Cambridge Massachusetts. April 6 2016

My name is Jason Storey. I’m a sophomore at MIT—what everyone here just calls “Tech.” I transferred in last year, majoring in computer programming. I’m not originally from Massachusetts, and to be honest, I haven’t really built much of a social circle yet. I usually keep to myself. That day was no different.

It was just past noon, a crisp fall afternoon, and I was eating lunch alone on a bench near Killian Court. From where I sat, I could see the main quad opening up in front of me, a living mosaic of student life. Two kids had stretched themselves out under the massive oak tree by the library steps, one reading Gödel, Escher, Bach, the other scribbling into a notebook. A group of guys were tossing a Frisbee back and forth, their laughter carrying across the lawn in bursts. A girl with bleached-blonde hair walked her dog along the pathway—the leash a bright shock of pink against her black leggings. Beyond the court, the track team circled the field, their rhythmic footfalls echoing faintly, and closer to me, a couple of cars sat parked along Amherst Alley, their windshields flashing sunlight.

It was all background noise until I heard something that didn’t belong. A sharp, ugly sound—someone shouting, angry and raw. It cut across the quad like a tear in fabric.

I turned around.

Two men were struggling just beyond the row of benches. The first, tall and broad-shouldered, wore an orange T-shirt and cargo shorts. The second man had a black hoodie pulled up over his head, hiding his face in shadow. Their bodies jerked violently against each other—fists grabbing, feet scraping on the pavement. At first, I thought it was just another scuffle, the kind that sometimes breaks out on campuses when tempers flare. But it wasn’t like that. The man in the hoodie wasn’t just fighting—he was dragging the guy in orange, pulling him, inch by inch, toward the line of parked cars on Amherst Alley.

Something about it froze me.

I got up from my bench, sandwich forgotten, and started walking toward them, my pulse quickening. Every step made it feel more unreal, like I’d stumbled into the middle of someone else’s nightmare.

Then the van door slid open.

It was one of those big blue cargo vans, parked crookedly against the curb, and the side door rolled back with that slow, mechanical hiss—like a stage curtain being pulled aside. Inside was nothing but empty space, the floor and walls lined with bare, gray metal. No seats. Just a void waiting to swallow someone whole.

Out of the van came a man.

He was huge—thick-armed, barrel-chested—with wild blond hair and a tangled beard. In his hands was a shotgun. Not a rusty hunting piece, but a long, matte-finish weapon, gray with an army-green stock. It looked factory-new, the kind of gun you’d expect in the hands of soldiers, not a stranger in the middle of MIT’s campus.

He saw me. His eyes locked on mine.

“Get the hell out of here!” he roared, raising the gun. His voice was deep, guttural, the sound of rage with no hesitation behind it.

For one awful second, I just stared. The barrel of the shotgun was pointed squarely at my chest. His stubby fingers clutched the grip, the trigger hand smeared with grease and dirt, black grime wedged beneath his nails. I noticed a silver ring on his right hand—it caught the light as he flexed his finger, the same finger resting against the trigger. It was such a small, stupid detail, but it burned into my memory: a man ready to kill me wearing a cheap silver band.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to move. My body lagged behind my brain. Then adrenaline hit me like a tidal wave.

I turned and ran.

My shoes slapped against the pavement, every step sounding like it echoed across the empty quad. I sprinted across the grass, lungs burning, heart slamming so hard it felt like it might burst through my ribs. I didn’t dare look back. I expected to feel the shotgun blast tear through me at any second.

I didn’t stop until I burst into the nearest building—Building 7, the one with the grand dome above it. Students looked up as I stumbled inside, my chest heaving, sweat dripping down my forehead. I tried to explain, but the words caught in my throat. All I could say was, “Gun. Alley. Van.”

Campus police arrived minutes later. By then, the van was gone. The two men were gone. No one else had seen it the way I did. There were no bullet holes, no shell casings. Just my word against silence.

Even now, months later, the memory won’t leave me. I still walk through Killian Court every day on my way to class, and I can’t help but glance at Amherst Alley, half-expecting that blue van to be there, door slid open, waiting.

I don’t know who they were. I don’t know what they wanted.

But I know this: if I hadn’t run, I wouldn’t be here to tell you my story.

Sincerely,
Jason Storey