Speaker 1: Hollo. I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. I've been driving long Hall for
just over four years, mostly doing East coast runs, pretty
routine saff New Jersey to Florida, Maryland, Georgia, sometimes far
west as Tennessee. I've gotten used to the overnight schiffs,
the tut schedules, and the lonely stretches of highway a palacia,
though that always hits different, especially after midnight. This spotch
had booked me on a rushed delivery head to Roanoke,
and they were all excited because some one found a
short cut. Supposedly it would shave nearly an hour off
the usual route, but it meant leaving into state earlier
than normal and taking a small estate road that cut
across the mountains. I turned off the main highway around
eleven thirty and started climbing into the hills. At first,
it wasn't too bad. The road was narrow, but not
unusually so, no shoulder, but a decent surface daved, no
big cracks or potholes, nothing you wouldn't expect in a
rural area. After maybe ten or fifteen minutes, this scenery
changed the trees pressed and tighter, and the road started
looking a little rougher. No lights, no reflectors, and no
signs none, not even those old green ones with mileage
or ten nanes. It was like the road didn't want
to be found. What really struck me was how clean
it looked, not tidy clean, no leaves in the ground,
no gravel, no sticks or mud. Even though it had
rained earlier that week, the windshold stayed spawless. It was
just too perfect, and out here nothing's perfect. I figured
maybe it had been recently cleared. Maybe a maintenance crew
passed through. Unlikely given the time and location, but not impossible.
Then the radio went haywire. It started as faint static,
which I ignored, but suddenly the volume spiked, just blasted static,
like some one turned the knob all the way up.
Scared the hell out of me. I reached for the
dial to turn it off, but right as I touched it,
everything cut. Radio c B done, not even back round home,
and the GPS blank's green, just white for a second,
then flickered back to life, but instead of a route,
it showed me leaping back on the same road again
and again. No turns, no exits, just a blinking arrow,
stuck in a loop, like it had lost its place
in the world. That's when I pulled over, not fully
off the road there wasn't really a shoulder, but just
far enough to stop and check the GPS. It was
still powered, no error message, just stuck calculating the same
direction over and over. I set back, annoyed more than anything,
I looked up to figure out how far I might
be from the next town. That's when I saw the truck.
It was just ahead, maybe fifty or sixty yards pafrom
the right side, no lights, no brick glow, just sitting
there in the dark. At first I figured another driver
pulled over for a nap, but the closer I looked,
the more familiar it felt. Same model, blond nose, Peter built,
same dark red color, saying to Coul on the back window,
keep on trucking, torn in the top left corner, just
like mine. That gave me a pause. I slowly rolled forward,
had lights still on low. As I got closer, I
noticed the plate with so covered and grime I couldn't
read a single character. The mirrors were folded in like
it had been parked a long time, but the engine
still running, that soft, deep idle hum, just sitting there
a live but I'm moving. I pulled up beside it,
leaned across the cab and looked through the passenger window.
There was a man in the driver's seat. He was
sitting upright, hands on the wheel, facing straight ahead, still
like a statue. He looked exactly like me, same cap,
same jacket, same beard, even the same tired slump in
the shoulders. I didn't know what to do. My first
instinct was that I was overtired, that I had somehow
leaped round and parked beside my own truck. But mine
was moving. I was awake, I was breathing. I shouted
out the window. Pay no reaction, not even a blink. Then,
without a sound, the truck shut off completely, engine lightscabin power,
nothing left but darkness. Thus, when I hit the gas,
I tried to shift through the gears, but the transmission
for me. I couldn't get past third. The arpn climbed
like mad, but my speed didn't match. It was like
the truck was dragging a mountain behind it. The roads
started climbing again, steeper, this time. My headlights barely reached
a curve ahead, and then I saw them people lining
the road, both sides, just there. They weren't walking, they
weren't even moving. They were just standing still, facing the road,
about ten feet apart, all staring straight ahead. Men, women,
different bills, different ages. I remember few clearly. One guy
in a coal miner's outfit covered in soap, a woman
in a faded blue hospital gown. Some look like they've
been out there for years. Haia matted close, torn face
is pale and dirty. And then I realized they weren't
standing on the ground. They were hovering, just slightly afoot,
maybe less above the leaves in the dark toes pointed down,
not floating, like ghosts, hanging like something invisible was holding
them in place. I couldn't stop stirring. I looked in
my mirror to see them behind me, and they were gone,
all of them, vanish. That broke something in me, a
grip the wheel, like it was the only thing me
from losing my mind. Suddenly the GPS snapped back real roads,
a proper roup, and up ahead a stretch of straight road.
I floored it. Whatever was happening with the transmission, I
didn't care. The truck jerked and fought, but finally pushed
through to a downhill grade. About ten minutes later, I
saw a wide gravel lot with a few lit signs
and a row of idling trucks. It was a truck stop,
just outside a town called Allen Creek. I slammed into
the Lowton Park like I was fleeing a robbery. Inside,
under those harsh fluorescent lights, I finally started to feel
real again. I stood there, hand shaking, trying to remember
how to breathe. A mechanic was doing checks on rigs
out back. I fled him down, asked him to take
a quick look at my transmission. He popped the hood,
ran the diagnostics. Nothing wrong. I didn't tell him about
the man in the truck, of the people in the trees.
I didn't tell anyone for a long time. I stayed
off the road for a week. When I finally drove again,
I tried to trace that route, looked at satellite maps,
checked old state road logs. I mentioned it to a
couple of veteran drivers over coffee one morning. One of them,
this old guy, Ninn Ray, just looked at me for
a long second and said, some roads don't show up
unless they are meant to. If you saw what I
think he saw, don't try to find it again. I
never took another job through southeastern Kentucky, and I never
saw that short cut again. That night, I was driving
my ninety seven Ken with W nine hundred. Nothing flashy,
rare cap, blacked top, straight pipes, no chrone toys, just
a work orse that I kept running better than it looked.
I'd hauled a full load of lumber up to a
sawmon near Creighton and was dead heading back home, planning
to cross through the old Pass east of Colden around midnight.
I pulled in, let the engine idle for a bit,
check my phone for bars, then shut her down, cracked
the driver's side window an inch or two, locked the doors,
and leaned back across the seat. I usually sleep in
short stretches when i'm out, maybe an iro here and there,
nothing deep. I don't trust most places enough to let
myself knock out completely. I just started to relax, I
still adjuting to the dark when I heard this sound,
a whistle then and slow off key, like someone trying
to hum a tune they didn't quite remember. It drifted
him from the trees behind the cat not loud but
sharp enough to make me freeze. I flicked the mirror
switch and scan around, but the turnout behind me was
nothing but black, no headlights, no movement, just the gravel
and the line of trees. About ten minutes passed. I
sat there the whole time, wide awake, now watching and listening.
Then I heard it, crunching gravel, slow footsteps coming from
the rear passenger side, just a few steps, deliberate, like
some one walking up to knock on the door. The
cab was still dark inside. I hadn't turned in the domelight.
Didn't want to give away I was awake. I reached
real slow across the seat and flicked the interior light on.
