The Devil’s Road: A Haunting Thriller Inspired by True Highway Serial Killings
Follow the Enigmatic Driver’s Trail of Bloodshed – Daily Chapter Releases Leading to a Gripping Halloween Finale!
With Halloween just around the corner, I couldn’t think of a better time to bring you, my Faithful Rambler, to the end of Part 1 of The Devil’s Road. Now six chapters in, I want to offer a refresher for any New Witnesses to the trail of bloodshed left behind by our enigmatic Driver. His identity remains a mystery—for now—but Part 2 may finally bring the truth to light.
Over the next several days, you’ll receive a daily treat: the completed chapters 1–4, followed by new releases for chapters 5 and 6, and a full issue of Part 1 on Halloween. So, buckle up, steer clear of truck stops catering to lonesome long-haul drivers, and don’t forget to share this gothic tale, inspired by the true crime stories of serial killers who haunt the highways of the South.
In 2004 an Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations analyst discovered a crime pattern along the Interstate 40 corridor between Oklahoma and Mississippi. Subsequently, The Federal Bureau of Investigations (F.B.I.) started the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They discovered over 500 bodies of women along the interstate highway system with more than 200 potential suspects, a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. The Devil’s Road is a serialized novel based on this horrific discovery.



Chapter 1: The Dance
issue one — gore, oklahoma
Storm clouds stretch across the open, empty plains of an Oklahoma skyline like a goose-down blanket protecting against the horrors that might exist on the other side. Rain lightly patters on the warm blacktop road. Steam rises as the pavement releases the heat of the day. Of all the days to take a ride across the prairie without air conditioning, today was a bad choice.
A shit-brown Chevy Caprice with Arkansas plates rolls down the highway toward a building in the distance: the Gore Motel. Despite its name, taken from the nearby incorporated township of Gore, Oklahoma, the two-story roadside cinderblock building is nothing short of quaint. The flowerbed, full of colorful petunias, gives an air of frivolity, and the large pink flamingos that line the roadside could make your lip curl with a wry smile—if you were in the proper mood.
The Caprice pulls into the parking lot in front of unit 107. The driver slides the shifter into park, turns off the motor, but leaves the battery running. “The Dance” by Garth Brooks plays from the tinny, busted speakers on the dash.
A mousy-looking lady sits in the front seat. She seems nervous and uncertain. We’ll call her Sandy.
Sandy opens her purse, pushes aside a palm-sized .22 pistol, and pulls out a pack of Capri menthol 120s. She glances up at the driver to make sure he didn’t see the weapon. “Mind if I smoke?” The driver doesn’t respond, just keeps listening to Garth.
The sun peaks from between the clouds as Sandy opens the passenger door. She walks under the balcony of the second-floor walkway, looking for some cover and to keep dry.
She lights her cigarette and takes a long pull. It calms her. The red wig on her head has slipped a bit, so she adjusts it to stay in place.
One of her press-on nails snaps loose and falls to the concrete at her feet. She’s never gotten used to all the effort this line of work requires. She looks at the remaining soldiers at the ends of her fingers, wondering if she should just pull off the rest. They’re Tiffany blue, her favorite color.
Garth’s song finishes, and the radio DJ starts warning about a wave of storms coming through the area. The driver turns off the radio and climbs out of the Caprice. His work boots crunch in the gravel parking lot. He’s a heavy walker.
“I ain’t payin’ you to smoke.” The driver takes the cigarette out of Sandy’s hand and thumps it into the rain just starting to fall. A crack of lightning sparkles across the daylight sky.
“He gave her a good smack on that one,” Sandy says as she reaches into the driver’s pocket and pulls out the hotel key. The driver gives her a confused look.
“Ain’t you never heard the expression, ‘the Devil’s beatin’ his wife’?”
“No.” He takes the key from Sandy, unlocks the door, and goes inside. Sandy looks at the half-smoked cigarette smoldering in the gravel of the parking lot, daring the drops of rain to find it. They’re nearly three dollars a pack now. She walks into the rain, picks it up, takes another long pull, and then another as she exhales through her nose. She drops it and crushes it with the heel of her boot. No sense in wasting it.
