Excerpts Horror Read an Excerpt From Headlights by CJ Leede Every instinct tells him to run. Every memory tells him he can’t. By CJ Leede | Published on April 30, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Headlights by CJ Leede, out from PUBLISHER on DATE. Special Agent Daniel Stansfield is ready for a change. Burnt out and defeated by the job, it’s his last day with the FBI. But before he can turn in his badge, he’s summoned back to Denver, the city he ran from four years ago, with a chilling message: it’s happening again.Seemingly innocent people are waking up on the side of the highway, with no memory of how they got there, wearing the skin of victims they’ve allegedly never met. And they each share one haunting detail: a strand of a stranger’s hair is tied around their tongue.Now Daniel is pulled back into the gruesome cycle, and every clue leads him deeper into the shadows of his own past. He will have to confront the ghosts of his traumatic childhood and face what’s been hunting him all along— before he and the people he loves become the next victims. 1 Then “Is it the Bad Decision?” I hear Mom’s question, but it takes me a second to tear my eyes away from the screen. She stands in the dressing area. The too-bright mirror bulb light-ing her from the back. She’s brushing her hair. The mirror behind her is clean the way she likes it, and the door to the bathroom is open with the light on and the shower curtain pulled back. It’s the only part of our room that isn’t orange and yellow—white shower, white curtain, white toilet and floor. Mom says the curtain is off-white. I can’t tell the difference. I don’t want to leave, but she says it’s almost time. I nod my head to answer her question. “Are we going now?” I ask. We haven’t packed yet, but she has her makeup on. “Don’t you worry, we’ll have dinner first, then I’ll get us ready.” I’m cross-legged on the orange and yellow carpet, two feet from the television screen, wearing my socks and long johns. My favorite movie is on, Take Me Home, the John Denver story. My mom loves it too. Right now, John Denver—not real John Denver but the ac-tor named Chad Lowe who plays him—goes off with the girl at the party on tour. That’s the Bad Decision. “Why is it bad again?” I ask, even though I know why. She smiles, says for the hundredth time, “A Bad Decision is one that you regret making, and one that takes you away from what really makes you happy. A Bad Decision is when you betray your-self for what you think will make you happy even if you know deep down it won’t.” Happy. Buy the Book Headlights CJ Leede Buy Book Headlights CJ Leede Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget We’ve lived at the Happy Inn for the last six months. We had to try a couple rooms before we found one that didn’t give me a Bad Feeling, that didn’t have shadows in it. She said that was okay, that my Bad Feelings are important to listen to. She says some people have special antennas that pick up special signals, and she knew since I was little that I’m one of them. At first the clowns on the sign and in the office scared me, and I didn’t like the bright yellow and orange carpet and blankets in our room, but I like the sunrise paintings, and I like the VHS player my mom bought us so I can watch my favorite movies. I like the way she hums and sings along to all the songs in Take Me Home while I watch, and the way she ruffles my hair when she walks by to show me she loves me more than anything. I like that he hasn’t come. “What kind of pizza are we getting?” I ask. “Whatever you want, my Danny boy.” Danny isn’t my real name. My mom wanted to name me that, but my dad said my name was going to be Calvin, just like his. When he comes around, we have to call me Calvin, but he hasn’t come in a long time. Here in the motel, I’m Danny. It’s our secret. A shining name for my shining boy, Mom says. It’s from that book she’s always carrying around, that dirty crinkled old paperback she’s had as long as I can remember, that comes to every new place we live. But she says I’m not allowed to read it, not until I’m older. I check the clock. It’s Friday, which is pizza day, but we can’t order until five. That’s the rule. It’s only 4:56, but it’s been dark outside for a while already. The news says it’ll be a cold winter. Mom keeps talking about it too. She turns back to the mirror and fixes her lipstick. She touches one of the glass root beer bottles on the counter, the ones we always have on special occasions. Mom seems nervous. My heart beats faster. Bad Feeling in my stomach. I want her to talk. Tell me it’s okay. “Mom, what kind of pizza are you—” “Shh,” she says, smoothing down her hair. “You’ll miss your fa-vorite part.” I turn back to the TV. John goes back to Annie and says sorry by playing “Annie’s Song,” which he just wrote for her. My mom and Annie don’t look alike, Annie has brown hair and pale skin, and my mom’s hair is bleached like Dolly’s, and her skin is tan. But they remind me of each other just the same. Safe and warm and smiling. My hair is darker than my mom’s, but it’s not as dark as Dad’s, and I hope it stays that way. I watch the clock. I’m not afraid. I’m not. Wherever we go next, we’ll be together. But… “Mom, I have a Bad Feeling.” She turns, looks at me, and for a second listens to me. Then a funny look comes over her face, and I don’t know what it means. She comes and stands in front of me, bends down and puts her hands on my shoulders. “I… made a Bad Decision. Trying to keep your dad in our lives. I… I’m so sorry, Danny. But you and me, we’re gonna go somewhere he can’t find us, okay? Somewhere safe and happy where he’ll never get us again. It’s all gonna be just fine.” I want to cry, but I nod instead. It’s 4:59. One minute until I can pick up the phone and put in the number for the pizza place. Maybe the Feeling will go away, maybe I’m just being a baby. John sings “Annie’s Song” to Annie, and Mom hums along in the bathroom, swaying back and forth, putting her makeup and jewelry in cases. She moves the root beer bottles over to the side. Outside the closed blinds, the dark. Mom says “Annie’s