Then I leaned to the right hand, peaked out the
side mirror. Nothing that something wasn't sitting right. The sound
of those footsteps had been close, not distant. I should
have seen some one. I didn't hear them back off,
didn't hear another step. I ducked down in the seat
real slow and looked across the passenger window. There they were,
just the legs, knees down right next to the cap,
torn jeans, thick soled boots, laces frayed out the left
boot was slightly turned, and like coever it was stood
with their weight shifted to one side. They weren't moving.
I didn't breathe. My hand hovered over the ignition key,
not sure if I should try to start the truckle
just sit still and wait for I don't know what.
Then n knees bent like he was crouching or leaning in.
That was it, I didn't think. I just cranked the
engine and slammed the airhorn with everything I had. The
whole truck jelted awake. That sound could wake the dead.
But the legs didn't flinch. They didn't jump or run.
They just stepped back slowly into the dark where I
couldn't see any more. No scramble, no sound of movement
through the gravel, just gone. I threw it into gear
and floored it. Didn't check mirrors, didn't care if I
blew a tire on that slope. I hit the curve
out of that turn out so fast I could feel
the load axle float for a secon. I didn't stop
until I hit the lights of Lamford. Pulled into a
gas station that was still open, and pocked into the
brightest luice I could find, but out walked a lap
around the cab to make sure I wasn't just losing it.
That's when I saw it. A single boot print on
the passenger step, dusty eats, all lead fresh, just one,
no second print next to it, no smear, just one
perfect mark, like some one stood there on one leg
the whole time. I didn't sleep at night, just sat
inside the station for a while, drinking awful coffee and
staring at the walls. I called my buddy Benji the
next morning he runs the same route side, and told
him I needed him to meet me Aubert. He thought
i'd clipped a deer with something. I didn't tell him
everything on the phone. We met up around ying and
drove back to the same turnout. Gravel was a mess,
all kicked up and scattered from when I tore out.
Benji gave me a weird look like maybe I'd fallen
asleep and dreamed the whole thing. But I hadn't. I
hadn't even been close. About two weeks later, I was
eating breakfast at Luniscaffe in Grafton, same still I I
always sat on, same weight, was pouring the same week coffee.
A couple other drivers when nearby swapping stores about worth
things on the road, you know, little stuff like accidents
that almost happened, or word signs in the middle of nowhere.
Since then I avoid that hull stretch west of Harper's Pass,
don't care how tired I am. That week, my route
had me running south from Columbus, Ohio, dipping through the
edge of Kentucky and into the thick of their Palation
Corridor before heading east into the Carolinas, a familiar loop
from me. I'd run some version of it, probably fifty times.
Why then, I'd been on the road over eight years,
long enough that the cab felt more like home than
my actual place, long enough that the road didn't surprise
me any more. It was just past midnight when I
pulled into a rest area along Route twenty three. Nothing fancy,
just a busted up patch of gravel off the highway,
half hidden behind a sharp curve and a leaning pine tree.
One overhead light flickered like it was barely hanging on.
Below it stood an all vending shelter, the kind with
peeling stickers and machines that still took quarters if they
worked at all. There weren't any restrooms, no trash canan,
not even a bench. It looked like a place the
state forgot about a decades ago. There was already one
truck parked way down the far end when I pulled in,
didn't look like anyone was in it. No running light,
snow cap blowed just along dark wixiting dead still in
the gravel. I only glanced at it at first. It
looked aldo, probably from the late it is early nineties,
and not in a nostalgic way. The paint was faded
almost to gray, with these longwust streaks trailing down the doors,
like something that dripped for years. The tires that caked
in dry but thick enough that it probably hadn't moved
in it. While no markings on the trailer and no
company named their numbers, just blank eye didn't love parking
next to it, but there went many options. The log
carved into the trees, and with the incline behind me,
batting in a few spots, overseeing cephy than trying to
turn around somewhere dark unto even I cut the engine
and let the silence settle. The forest came alive almost immediately,
frogs croaking deep in the brush scade, his humming like static.
I rolled the window down just a notch for some air.
The night was warm but still. A breeze would have
been nice, but there wasn't one. I didn't bother crawling
into the sleeper, just told to my seat back, pulled
my hat low, and tried to catch a quick nap.
I wasn't planning to be there long, maybe thirty minutes,
forty minutes, long enough to shake the highway out of
my head. I must have drifted off fast, because the
next thing I remember was the sound of an engine,
but not mine. It started with the slow, choking bumble,
like someone trying to fire up an old diesel that
hadn't moved in years. That coughing, sputtering sound like it
was fighting to stay alive. I blinked awake and sat up,
checked the dash. Two point thirty in the morning. I
turned my head slowly toward the other truck. Its headlights
were still off, but the engine was running now. The
whole rig looked like it was trembling, not violently, but stady,
like it was shivering under its own weight. That same sick,
uneven sound coming from under the hood, as if it
should have died already but didn't. Know how. Then I
saw someone climb out of the cab. He stepped down, slowly,
real controlled, big guy over six feet, easily brought shoulders,
long arms. He wore a heavy canvas coat that hung
past his knees, kind of greenish, with darker patches on
the sleeves and around the collar, like it had sook
through at some point. He had on gloves too, leather
ones worn down to the grain, more gray than black.
He didn't a flask light, no foam light either. He
just started walking toward the vending slow, with the kind
of confidence you only have when you've been somewhere a
thousand times. Head straight, no hesitation, no stumbling on the gravel.
But the strange part what made me straighten up in
my sea was how quiet he was. I mean completely silent.
He should have made noise. The gravel on the foot
was loose and sharp. I'd heard a crunch under my
booch just getting in the cab, but this guy nothing,
not a single scuffle scrape, like he was gliding. Even
the truck behind him wasn't shaking any more. It just
idled there, quiet, now subdued. He stood at the vending
machines for a long time, didn't touch anything, didn't even move,
just stood there facing him like he was reading something.
Even though the machines weren't lit, they were dead best
I could tell. I'd seen rest stops like that before.
Stuff breaks and never gets fixed. He didn't seem to care.
And then suddenly he turned and looked straight at me.
I flinched, not dramatically. I didn't duck or scramble, but
I definitely shrank back, like some part of me didn't
want to be seen. It felt automatic, like a refex.
His head tilted just a bit, like he was trying
to make out my face through the glass. And then
he started walking straight toward my truck. I stayed still,
didn't the gravel in the same slow, steady pace. I
couldn't hear him, couldn't hear the gravel shift under his feet,
couldn't hear his crook brush his sides. The only sound
was that soft, choking hump from his truck, still running
in the background. He stopped right at my door, stood there,
steering in. From that distance, I should have been able
to see his face clearly, but I couldn't. There was
enough light from the dash from the single overhead bulb
in the lop to make out his outline. I could
see the curve of his jaw. The dip wears no
should have been But it didn't look great. It wasn't blurred,
it was shadowed. It was just wrong, not grotesque, not monstrous,
just incorrect, like it didn't belong on that body, like
it had been copied from memory by some one who
forgot what a real human face looked like. Then he
raised his hand and tapped the glass just once. I
didn't move. He tapped again, same spot, same rhythm, same pressure.
