Have Eyes - Doug Hills

Mickey sped up. A mile later, there were two of them. Then four. Then a dozen. They stood on the crests of the hills, silhouetted against the stars, their heads turning in unison to track the Jeep. Not hostile. Not hunting. Just observing , with a patience that felt older than the asphalt.

That’s what the truckers told Mickey, anyway, as he pumped their gas at the last real stop for sixty miles. “Don’t take the Old Cut Road,” they’d say, tapping a finger on his counter. “Not even for a shortcut. The Hills have eyes.” doug hills have eyes

“You idiot,” Mickey said, but his heart was already a cold fist in his chest. “Stay in the car. Lock the doors.” Mickey sped up