Where Are You Going Where Have You Been? by Joyce Carol Oates (1966)

A gold convertible rolls into an empty driveway one Sunday afternoon, the family off at a barbecue, and the young man who unfolds from it never once climbs the porch steps; he doesn't need to. Arnold Friend runs the whole encounter from the gravel, talking fifteen-year-old Connie toward him through the mesh of a screen door, and Joyce Carol Oates lets the horror live in that thin, unlatched distance: him outside, Connie inside, the afternoon going airless as his soft, relentless patter does all the work no hand needs to do. Connie has spent her summer sure that being looked at is a power she gets to spend; what she cannot yet see is that Arnold Friend is where that whole economy was always heading, its smiling terminus, maybe the devil himself in boots stuffed to fake the shape of human feet. By the time she reaches for the latch, the title's two questions have folded into one, and the answer has been waiting at the screen door all along.