That's when I hit the door lock. The click sounded
way louder than I expected, like a gun going off
in the silence. My cabs reinforced Mosla on HOLLOWSA, but
I didn't want to find out how much dress the
window could actually take. He didn't flinch, didn't react at all. Instead,
he did something I'll never forget. He stepped backward five steps,
perfectly spaced in a straight line, never turning, never breaking
eye contact, just this weird puppet like motion, like someone
dragging him by strings. Then he turned smoothly, cleanly well
and walked back to his truck. He climbed in shut
the door, and the engine went back to that same
low rattle. But I never saw the cab light come on,
never saw a silhouette behind a wheel. I sat there
for what felt like an ere, too wired to move
hard hammering chapt watching his rig, waiting for something else,
but nothing did. The engine kept tight lane, the light
stayed off. Finally I turned my key ease out of
the spot, cheerful not to spin the tires or jolt
the gravel. I didn't even switch on my headlights until
I was back in the main road, just let the
moon and my parking lights guide me until I was
out of the bend. About fifteen miles down the road.
I radioed a guy I crossed paths with a few times, Baldney.
He was hauling behind me in the same loop, probably
in iro out. Told him something weird was going on
back at that stop, said maybe there was a guy
up there having a breakdown or something. I didn't say
what I saw. Rodney called me back about twenty minutes later. Man,
there's nothing up there, he said, Were you sure you
were on twenty three? Yeah? I said, you didn't see
a truck, Nope, just a flat gravel lot. A couple
bolts in the ground where something used to be, maybe
a shadow or whatever, but there's nothing now be in
that way. A while I didn't say anything, didn't know
what to say. The next week, on my return trip,
I stopped in daylight, same spot, same curved, same lot.
The gravel still had tire tracks, deep ones, like something
heavy had sat there not long ago, but the vending's
shelter gone, just a slab of concrete and four rusted bolts.
At a gas station in Mayfield about twenty minutes, he
asked the clerk if the state had pulled out the
machines recently. He looked at me like I had grown
a second head. Sometime around twenty eleven, I think, he said,
the yanked all that stuff, said it wasn't worth maintaining.
Shelter got torn down to I nodded, bought a coffee,
got back in the truck and left. I just started
working part time at this tiny gas station offer out
twenty six way out in a quiet stretch of Virginia
near the Kentucky line. The place looked like it was
barely holding on one old pump. A single cramped room
that always smelled thinly like rubber and cold coffee and
a soda fridge that rattled and hum like it had
a grudge against everyone. I just wrapped up community college
and didn't feel like moving back and with my dad,
so I was crashing at my cousin's house until I
figured things out. That night, I was covering a shift
for Guiney. He was one of those guys who always
had an excuse to bail. This time it was stomach trouble, which,
as I found out later, meant he was passed out
drunk somewhere with half eatenkin of Chillies still open on
the counter. I didn't mind covering. It was quiet work,
and I figured I could get paid to scull on
my phone and maybe sell a candy bar or two
to a truck at passing through. After midnight, the place
turned into a ghost box. The locals filled up during
the day after ires. If someone came in, it usually
meant they were lost or trying not to be seen.
So when a green truck pulled in a Round one fifteen,
I definitely paid attention. It was an old Kemworth big
thing force green headlights flickering like one of those dying
fireflies you find blinking on your porch in July. It
rumbled into the lot like it was angry to be alive,
and came to a lopsided stop across both spots up front.
Then the driver stepped out. He was huge, six for
at least broad shoulders, thick arms, solid gut. He wore
truck a half with some faded oil company's logo and
a sleeveless denim vest. No shirt underneath, just bare skin
beneath the stiff, greasy fabric. The vest looked like it
had seen fires and floods and never quite dried out.
It didn't say anything after first, just stepped forward, leaned
into the open door and said, pump too, ain't runnin' right,
flat boys, deep, but with no inflection, just straight up volume,
like he was used to people listening, whether they wanted
to or not. I grabbed the reset keys and walked
out with him. We only had one pump, always had.
I figured maybe he was sleep deprived. We're just looking
for conversation. There's no pump too, I told him, glancing
at his truck. I expected him to shrug, maybe nod,
and drive off, but he chuckled, not like he found
it funny, but like he was humoring me. I felt
up already, just needed to make sure someone came out.
He said, it real casual, like we were in the
middle of a different conversation. But silly me. I let
my guard drop just a bit. Then he looked at me,
not at my face, at my chest. The name tag
youre Riley. I shook my head. Nope, that name tag
was my cousin's left behind when she switched jobs. I
didn't bother changing it when I borrowed her old uniform
last minute. He seemed to ignore that. He just kept grinning.
Briley girl, huh, thought you looked like one. Then he
smelt wider, and I saw the teeth. They weren't chipped
or crooked. They looked grande and flat, like some one
had tickn Sandbay put to the maye wold chickens for
your uncle once, he said, alike, we were old friends
catching up in a diner. I don't have an uncle
in trucking or farmin or anything involving chickens. I told
him that, but his face didn't change. You were at
the dollar stop in Dnton last Friday, he said, bought
a calendar and a bag of chip. Saw you go
in my heart's skip. That was true. I'd been there,
but I hadn't talked to any one. I don't even
remember looking up from my phone when I grabbed the calendar,
and I certainly didn't remember a massive guy in a
truck watching me. I forced a laugh and said something like, well,
you've got a good memory. Then I slipped back inside
and locked the door behind me. He hung around for
a moment, fiddling near his truck, engine idling. Then he
drove off, didn't buy anything, didn't wave goodbye. I've just left.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone buzzed, I know number. You
keep short, IROs little royly. I was going to tell
you something. I stared at the screen. My phone number
wasn't listed. I only had it pinned on a wall
the back room in case of emergencies. My cousin maybe
the manager. That was it? So why was I getting
a text? Then another message? Left you a treat under
the blue bin at back good girls like sweet things.
I froze. I should have called someone, I should have
locked myself in the office and waited for someone to
relieve me. But a part of me, the stubborn part,
wanted to believe it was nothing, a prank at worst,
maybe someone dropped candy or wrapper and I'd overreact. I
grabbed a flashlight and stepped out the back door anyway
behind the dumpster. Half hidden under the blue recycling bin
was a zip hop bag inside a strip of jerky
boh slimy, soaked in something dark that was a blood.
I mean it might have been, but I told myself
it wasn't. The smell thick shop like motor oil and
old gasoline, not the sweet smell of meat. Definitely not
what you expect. Folded underneath it was a small piece
of paper. The note said I seen your kind before.
They cry and bite, but they all hush after. My
hand was shaking, and I didn't even realize I was
backing away until I hit the door frame. I dropped
the flashlight, I dropped the bag. I ran inside, locked
the back door, locked the front door, even bolted the
small supply closet, though it had nothing of Valley except
cleaning stuff and a half used mop. I called my cousin,
told her to come over now. She showed up ten
minutes later with her boyfriend. Neither of them said anything
when I blurted out what I found no jokes. No,
we're imagining things. They just followed me outside. The bag
wasn't touched under the blue bin. We went into the
office and pulled the footage, rolling it back. I watched
what I already knew in my gut. He pulled in,
he got out, he walked behind the dumpster, then nothing.
