At the top of the moor there she was, in the road, a frail little lady hunched in the rain, my kinda gal, half in my headlights, half in the mist, thumbing a lift -- though it wasn't quite light. I pulled up at once and walked round the car, smiled as I asked her where she was bound. She smiled back at me. Ah, that worries us all, but for now, off the moor would do very well! Declining my help, she clambered aboard. It was then that I saw her, but not as I'd thought: a Sister of Heaven, a strict order of nun -- a product well liked and respected round here. Our own local brand. She took ages to settle, arranging her skirts. I tried not to notice, but thought it quite odd. Then at last we were off, driving into the sun, low in the morning, us breasting the hills. We chatted a bit, but I felt myself gagged 'till a juggernaut's lights exposed a bit more of my passenger's face -- a strip by the ear that the razor had missed. I pulled up again, this time with a skid, and ordered him out, saw him stumble a bit as my foot went down hard. Later that night, when checking the car for the next day's run, the de-icer had rolled, protruding an inch from under the seat on the passenger side. Retrieving it, saw two pieces of wood, hard wood and polished, like handles of sorts -- which they were: a diminutive axe and a knife -- far too long.
Image as prompt supplied by Tess Kincaid at The Mag