Song” makes you feel like the whole world will be okay. Normally I agree, I think it sounds like there’s noth-ing to be scared of and no whispers in the night or Bad Feelings or shadows, and there’s only Rocky Mountains and clean air and flying and cowboy dancing and horses. That’s how the movie makes me feel, and every John Denver song. Pine trees and airplanes and John’s leather hat. We live in the part of Colorado with packed dirt and buildings, the mountains far off. But John and Annie in Take Me Home are all the way in the mountains, in the trees, beside big rushing water. “Are we really gonna go to Aspen?” I ask. “Like John and Annie?” She turns and smiles, nods her head, and I almost think I see a tear on her face. The musty mold smell comes up from the carpet like it does every night, there’s the brown spots on the popcorn ceiling and the smoke detector we always take off the wall because it never stops beeping. I love it here. Mom and me, Danny. The Happy Inn. My mom in blue jeans and a jean jacket and a white halter top. Her turquoise jewelry and big belt buckle. I’m sad to leave, even if it is to go to Aspen. I still have the Bad Feeling. Five o’clock. I pause the movie, and I pick up and dial the phone. Someone pounds on the door. The phone slips in my hand. Hello? the person says through the receiver. The pounding comes again. My heart thumps, and I turn to my mom. Mom is frozen, in the dressing area, holding her brush tight in her hand. I know where the Bad Feeling came from now. We both do. She looks at the door, then me, then around the room. There are no other doors here, only the one that goes out front. And we both know who’s standing out there. She takes a step. I shake my head, beg her not to open it. He keeps pounding. It doesn’t stop. She takes another step. I shake my head, please, please, no. She stops beside me. “I love you, my shining boy. I’d sing and write and play all the songs for you, you know that, right? You know that you’re my everything?” She’s scared. Mom is scared. I shake my head again, my whole body is shaking. “Don’t open it,” I say. “Please.” But she just whispers, “You’re my Danny boy.” She kisses me on the head. The voice on the phone says Hello? one more time, and then a dial tone comes through. The pounding on the door gets louder, Dad yelling. Mom goes to it, reaches for the chain. John Denver is frozen on the screen, looking into Annie’s eyes, playing his guitar. Mom slides the chain from the lock. 2 Now Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I open my eyes, sit up. Utah sun rising outside the window. Pink, orange through the blinds, glowing lines of light across the sheets, over my legs. My neck is stiff. Pain in my right leg, same as always. Shrapnel from an IED, my first tour. Pain in my chest… Which happens any time I think of her. Today is— John Denver’s voice lingers in my ears, floats around me in the room. Why did I dream of her? I haven’t, in so long. I haven’t thought of that song, any of his songs, in… I don’t know. I’ve pretty fucking stridently avoided John Denver for the whole of my adult life. But… today is the day, so I guess… or… I don’t know. Fuck. I breathe, close my eyes. At least there are no shadows. I get out of bed, turn on the fan for new noise, drown out the mu-sic that isn’t there. In the bathroom, I take a piss, splash cold water on my face. Step back into the bedroom, drop down, and do what I always do. But today it’s different, new almost. Today, my last day. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Diamond push-ups, box jumps on the crate. My body knows. Feet on the floor, back on the floor, forearms on the floor. Feet on the floor, then the crate. Pain in my leg. In my back. Pain in my left Achilles. Box jumps, jump lunges, jump squats. The heat before the sweat breaks through. The split second of relief when it comes. The drip of it down the skin, to the floor. My muscles push and flex. Contract, extend. I catch the pull-up bar, start my count. I look around, breathe through my nose. White walls, white car-pet. Mattress on a box spring. White sheets, workout equipment, bookshelf. Four years here, in Salt Lake City. A feeling grabs my chest. But it’s not a Bad Feeling, and it’s not a buried memory. I think… It’s gratitude. To this place, for giving me a fresh start. Any kind of reason to live. This apartment complex, brand new. No shadows, no past of mine or anyone else’s. I get my twenty, swing, and land on the carpet. See myself, mov-ing through the space, since day one. See myself change. I was thirty when I got here. I’d just lost everything. Those first two years were spent just trying to get past the fail-ure. And by get past, I guess I mean become properly acquainted with it, learn to accept its enduring presence in my life. The unsolv-able case, the divorce. Everything that led to both. My adoptive—but real in every way that counts—parents, gone, taken from me in an instant. That’s of course without touching any of the deep past stuff. Which I don’t think about anymore. Which I never think about. Today is the first— I push harder. I can’t believe I didn’t kill myself. It would’ve solved so much, at least for me. Mostly didn’t do it because of Josie. I knew she’d pic-ture me drinking over the divorce papers, fantasizing about blow-ing my brains out—which I did… drink and fantasize—and then finally going through with it. She’d carry that weight forever. And I’ve put her through enough already. But maybe the real reason, the one that got all the way through to me, was because he hasn’t done it yet. Rotting in his cell in Sterling and pushing through, day after day. And if he hasn’t, then I sure as shit won’t either. Still, the music. There, just at the edges. Hovering, between atoms, between breaths, slipping through the walls and into my skin. It’s not the worst song. The one I won’t even let myself think the name of, the one that played that night. But still, today… Excerpted from Headlights, copyright © 2026 by CJ Leede. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>Headlights</i> by CJ Leede appeared first on Reactor.