He didn't walk back out. This just a tall concrete
wall and the lock rear of a shuttered Dautterpot's store
that hadn't opened in months. The gravel behind the lot
ended abruptly in the weeds. He went in and just disappeared.
We watched again, same thing. He enters, he never exits.
I flagged the deputy the next morning to the bus
into town and sat in a sheriff's office until some
one listened. The man behind a desk seemed in surprised,
said they'd had other reports, same pattern. Green truck, no
fixed blait, weird interactions with women working late gas station shifts,
always near less patrol parts of the state line. I
quit that job that afternoon. Two weeks passed. I moved,
but then the other message arrived, different number. Don't need
gas to keep moving, you don't eat her. I'll see
you at mile marker eighty one. That through me. That
rest stop, mile marker eighty one. It's the rest stop
my cousin and I hit once, heading toward Asheville for
a long holiday weekend. I hadn't mentioned that to anyone else,
not really. My blood ran cold. I changed my phone number.
I moved three counties east. I started applying only to
jobs where I didn't have to deal with empty parking
lots and over night shifts. I kept my lights on
at home. I locked everything. It's been years and ne'er
I moved again. After that, I changed routes. I avoid
lonely highways and lease shifts. My rout toured me east
from the outskirts of Dixon, Tennessee, crossed the quiet back
roads of western Virginia, then snake north through the hollows
a round Wessex. There's this little pull off east of
a town, cold ash hollow, not even a proper stop,
just a gravel lot tucked behind a thick stand of pines.
The first time I saw the truck, I barely noticed it.
It was an old Peterbilt, dull red like it had
once been candy Apple but got left out too long
no trailer, just the cab ibe and quietly in the dark,
a few spaces down, no lights on, no movement. I
figured the driver was sleeping. That's what we do, pull off,
shut down, we're charge. Second night he was there again,
same spots and truck engines still running, but no sign
of life, no flicker from the cab, no radio static,
not even a seb antenna waving. That's when I started
to feel weird about it. I figured, sure, maybe he's
parked up waiting on a load, or maybe he lives
close by a use is the spot. Some drivers are
creatures of habit. I didn't think too hard about it,
but the next night, when I pulled an around two
point fifteen in the morning, he was still there, and
this time the cab light was on. He was sitting
up straight, both hands and the wheel, not slumped, not
checking his phone, just frozen, his eyes locked forward, like
he was waiting for a green light that never came.
Only thing in front of him was gravel and a
thicket of brambles, and beyond that tree so thick you
couldn't see a foot past them. I nodded as I
passed some kind of reflex I guess. He didn't react,
didn't blink, didn't even shift. I'm telling ye, it was
like looking at a manequin that someone popped up behind
a wheel. I didn't use the bathroom that night, just
went back to my rake and locked both doors. I
don't usually bother, It's not like I'm hauling diamonds, but
something about that man or whatever he was, got under
my skin. Next few nights, I skipped to stop, took
my brake elsewhere. There was a brightly lit fuel station
outside of Galland Springs that cost a few extra bucks,
but I didn't care. I figured maybe the red truck
guy had moved on, or maybe I'd imagined the whole
thing in a sleep deprived as long drawers mess with
your head. But a week later, after dropping Feenal Lincoln Springs,
I had to take a detour in a fallen tree
blocker at thirty eight that men heading back down to
ward Ash Hollow. I hadn't planned to stop, but I
was thirsty, needed to stretch, and against my better judgment,
I pulled in again. He was back, same druck, same
exact spot. This time the headlights were off, but the
engine was still humming, soft and low like it always
had been, and the cow light was glowing faintly through
the windshield, which looked even worse than before. The glass
was so smeared and dark that it looked like some
one had poured motor oil over it, light it dry,
then ran a finger through it to cover narrow streak.
I stayed in my cap, just watching through the mirror
as I sipped a soda. It was quite no cicadas,
no win just the steady tomb of his idling engine.
Then he moved, only a little, just his head tilted,
maybe an inch maybe two, like he was trying to
get a better look at me. I couldn't see his
eyes through the grime, but something in the angle of
that motion it didn't feel random. It felt deliberate, like
he'd been waiting for me to show up again. I
left without even using the bathroom. The next morning, I
brought it up to Ralph. The guy I mentioned earlier.
He'd been driving longer than I'd been alive, and knew
every shortcut in ghost Town from here to Pennsylvania. I
told him everything, what I saw, how the truck never moved,
how the guy never blinked. I thought maybe it was
some kind of squatter or rig that got dumped and
left eiding by some lunatic. But when I mentioned the
red peterbelt, Ralph went still, You didn't stop there, he said,
not a question, a statement. I nodded. He took a
long breath. There was a rig like that pulled out
of a gully outside of Brier Hollow back in the
early nineties, same color, same make, Peter belt, no trailer.
They found the driver still buckled in, hands on the wheel,
body was mummified. Thing is. They estimated he'd been dead
at least two years, but the engine was still warm
when the hunters found it. Said the guy was quiet,
kept to himself, hauled back roads like, stopping at remote
pull offs no one else used. Then one night he
just disappeared off the route. No chatter, no good bye,
His lugs just stopped. I told Ralph there is no
way I'd seen the truck. I'd seen the driver clear
as day. He didn't argue, just said, some roads hold
on to things. You'd be smart to leave that one bee.
I stayed clear of Vash Hollow after that for a
while at least. But old habits die hard, and sometimes
your brain tricks you into thinking you imagine the whole thing.
So a couple months later, deep into winter, I passed
by the turn of around three in the morning, tire hungry,
needing to piss. Like how against old logic, I pulled in.
He was there, same exact spot, but this time the
cab door was cracked open, just an inch or two,
like it had been left ajar for me, And hanging
from the rear view mirror was something new. A little
bundle of feathers tied up with red twine. Looked like
chicken feathers. Maybe couldn't say for sure, but I knew
it hadn't been there before. I didn't look inside. I
walked past his truck with my eyes in the gravel
and made for the bathroom. I was inside maybe half
a minute before I heard the crunching not tie his
feet slow heavy stepped across the gravel, stopping right outside
the trailer. Then I heard my cab door slam shut.
My stomach dropped. I didn't breathe just waited. Nothing else happened.
I burst out of the bathroom harp thumping hard. My
cab light was on, door was shut. No one inside
but on the driver's seat sitting dead center was a
small wooden cross, looked whittle by hand, maybe out of
pine rough edges. The bottom stained dark, like it had
been dragged through oil. I spun around, but the Peterbilt
was gone, just gone. No headlights, no reverse sound, no
engine noise, no dust clothed, just vanished. I didn't stop
again after that, didn't talk about it either, not even
with Ralph. What could I say that I saw a ghost,
that a dead trucker left me a souvenir. I was
thirty seven when it happened. I had been running night
hauls out of this small depot in Trenton, West Virginia
for nearly a decade by then. That night was supposed
to be routine. I had a fifty foot flat bed
loaded with industrial piping, nothing especially dangerous or fragile. Picked
it up from a yard outside Lane Air, scheduled to
drop it at a warehouse lot in Hindon. Despatch told
me to avoid the main interstate because of some construction
mess near Charleston. So they were atted me through about
forty seven minutes one of those winding mountain roads that
looks halmless on a map and miserable in real life still,
I didn't think twice. I rolled out a little before
six sun, already behind the hills. I topped off the
thermis at a gas station that still used those ancient
metal pumps and had a bug sap at the size
of a car battery hanging above the door. The cashier
was barely awake, gave me my change like she couldn't
remember why I needed it. It felt like the kind
of night you sleep through, quiet and eventful. The first
eye was smooth. I had the radio low, just a
sleepy country station, fading in and out with every turn,
and my sea Bee opened, though no one was talking.