She looks up at the sky, watching the drops fall around her, on top of her, and opens her mouth to let it drip inside. Rain’s supposed to be sweet, according to the poets, but this rain is just wet.
issue two — a siren song
Sandy flips on the tiny light over the vanity in the motel room bathroom. She leans into the mirror, searching for runs in her mascara and lipstick. She smiles. The unflattering downlight exposes her misshapen jawline and teeth. The smile fades, but she keeps her lips parted, examining. She always had such a beautiful smile as a child.
Sandy sets her purse in the sink and unzips it again. She pulls out the small .22 pistol, unscrews the cylinder pin, and rolls the cylinder into her palm. Two bullets are spent, leaving her with only three shots if she needs them.
She removes the spent .22s, tosses them in the toilet, pushes the cylinder back into the pistol, replaces the pin, and flushes. She watches as the empty casings spin in the watery tornado and disappear down the drain.
One eye squints as she stares down the iron sights with the other. She pulls back the hammer and watches the unspent round roll toward the barrel. She uncocks the gun and slides it into her boot. Her blouse comes off, and her skirt slips to the floor. She looks at herself again and smiles in her underwear, this time remembering to keep her lips locked together.
Her hand hovers over the doorknob, but something pulls her in a different direction. She glances back at the sink. Both hands dive into her purse, rummaging for something she’d rather leave untouched. She can’t find it.
She dumps the purse’s contents into the sink and finds a small baggie with little white-bluish rocks inside—crystal meth. She pulls out one of the crystals, a pipe, and a lighter, and begins her ritual. When the smoke finally enters her lungs, she smiles. There’s a tingle in the back of her throat. This is going to be a nice one.
She slowly exhales through her nostrils, maximizing the chance to get a direct shot into her bloodstream. The warm, welcomed buzz starts at the back of her head, envelops her skull, and then slowly flows down through her body until it reaches the floor. She’s grounded, ready. She kills the light and opens the door to the hotel room.
issue three — polaroids
Sandy pushes open the bathroom door and reenters the motel room. The curtains are pulled closed, and it’s clear the storm has worsened. There’s barely any sunlight filtering through the shades, and the lights are off. One of the two motel beds has been stripped. Sheets and covers lie on the floor. The Driver appears to be gone.
She steps further into the room, checking the closet. Nothing.
“We playin’ hide and seek, sweetie?”
Polaroids are scattered across the bare mattress. The warm calm from the meth begins to shift. That little voice of warning starts whispering in her ear. This isn’t good. The buzzy warmth turns into a sting. She feels pressure mounting in her chest as she leans over to look at the photos on the bed.
Broken, beaten, bloody bodies fill each picture. She picks one up. In the photo, a woman’s face stares back at her. One eye is swollen shut; the other, once blue, now has a milky white finish. A few strands of her red hair are matted in the dried blood around her ears. Sandy drops the Polaroid. The other photos show more of the same. Different women, some alive… some not.
A soft sliding noise echoes in the room. Sandy’s eyes dart around, searching the dim light for movement. She backs toward the front door, fumbling along the wall for the light switch. At the same time, she unconsciously tugs at the red wig still on her head, dislodging the pins. It slips from her fingers and falls to the floor, forgotten.
She finds the switch, and light floods the room. She’s alone. She goes to the window and pulls back the curtain. The car is still parked outside. Then she hears the sliding noise again and spins on her heels. Again, nothing.
The gun. She pulls at the zipper on her boot. There’s a metal-on-metal creak as the bathroom door slowly swings closed. Sandy’s fingers find the .22. She looks up just in time to see a blur of flesh charging at her. The white, bloated, naked body of the Driver flashes across the room, swinging a wooden club that connects with her face. Everything goes black.
Sandy’s hands lie palm-up in her lap. The hemp rope around her wrists hasn’t left her skin raw yet because she’s unconscious. Same for her ankles and midsection, all tied to the chair. There’s a bit of dried blood on her forehead from the club’s impact. Otherwise, you might think she was peacefully sleeping.
The Driver sits on the bare mattress behind her, flipping through his photos, waiting for Sandy to wake. Her head rolls from one shoulder to the other. It’s nearly time.
He rolls her head straight back, exposing her neck. Sandy’s head dangles, her mouth open, long, deep breaths escaping as she struggles to regain consciousness. The Driver uses a plastic comb to brush her hair out of her face and begins to reapply the wig. It’s a difficult process with worn leather work gloves, but he’s patient, meticulous. He continues to pin it as he stands over Sandy, looking down at her face, her looking up at his. Her eyelids flutter.
