He glanced back uneasily; the tiny little shoe frightened him.

Out of nowhere he felt tired. Very tired. The crappy diner food and the crappier motel rooms were taking its toll. He suddenly wanted to go home. He pulled out his map. All along the Nine were little red X's. These were murders or disappearances that he heard about. It didn't look to be near his farm thank God; otherwise he would have called his mother immediately.

He thought he could make it home. He would rest, eat a decent meal, and ask his mother about the first brake that he thought he found.

The Hunter headed home.

----------------------------------------

Ah how appropriate to post today, the Day of the Dead. Yesterday, Halloween, marked the two year anniversary of my love for Jeepers Creepers. How I feel old. I came home after a long hard night of taking my cousins trick-or-treating. I come home, flop on my bed, and who do I find on TV? Yes our buddy the Creeper.

See I knew of the movies before, they came out a few years earlier, but I hadn't paid much attention to them. That Halloween night was the first time I watched one of the movies, I sat shivering with anticipation on my bed watching this wicked awesome monster sniffing around a stranded school bus. I couldn't stop thinking about it. The next day I went on to and looked for some stories, the rest is history.

Suffice to say I'm glad I watched that movie two years ago. I've made wonderful freaky friends from the JC fan community.