Not many other trucks. Take forty seven too tight, too isolated.
Selzigal dropped off a few miles past Barrow Hollow, and
after that it was just me, the road and the
sound of the trailer groaning around the bends. That's when
I noticed the truck behind me. It wasn't close at first.
I only spotted it on a curve, just the reflection
of its cruel catching in my trailer lights. Old model pickup, black,
maybe dark blue. It was hard to tell in the dark.
What stood up right away was that it wasn't using
any head lights, not even running lights, just moving in
shadow like it didn't want to be noticed. I figured
it with some local kid messing around, or maybe someone
who forgot to flip their lights on after dusk. Happens
more than you'd think. Still, the way he stayed back,
just far enough to keep from showing up in the
mirrors unless I was turning. That started to bother me.
At first, I tried to ignore it. People out here
drive strange sometime they think saving their battery O bobs
is worth the risk. But ten minutes passed, then twenty,
every single curve I catched that same reflection at the
exact same angle, no movement, no attempt to pass, just
hovering back like he was being careful to match my pace.
I tapped the brakes once, not hard, but enough to
jowl the trailer and maybe make a point. He slowed
down to perfectly and sink, like we were tied together
by a rope. That's when the chill started to settle in.
Not fear, not yet, but the kind of quiet and
easy feel when something's just off. I reached for my thermus,
mostly just to give my hands something to do. The
coffee had gone lukewarm. But I took a long sip anyway.
Then I saw a rest pull off coming up a
gravel shoulder big enough for a rig to park, poured
to john faded canti map bolted to a wooden board,
some trash bowls. One of those spots meant for engine
brakes or bathroom run, not overnight stops. I figured maybe
if I pulled in the sky would go past and
disappear into the night. So I signaled, eased over and
came to a stop. I didn't kill the engine, just
sat there, one hand on the wheel, the other near
the door handle, watched the mirror. The pickup didn't pass.
He pulled in behind me, no headlights, no sound except
for the ties on gravel. He stopped about twenty feet back,
his engine still running, just sitting there, both of a
sidling in the dark. I didn't move the Aentually, his
driver door creaked open. I thought maybe i'd see some
trunk stumble out of some old timer come over and
ask directions. But it wasn't like that. He didn't step out.
He leaned out, bent low like a spined and bend
where it was supposed to you. And in his right
hand there was something long and solid. At first I
thought it was a crowbar, but I wasn't sure. It
looked wrong, somehow off off. He just stood there like that,
half out, half in, like he was waiting for me
to move first. Then he stepped out completely, didn't closed
his door, just walked slow, direct, straight toward my cab.
I didn't wait. I threw it in the gear and
floored it, gravel spraying as the trailer caught up. My
tires fished out slightly as I swung back onto the road,
and I didn't even glance back until the next turn.
For a few blast minutes, I didn't see anything. Then
the beam set me full head lights now bright and sharp,
like he wanted me to know he was done hiding.
He was right behind me again. This time he was gaining.
I pushed the rick harder than I ever had on
that road. The trailer bounds took a curve too tight,
almost tip once. My heart was hammering. There was nothing
but forced on either side, no sign of houses or
driveries or any place to stop. Then a sign appeared
bridge ut three miles. It hit me like a gut punch.
That bridge had washed out after one of those big
winter storms. I remembered hearing about it. Locals had said
it wouldn't be fixed until the spring, but I hadn't
connected the rot name with this story until the second.
Three miles that's all I had left. There was no
turning around, no space to reverse a full rig. If
I kept going, I'd be lucky to stop before I
hit the barricade. I scanned the side of the road
for anything, dirt paths, service lanes, deer trails. Then I
spotted one. A narrow gravel rode off to the left.
It looked like something the forestry department might use, no signs,
barely wider than the truck, but it was that with
the bridge. I took it. Branches clawed at the mirrors
and scratched the paint. The trailer groaned as I forced
it to a curve that fell too tight, but it
made it. After maybe thirty seconds of crawling forward, the
trees opened up into a clearing, just a rough circle
of hard packed dirt and weeds, enough space to turn
if I got the angle right. I eased in, swung
the trailer as wide as I coat, then cut the
engine and killed the lights. Silence. I held my breath
ten seconds twenty nothing. Nothing, Then I heard him tires
on gravel, slow deliberate. The pick up rolled into the clearing,
headlights off again, like he knew exactly where it go.
He didn't stop behind me. He pulled across the entrance,
blocking me in completely. His hood pointed at mine, just
popped there. Then his door opened. This time he stepped
out without hesitation, still holding the crowber. He didn't walk
straight up to me. He circled, took his time, like
he was inspecting the truck, checking to see if anyone
was watching. Every few steps, he looked up at the
cab window. I stayed low, my whole body dents. I
could feel the tremble in my fingers and the thud
of my pulse in my neck. He reached the passenger
side and climbed onto the step rail, planted one hand
against the glass, and then slowly he leaned forward, pressed
his forehead to the window. Didn't knock, didn't say a word,
just rested there, breathing, like he was trying to see
if someone was inside, if I was the one he
was supposed to find. I yanked the air horn. The
sound busted through the night. He jerked back like he had
been shocked stumbled off the rail, and that was enough.
I jammed it into revers, cranked the wheel hard, and
didn't stop. The rig lurch tired, slipping on the dirt,
I clipped part of his bumper squeezing past. But I
didn't look back, not once I hit the main road,
and didn't let off the throttle until I saw the
lights of hinting in the distance. When I finally pulled
into the depot yard, I didn't even park straight. I
just stopped engine running and sat there. Eventually I called despatch,
told them flat out, I don't care what route you
assigned me. I'm never driving forty seven again. They didn't argue,
They didn't even ask why shall they know. The job
had its quirks. The roads were narrow and sharp, the
kind way you learned real fast to trust your mirrors
and your brakes. But I liked the solitude, long stretches
of quiet mountain road just me, and the hum of
the cab. Farther you got from the highways, the less
anyone bothered you. I learned to appreciate that. That summer
I started doing some myregular runs out of this deep
and near place called whinstead hollow kind of tapped away
off a state road, nothing but a diner, a church,
and a depot of two bays and one ancient vending
machine that only worked what it wanted to. They specialized
in odd requests, stopped too small or too remote for
the bigger outfits. I didn't mind. The money was fine
and the folks were easy enough to work with. One
Thursday night, I was sitting in my truck outside Debate,
eating a turkey sand which from a gas station that
still sold DVD in law felt as behind the counter
the load was running behind, which happened a lot. Then
I saw another truck pull in old Peterbilt, faded red
with black trim, no company name, no numbers, not even
a de or tea sticker. I could see it parked
a few spots down. The driver's stepped out slow midmanute
thirties may be older, it was hard to tell. Long,
dark beard, faced like a stretched rubber band, and wearing
a heavy work jacket despite the sticky summer air, all
cap pulled low. The kind of guy who looked like
he hadn't been warm or cold in years, just floating
through the middle doing what he always did. He gave
me an nod, didn't say much, muttered something about axelwake,
checked his ties like he was on auto pilot, then
disappeared round the back of his rake. There was something
odd about him, not which he or aggressive, just absent,
like he wasn't really in the driver's seat Mentally, I've
met a lot of tire truckers, but it's felt different. Still,
it wasn't any of my business. I finished my sandwich
and moved on. A few nights later, I stopped to
fuel up at this half dead station near the Kentucky
Virginia border. One pump worked, the other was wrapped in
the trash bag like a broken lane. And there it
was again, same red Peterbilt herded off to the side,
engine running, but nobody inside. The cab door was shut
and the window was rolled up. I did a slow
walk of round, half curious, checked the diner's windows empty.
