FIELD REPORT – File #002: Route 34 / Southern Peru
Hi, I want to tell you this story. It happened back in 2013, when I was 15.
I was on a road trip through southern Peru with my mom and my aunt. We were in my aunt’s old SUV—the kind that growls like a sick animal when it crawls down mountain roads. I was in the back seat, headphones on, watching a movie I’d downloaded on my laptop.
It was night. The headlights barely cut through the mist, and I had started drifting off. Suddenly, I heard my mom shouting my name—like she was far away. I pulled my headphones off. The car had stopped.
My aunt wasn’t moving. Her hands gripped the wheel. And in the rearview mirror, I saw her eyes.
White. Completely white.
She wasn’t blinking. She wasn’t breathing. She was just staring into the mirror.
Staring straight at me.
My laptop froze. The image on the screen—a still from my movie, a dark road from the backseat view, and those white eyes in the rearview mirror—got stuck. No matter what I did—turning it off, closing the lid, removing the battery—it stayed.
Like the screen wasn’t a screen anymore, but a window trapped in that moment.
When we got back to Lima, I tried turning it on again. Nothing.
Until one night, in my room, it powered on by itself.
Just that same image. Again.
And something new: a figure in the passenger seat that hadn’t been there before.
That was the last time I touched it. I shoved it in a backpack, drove back to that same road, and threw it into the woods.
Sometimes I wonder if someone else found it.
And if they saw it turn on too.
Warning: If you find this laptop, don’t open it at night.
Don’t look at the mirror.
Let me know if you want this version formatted directly for your blog, or if you’d like a matching QR code to place under the painting.
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