It seems like something is locked inside my RV.
The raw meat in the camper fridge keeps mysteriously disappearing, and late at night I sometimes hear chewing sounds.
When I bought the vehicle, the previous owner repeatedly warned me:
"The storage compartment under the chassis has been welded shut for insulation. Don't you dare take it apart."
In my previous life, I thought a giant rat had gotten into the vehicle.
Until, at a rest stop, I lifted the hatch beneath the bed and came face-to-face with a pair of bloodshot eyes.
It was the previous owner's younger brother, a wanted murderer with a bounty on his head.
I tried to call the police, but he grabbed me and squeezed my neck with all his strength.
In the end, he stuffed me into that filthy compartment full of excrement and suffocated me to death.
I jerked awake and found myself back on the day my road trip was supposed to begin.
Hearing the faint sound of breathing beneath the bed once again,
I sneered and lowered the phone I'd been about to use to call the police, then pressed down on the accelerator.
This time, I would drive the RV into the wilderness and play survival games with him.