The pump lights buzzed like flies. I leaned a little
closer to the cab window. Inside was a felthy thermos
and the dash a loose sy bee might just angling
from the mount, and a crumpled pair of gloves on
the passenger seat, like some one had taken them off
midshift and forgotten. I figured maybe he was in the
bathroom or on a cale. Still, something about the stillness
bugged me. That night Drop was way out in the hills,
past a town that barely had a name, up one
of those roads where the trees leaned too close and
the mail boxes are just nailed defence posts. My GBS
cut out about ten minutes in, which wasn't unusual. About
half way up along gravel slope, I noticed lies behind
me me head lights. At first, I didn't think much
of it, just another late driver, maybe a farmer heading home.
But the lights stayed back, not close enough to tell me,
just close enough to stay visible. I chapped the brakes,
so did they I sped up a little. The lights
kept pace that got under my skin. There won't any junctions,
were driveways for miles. Whoever was behind me was back
there on purpose. I pulled off to the side and
clicked my hazards. We did. The other truck slowed and stopped,
maybe a hundred feet behind. Didn't move. I waited five minutes,
then nothing, nothing, Then just as slow as it had come,
the truck back down the road, no break, lights, no
sound except for the crunch of gravel. I didn't sleep
much that night, made my drop and left before dawn.
Back at the deep of the following week, I started
asking around anyone know who drives that red peat. Most
of the guys just shrugged one laugh, like I was
telling a jerky had before one of the mechanics. A
wiry guy named Dennis just looked up from his thermos
and said that truck man's been around, that's all. Another
guy charmed him with he doesn't talk much, wouldn't worry
about him. Nobody had a name, nobody had to dispatch
it high to him. When I pressed a little more,
Dennis got quiet, looked over his glasses, and muttered that
man ain't right in the head. Then he left it
at that. A couple weeks later I got waved down
by a home owner off one of the routes. His
well tank had blown out and he needed a replacement
hal from a hard way yard two towns over. Technically
it wasn't on my route, but he paid cash up front,
and it wasn't a heavy load. I figured it wouldn't
take more than an iron change. On the way back,
I hit a fork left was my usual route, slow winding, familiar.
Right was narrower, but it cut through the woods and
shaved twenty minutes off. I'd never taken it before, but
the sky was clear and the trailer was light. I
turned right a mile in. I started seeing fresh tire trucks,
deep ones, wide set, same traider, remember from that red
peat boilt. Didn't think much of it at first, maybe
someone else used the short cut. Then I hit a
bend and saw it. Potch side was across a dirt
clearing the truck, same red body, same back trim pad,
door hanging opened like it had been flung wide. No driver,
no movement. I pulled up slow, maybe thirty feet back,
and laid on the horn. Nothing I called out, waited,
still nothing against my better judgment. I climbed down with
my flashlight. Inside the cab was a mess. The radio
was spitting static. The seat cushions were ripped open like
something a clawed at them. A thick rope lee culled
on the floor like a sleeping snake. There was an
old eye entire a thumper jawn beside the console, stained
with something dark and crusted. The log book was torn
in half. No signs of anyone I started to back up,
already reaching for the door handle. Then I saw him
just past the clearing where the tree start, standing dead, still, shirtless,
pale like paper. Watching. I didn't move, didn't breathe. He
stepped forward, just one slow step. That was all I needed.
I climbed back in, slammed the door through the truck
in reverse, and didn't stop until I saw a pavement
under my toes. Back at the depot, I went straight
to the foreman and told him everything. He didn't say much,
just frowned and asked which road I taken. When I
told him, he shook his head. Nobody runs that way anymore.
Washed out last winter, County never cleared it. I described
the truck. He's quinted at me, that old pete. He said,
we scrapped that thing last year, frame was shot. Hauled
it down to clear Water to get shopped. That was
the end of a conversation. Nobody followed up, nobody asked questions.
I gave it a week, then turned in my keys.
Now I stick to short routes around Tennessee, nothing past midnight.
I've been driving long haul roads since I was twenty one,
mostly solo runs. This one job came through on a Thursday.
Despatcher flagged it as urgent steel trousses to be holed
up to a build site somewhere near a town called Carvestrace.
Tucked into the hill's pass, bucket ridge, small backward stuff.
The bay was decent, a little higher than normal for
the distance. I didn't think much of it. I left
out just before noon. Takai waded foremost of the way.
Once I passed through Dolan's Fork, I noticed the shoulder
gout rougher in houses thinned out, just trees, lots of trees.
I remember seeing an old wooden sign that said Wainlow
Creek with an arrow pointing toward a dirt path. No town,
no buildings, nothing but that crack were cutting through green.
Eventually the map dropped up, just like the despatcher said.
I was still about ten miles from the pin drop.
I kept driving, notice the gravel gates shunk here, trees
pressed closer. I passed an old blue trailler with no
windows and a swing set tangle with weeds. No one around.
When I finally rolled into the clearing, it was a
little past six point thirty. The sun was hanging low
just behind the ridge. I hadn't seen another rickle in
at least an hour. The road ended a kind of
wide turn around, all gravel and dust. It felt like
the sort of place folks used to go dumping furniture
back in the day. I left the truck idling, climbed
out to stretch my legs. The air felt heavy, still
not hard exactly, just to moving. No birds, no rustling, nothing.
Then I saw headlights. They appeared around the same bent
i'd just come through. At first I thought it was
the red Jevy finally showing up late. But this truck
was smaller, old, rusted out along the fenders. The headlights
flickered like they didn't quite connect. No front plate. It
pulled up behind my trailer. I watched in the side
mirror as two men climbed down. They were both older,
maybe late fifties or early sixties, pale, almost grayish, like
they hadn't been in the sun for weeks. The first
guy wore sleeves, plaid shirt tucked into jeans, staying darker
round the knees. The second walked with a limp and
held one shoulder a little higher than the other, like
it was frozen in place. He didn't blink, not once.
I gave them a polite nod Ian in y'all need
help or something. They didn't say a word. Then the
one with the limp stepped forward, hands at his sides
and asked, either one who came over Milly's Pass this
morning that through me. I told him I'd comfort Dolan's Fork.