A tickling sensation fills Sandy’s head as the Driver whispers in her ear. “You think that when you look at folks, you see ‘em, but you don’t. Truth is, nobody wants to be seen. We hide in our little lives, in worlds we create so that others never really find out who we are.” He finishes repining the wig and walks to the bathroom.
“The real person lives just under the surface of the skin. Maybe they’re a good person, maybe they’re not. Doesn’t matter.” He returns with a washcloth and wipes the blood from her face.
“All we get is the show they put on. The image they want us to see. The mask they wear. But if you’re lucky, you get to see what’s underneath… underneath all those lies.” He takes off one glove and softly caresses her cheek, skin to skin.
A shock runs through her body as the world reignites in her eyes. She opens her mouth to scream, but a gag quickly covers her attempt.
“Shhh. I’m not finished.” She sees the Driver standing behind her in the mirror over the dresser. He’s nude except for the work gloves and a short wooden bat hanging from his wrist by a leather strap. She bites and pulls at the gag with her teeth.
“Look at me,” he says. She closes her eyes and turns her head. He grabs her skull and forces her face back to the mirror, squeezing.
“LOOK,” he repeats. Sandy’s large brown eyes open, and he loosens his grip. She manages a muffled, “fuck you.”
“This is the raw, the real. There’s no mask here, and now I’m going to do the same for you.” He reaches down to the bed and shuffles through the Polaroids until he finds what he’s looking for.
Sandy hears the click, click, click as the box cutter blade in the Driver’s hand opens. She pulls at her bonds with everything left in her body. She tries to scream but can’t find her voice. The rope won’t give, but the chair’s old. It cracks and creaks as she strains its joints.
“Hold still.” The Driver tries to grab her face, but she squirms away. One of the chair legs begins to crack. He slaps her, and the momentum of the hit sends her to the floor. The chair leg snaps, and one of her legs is free.
The Driver leans over her to pull her back up, and she kicks out, hitting his nose. It snaps under her heel, and blood explodes across his face and eyes. She pulls at her other ankle, slipping it free from the bottom of the chair. She slides her hands down her legs, undoing the knots around her wrists.
Leaning over the sink, the Driver watches his nose drip into the bowl as he examines himself in the mirror. He’s forgotten his prey.
Sandy wiggles free from the bonds around her chest and stomach. She’s on her feet and launches for the door. Daylight floods the room as she rips it open. She’s going to live—and then the world goes black again.
When her body hits the ground in front of room 107, it makes a wet smack as her head finds a puddle in the gravel. The Driver glances around the parking lot as he stands over her, naked. He’s alone.
The storm has passed, and the sun is setting over the prairie. The normally brown and barren landscape turns golden in the low sunshine, and the clouds that once threatened rain now glow pink and purple. It’s an Oklahoma postcard: “Visit Gore, Oklahoma!” emblazoned in bold font over the picture-perfect sunset in contrasting bright colors.
The Driver leans over, grabs Sandy by the feet, drags her inside, and shuts the door.
Tomorrow, we meet our hero, Sheriff Samantha Hart, whose heart is as weathered as the sun-baked soil of the Oklahoma plains, burdened by the weight of too many lost and forgotten souls.
If this week’s issue got your blood pumping, refer a fellow traveler to join the ride and unlock some devilishly good rewards!
The Devil’s Deal:
REFER 2 FRIENDS: Unlock 1 month of The Devil’s Road for free—no strings attached.
REFER 5 FRIENDS: Claim 3 months free, plus a PDF copy of The Devil’s Road pilot screenplay. Step deeper into the darkness.
REFER 10 FRIENDS: Score 6 months free, along with a signed, mailed copy of The Devil’s Road pilot screenplay—your own piece of the story, right in your hands.With Halloween just around the corner, I couldn’t think of a better time to bring you, my Faithful Rambler, to the end of Part 1 of The Devil’s Road. Now six chapters in, I want to offer a refresher for any New Witnesses to the trail of bloodshed left behind by our enigmatic Driver. His identity remains a mystery—for now—but Part 2 may finally bring the truth to light.