I was sixteen when it happened, walking home from my part-time job at Tesco in Bristol. It was early October, so the sun was already setting by the time my shift ended at half-five. Looking back, I realize I should have called my mum for a ride, but I didn’t want to seem paranoid. It was only a twenty-minute walk, you know? I’d done it dozens of times.
The first time I saw the van, I didn’t think much of it. White transit van, a bit battered, parked on the corner near the roundabout. The kind you see everywhere in the UK. But as I walked past, I noticed the driver watching me in his side mirror. Not just a glance—proper staring. His eyes were locked on me, unblinking.
I felt my stomach tighten, but I kept walking. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, I told myself. He’s probably waiting for someone.
About five minutes later, I heard an engine behind me. I didn’t turn around immediately, but when I did, my heart sank. The same white van, crawling along the road at walking pace, maybe fifteen feet behind me. The street was mostly empty—just a few parked cars and closed shops. No one else around.
I picked up my pace. The van matched my speed.
“Alright, love?” a voice called out. I glanced over. The driver had rolled down his window. He looked about forty, wearing a dark hoodie, with this weird smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You lost?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” I said, not stopping. My hands were shaking in my jacket pockets.
“You sure? It’s getting dark. I can give you a lift.” He was keeping perfect pace with me now, one hand on the wheel, the other arm hanging out the window.
“I’m good, honestly. My house is just up here.” I lied, obviously. I still had another ten minutes of walking through increasingly empty streets.
“Come on, don’t be like that. It’s not safe for a young girl to be walking alone.” The way he said young girl made my skin crawl. His eyes opened wider than they should have, like he was trying too hard to look friendly. “I insist.”
I didn’t answer. I just turned down Maple Road, hoping he’d drive off. But the van turned too, mounting the curb slightly with a horrible scraping sound. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
That’s when I started properly panicking. I mean, I’d read about this stuff online, watched the videos about staying safe, but when it’s actually happening to you, your brain sort of freezes. I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers, trying to look like I was calling someone.
“Who you calling?” His voice had changed. Less friendly. More aggressive. “I’m just trying to help you, and you’re being rude.”
The van suddenly lurched forward and screeched to a stop directly in front of me, blocking my path. The back doors were facing me. I stopped dead, my entire body going cold.
The driver’s door opened.
I should have trusted my instincts the moment I saw him staring. I should have run immediately. But I’d wasted time trying not to seem crazy, trying not to be impolite to a strange man who was clearly following me.
He stepped out. Tall. Wearing gloves. In October. The sun was almost completely down now, and the streetlights hadn’t come on yet. This stretch of Maple Road was residential, but all the curtains were closed. No one was watching.
“Just get in the van,” he said, not smiling anymore. “Don’t make this difficult.”
Something in his voice—that flat, matter-of-fact tone—made me move. I spun around and ran. Not toward home, but back toward the main road, toward where I knew there’d be people and lights and cameras.
I heard his footsteps behind me. Heavy. Fast.
“Get back here!” he shouted, and I heard something metallic jingling. Keys? Handcuffs? I didn’t look back.
My lungs were burning. I’ve never been athletic, and my work shoes weren’t made for running, but pure terror kept me going. I could hear the van’s engine starting up again behind me, the tyres squealing.
I saw the Tesco sign glowing in the distance and pushed harder. My phone was still clutched in my hand, and I finally managed to press my mum’s number. It rang once. Twice.
“Hannah? You alright, love?”
“Mum!” I was sobbing now, still running. “There’s a man—a van—he’s chasing me—”
“Where are you?”
“Near Tesco, I’m running back—”
“Stay on the main road! I’m calling the police right now. Don’t hang up!”
I burst onto the main road just as the van came around the corner. But there were people here. A couple walking their dog. A group of teenagers smoking outside the off-license. The van slowed, then stopped. Through the windscreen, I saw the driver staring at me. Even from that distance, I could see his expression—cold, calculating. Then he reversed sharply and drove off in the opposite direction.
The police came. Took my statement. Said they’d look for the van, but I never heard anything more about it. Basically, without a license plate number or clearer description, there wasn’t much they could do.
My mum picks me up from work now. Every single shift, no arguments. I don’t walk anywhere alone when it’s getting dark, and I probably never will again. Sometimes I have nightmares about those back doors of the van opening, about what might have been inside.
To this day, I still see white transit vans everywhere. And every time, I feel my heart drop, just for a second. I wonder if he’s still out there, still driving around, still looking. I wonder if anyone else got into that van.
I hope not.
I’ll never forget his eyes in that mirror, watching me. Like I was something he was hunting.