Then beckett Rich didn't recall anything called Miller's Pass. He
didn't acknowledge what I said, just stare, then muttered that
weren't your road. Now, I've had run ins with locals before.
He get used to folks in rural areas not liking
outsiders rolling in, especially in big rigs. They don't want
you to sting up their roads or blocking the way.
I figured that's what this was. Maybe I'd clipped some
old trail they considered private. So I tried to stay calm,
said something like, look, I'm just delivering trusses for a
tower build. Despatch gave me a route. I'm not trying
to cause any trouble. That's when the second guy squinted
at me like I just said something suspicious. Some one
gave you that route, He asked, or did you decide
to wander off where you don't belong. I noticed his hands,
big knuckles, thick with dirt under the nails. Not the
kind of hands you'd expect to be drivy round in
an end to truck with no tools in the back.
And then something clicked in me, one of those moments
where your body catches the warning signs before your brain
finishes processing them. I realized neither of them had looked
at my truck. They didn't glance at the trailer, didn't
ask about the delivery. They were just focus on me,
like they already knew everything else. I tried to keep
my voice light, said, maybe I missed a turn. I
can backtrack and check the road again. The man with
the limp tilted his head just a little. No, he said,
he came this way, you finish it. The other man
stepped closer. I could smell him then, a kind of damp,
earthy stink, like wet leaves and something left too long
in a root cellar. He said, quiet, we've been waiting.
My stomach dropped. I didn't answer, just back toward the cab,
keeping my eyes on them. I climbed and fast, shut
the door hard and hit the lock. I didn't care
how it looked. I turned the key and cranked the wheel,
trying to angle the reak to reverse out of the
turnaround without jack naffing through the windshield. They hadn't moved,
still just standing there, not even blinking. Their truck hadn't
started back up either, no lights, nowsund. I threw it
into reverse and back down the trail as fast as
I dared. The row was narrow, uneven, but I didn't
care if I scraped the undercarriage or lost a mirror.
Once I got enough room to swing wide, I hit
the gas and pointed the nose down. Now they followed.
I didn't hear them at first, but I kept checking
the mirrors. That same rusted truck kept its distance, never speeding,
never swerving, just there, head lights off, grill crooked like
it had been in a wreck and never fixed. They
stayed behind me for miles, even as the grave gave
voy to patch she pavement. Even as I started hitting
rowse I half re recognized. I didn't stop, didn't slow.
I only lost sight of them when I hit Route fourteen. Yea,
the little dino with the crooked sign. I glanced back.
Nothing there, no engine, noise, no dust, cloud, just empty road.
I didn't stop until I hit a gas station on
the edge of Clifton, about twenty miles out. I parked
near the edge of the lot, left the engine running
and just sat there. My hands were shaking. I couldn't
turn the key off. I just sat there, staring through
the wind for almost an io, trying to convince myself
it was just some trutorial local screwing around. The next morning,
I called the number from the job sheet. The guy
who picked up was the same dispatcher who sent me
the co ordinates. I asked him why no one had
shown up at the sight. I asked if the job
had been reassigned. He said no, no one else had
been dispatched. And when I pulled up the despatch app
to show him the job, I da it wasn't there,
not archived, not in history, like it had never existed.
I know what I saw, I know what I felt.
I still drive the region, still take long holes to
Kentucky in the Blue Ridge areas, but I don't accept
any rather that puts me near Beckett Ridge. Doesn't matter
what they are offering. I've been running long holes most
of my life, close to twenty years behind the wheel.
My usual loop runs between Charleston and Knoxville. Mostly timbers,
sometimes coal equipment. All lives took of fits the season.
That night, i'd just finished to drop in Maynard Junction,
a small, scruffy place stucked into the hills of southwest Virginia.
I was supposed to hop back on to Wrath thirty
nine and head west towards the st it line. Then
a name popped up on the screen. I didn't recognize it,
Swallowtail Rich, just another appellation notch carved between hills. These
places come and go like shadows. I figured i'd hit
a state route soon enough and merged back with my
usual line. About forty five minutes in and I started
noticing a weird sway in the trailer. I thought maybe
I was hugging the shoulder too close, could have been
soft from the rain, or maybe I was just tired.
Either way, I backed off the gas and let it
roll steady. That's when I saw the first sign. It
was nailed to a tree just off the right side
of the road. Looked like an old fence post someone hadropurposed,
painted and all cats sloppily but clear. No truge traffic.
After dark, no gates, no barricades, no reflectors or blinking lights,
just that signed dark trees, crowding clothes on both sides,
and a two lane road that stretched a pill and
vanished into shadow. I let the truck idol and just
stout at it for a second. I didn't like how
quiet it was. Not dead quiet, more like still everything
just waiting. But I told myself it was probably some
local crank who didn't like strangers tearing enough to sense it.
I've seen worse folks, old speed bumps out of scrap
metal and call civic duty. So I rolled on. About
fifteen minutes later, the sea Bee fled to life. No
voice at first, just these short, ragged bursts of static.
Not the smooth, steady interference you get in valors. This
came in short, almost wet pulses, like something breathing too
close to the mic. I adjusted the squelch. That's when
I heard the voice slowed down, just that two words
colm measured, measured, Then the line went dead. I stopped
the truck again. This time I cut the engine and
really looked around. Flashlight in hand, I stepped out and
checked the rigged tire's trailer hitch, the under carriage, anything
that could be rattling or off balance. Everything was fine,
but I noticed something else. There were no distant lights,
no porch clothes, no farm has floodlights, not even a
passing plane overhead, and the sky if he looked up,
they didn't feel open. It felt like the trees were
holding it down. I climbed back into the cab and
tried calling despatch. Nothing form was dead, not low battery,
dead's ear signal, no bars, not even the emergency so
s I figured I'd hit a dead patch. Happens sometimes
when you're deep enough between ridges. I started the engine,
tapped the fuel gage, just to keep my hands moving,
and eas forward. A few miles later I saw someone
on the side of the road. They were crutched low,
almost like they were tying a shoe or nursing a
bad ankle. I pulled to the shoulder, flipped on the hazards,
and got ready to help. As soon as my boots
hit the gravel, the figure stood up. It was a
man older, maybe sixty is hot to tell, bare chested,
no shoes, long gray hair that clung to his back
like wet rope. His beard was thicken and trimmed, and
his skin looked almost translucent, like candle wax under a
flickering light. He didn't speak, didn't even flinch when I
called out, you're right. He just turned and walked into
the woods. No rush, just disappeared between the trees like
he kneed away bhut. I didn't bother getting back in
the gear slowly, I threw the truck into drive and
left him behind without another word. Not five minutes later,
another sign appeared. This one was lowered to the ground,
barely readable. The letters were read, probably once bright but
now faded into the grain. You were told. That was
enough for me to mutter something I won't repeat here,
and grip the wheel a little harder. I didn't slow down.
I didn't blink. I just kept moving until something hit
the side of the trailer. Not a crash, not loud,
just if the like some one had tossed a sack
of flyer against a wall. I slammed the brakes, jumped
out again with the flashlight and checked everything. No mocks,
no rocks in the road, no trees down. But when
I turned to load back down the stretch of pavement
I just come from some one was standing there middle
of the lane facing me, I lifted the flashlight, not
then done like fog dispersing. That's when I locked the doors,
first time in my life I've ever done that on
the job. My hands were slick, and I couldn't stop
tapping the brakes every few seconds just to hear something real.
I kept checking the mirrors, even when I knew better.
I kept looking. Then out of the corner of my eye,
I saw a movement behind me, not outside inside, just
a shape, verily a silhouette slipping path the buncaria in sleeper.
I swerve so hard, pulling over, I nearly lost the
trailer through the truck in the park, yanked turban the
sleeper curtain, and swept my flashlight across the cab andy.
I checked every bag, pulled at the bedding, flipped cushions,
opened cabinets, even swung the back doors wide just in
case there was no one. And the forest around me
was still too still. Even in the deepest parts of
the mountains, you hear something anew, a bug, a breeze,
but here nothing like. The trees were holding their breath.
That's when the sea bee clicked on again, first to static,
then that sim haush read big breathing, and finally you
were told. I didn't care about protocol any more, didn't
check mirrors, closed the trailer doors. I just got bad hint,
shifted hard into gear, and floored. I didn't stop until
I reached a rest stop just outside Lawsonville, Wolden, under
the biggest floodlights I could find, and let the engine idle.
I must have sat there for two hours, just listening
to the hum and watching the edge of the lot
for anything that moved. I didn't call despatch, I didn't
follow a report. Who would believe me? I was twenty
nine when I started driving so low through the mountains
for uch, just outside a little town called Carter's Ben, Virginia.
I'd been around those hills my whole life. Neither curves
and dips like the back of my hand. By the
time I took over the rout full time, I could
navigate it with my eyes half shut. Not that I
recommend that. My truck back then was a second hand
Peter belt with a sleep of cat. Kind of a
roust bucket, but reliable. I mostly hold produce fruits, vegetables.
Wants a load of ornamental corn for some full festival
loued in Blue Rock. Most runs were late night pickets
from small family farms, real old skull places with hand
painted signs and dogs that trotted alongside your tires as
he backed into the loading bay. This particular run happened
in mid July, hot enough to fry a neck and
the hood if you were dumb enough to try it.
I'd taken a last minute cole to pick up crates
from a farm near Miller's Hollow. Normally it was a
smooth in an out jaw, but they were behind that night.
This sorting machine had jammed and they were short staffed,
so I ended up waiting almost three hours in the lot,
killing time with the sody sandwich and runs of some
trivia show on my frone until the signal cut out completely.
By the time I finally got rolling, it was close
to one in the morning. Now there's a particular stretch
on Route forty seven nearer Miller's Gap that always makes
me a little uneasy, not for any supernatural reason, just
because it's hell to drive. It's narrow, peorly lit, and
full of switchbacks. The guard rails are old and dented,
like they've been tested more times than anyone wants to admit.
There's no room for area, specially with a full load
and soft brakes. So there I was crawling through the
curves with both hands tied in the wheel, no music,
just the hum of the engine and my own tye
of thoughts keeping me company. That's when I saw her.
She was standing off the shoulder near the tree line Fayfort,
wearing this lawn dress faded white or maybe pale blue,
hard to tell in the dark. That looked like it
belonged in an old family photo. Not moving, not waving,
just standing still, facing the trees, like she was listening
to something I couldn't hear. No curR in sight, no flashlight,
just her. I tapped the brakes a little, slowing down,
not because I thought she was dangerous, but because something
felled off. He don't see many people walking alone on
that road in the middle of the night. It's too remote,
too quiet. At first I thought maybe she'd been in
an accident and wandered off taste. Then she turned around
and everything in me seized up. Her face. It wasn't gory,
no horror movie scary, just wrong, like something was was smatched.
Her eyes were spaced too far apart, her mouth was
too low on her jaw, the proportions didn't track, like
someone had tried to rebuild a human face from memory
and got in the spacing all rom And she didn't blink.
That hit me harder than anything. Her eyes just stayed open,
wide and glassy. Then she started walking toward the truck,
not rushing, knock, calling out, just calm, slow steps, like
she was certain it'd stop and let her in. I didn't.
I floorded the engine, grown tires crape gravel, and I
kept my foot pressed down like I was trying to
outfront my own thoughts. My eyes flicked to the side
mirrors again and again, expecting to see her still standing there,
or worse following. But there was nothing. The road behind
me was empty. My hands were shaking, but I didn't stop,
not even when my throat dried up and I could
barely swallow. I told myself I'd pull into the diner
up New York Ridge, just to catch my breath and
call someone, maybe report it, maybe not. I wasn't sure
what i'd even say. Then about ten, maybe fifteen minutes later,
I heard something. It came from the sleeper. Now listen.
I locked that section religiously, always have ever since the
time a DRNK tried to call in as a rest
stop near Knoxville. I make a point to triple check
the latch before I hit the highway. But what I
heard was knocking, wasn't banging. It was subtle, like someone
shifting their weight, slow rustling, the faint read the thud
of fabric brushing against final I tightened my grip on
the wheel and kept going. Didn't look back, didn't say
a word, just kept driving like I was alone and
nothing was happening. I don't know if it was fearer
or instinct to some primitive part of my brain deciding
to freeze and pretend nothing was there, but I couldn't
bring myself to check. Eventually I pulled into the diner lot.
It was a twenty four hour joint. Always smelled faintly
of burned bacon and mop water, but they had strung
coffee in a bright parking area. I parked under the
biggest flood light and jumped out before the truck fully settled,
walked round to the sleeper, opened the door, slow heart panding. Nothing,
just my old blanket. A couple of crumpled, with seats
on the floor and the soft hum of the minifer
I had left running. The door had stayed locked the
whole time. I stood there for a few minutes, just
stirring into the space, like something might materialize if I
looked long enough. Then I went inside the diner and
sat down at the corner, butth with the crack final seat,
ordered coffee, tried to act normal. The waiters brought it over,
gave me a second look like she was about to
ask if I was okay, but didn't push. I sat
there until the cup was empty, maybe twenty minutes. Twenty
five minutes. When I came back to the truck, something
was sitting on the driver's seat. It was a piece
of light paper, torn at the edge like from a
school notebook. On it, someone had drawn circles, tight heavy
loops that overlapped and bled into each other, over and
over until the pencil nearly tore through the paper. No name,
no message, just circles. A froze, just stirred at the
open door, staring down at it. I checked a whole lot,
walked it end to end, looked on the trailers, even
checked the bathroom stalls again, no one. I went back
inside asked the cashier if anyone had passed through or
touched the truck. He shook his head, said the place
had been dead all night. I asked about cameras. He
said they didn't catch anything unusual. I drove the rest
of the route in daylight, windows down, music loud, didn't
stop unless I had to. When I delivered the load,
I didn't even wait for confirmation, just handed it off
the clipboard and left. After that, I stopped taking mountain runs,
switched to shorter routes between Asheville and Johnson City de
holes only. I told myself it was for the betterless
time away from home. He's here on the back, But
deep down I just didn't want to be alone in
that truck after duck anymore. And that is the end.
Thank you for listening, and I will see you in
the next one.