"The Midnight Stalker":
It was late, dark, and the highway stretched out like a black ribbon under the moonless sky. My name's Mike, and I’ve been driving trucks for almost fifteen years. That night, I was on my usual route down the I-5, heading towards San Diego with a trailer full of electronics. It wasn’t the kind of load you’d think twice about, but looking back, I wonder if it made me a target.
The cab was my sanctuary—coffee in the thermos, the faint hum of the engine, and the steady rhythm of the tires rolling beneath me. The radio played low, some old country tune filling the empty space, and I was in my groove. But around mile marker 88, I noticed the car. It came out of nowhere, headlights bright and aggressive, tailgating so close that its beams flooded my mirrors.
I grumbled to myself, "Man, what's your rush?" and tapped my brakes lightly—a polite trucker’s way of saying, Back off. But the driver didn’t take the hint. Instead, they seemed to inch closer, their lights glaring like an interrogation.
Annoyance quickly turned into unease. Tailgating happens, sure, but this? This felt deliberate. I checked my mirrors, trying to get a look at the car. It was a dark sedan, maybe black or navy blue, hard to tell in the dim light. I couldn’t make out the driver—just a vague silhouette behind the wheel.
I nudged the gas, easing my speed up to sixty-five, then seventy. To my dismay, the car matched me, sticking to my bumper like glue. My gut started to churn with that instinctive sense of wrongness. This wasn’t just some impatient driver trying to pass; it was something else entirely.
After another twenty miles of this unsettling game of cat and mouse, I saw an upcoming rest stop. I decided to pull in, hoping to lose the car or at least confront the driver. The lot was sparsely lit, with a vending machine flickering ominously in the distance. I eased into a parking spot near the edge, signaling as clearly as I could.
But to my disbelief, the sedan followed, pulling into the space directly beside me.
I glanced over, trying to keep my composure. Through the passenger window, I could just make out the driver—a man, his face partially obscured by the shadows in his car. His posture was stiff, unmoving, but his head was turned toward me. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I felt them, heavy and invasive, as if he were dissecting me with his gaze.
Locking my doors, I grabbed my phone and pretended to check something on the dashboard. My pulse was hammering, but I kept my movements calm, deliberate. After what felt like an eternity, the man’s car rolled forward and back onto the highway.
I exhaled shakily, convincing myself it was over. Maybe I’d just overthought the whole thing. Maybe he was just some lost driver who’d decided to move on.
But ten minutes later, I was back on the road when those same headlights reappeared, this time in my left mirror. My stomach dropped. The sedan was back, weaving between lanes before settling just in front of me. Then, in an almost taunting move, it slowed to a crawl, forcing me to reduce speed.
I reached for my CB radio. "Breaker, breaker. Anyone out there near mile marker 102? Got a vehicle acting real strange. Dark sedan. Anyone nearby?"
Static crackled, followed by a voice. "Roger that, Mike. I'm five miles out. Hold tight. You alone?"
"Yeah," I muttered, my voice tight with nerves. "And this guy’s playing games."
The sedan suddenly veered off the road into another pull-off, disappearing into the darkness. I debated calling the police right then and there, but part of me hesitated. Was I overreacting? Truckers see plenty of weird stuff, and I’d never been one to spook easily.
But just as I was starting to convince myself I was imagining things, I saw them again. The sedan’s headlights flared as it accelerated back onto the highway, cutting me off and pulling into a rest area just ahead.
I didn’t want to stop, but curiosity—or maybe stubbornness—got the better of me. I pulled in cautiously, parking near the entrance with my lights aimed toward the darkened lot. The sedan was there, but this time the driver had stepped out.
He was tall, wearing all black, his features obscured by the poor lighting. There was something wrong about the way he moved—too calm, too deliberate. In his hand, I saw the glint of metal, faint but unmistakable. My chest tightened.
"Hey!" I shouted, rolling my window down just enough to project my voice. "What do you want?"
The man turned toward me slowly, his head tilted in an almost curious manner. Then he said, "Just need to talk, Mike."
The sound of my name hit me like a gut punch. "How do you know my name?" I demanded, trying to mask the tremor in my voice.
He smiled, a thin, joyless curve of his lips. "Your CB. You called for help, didn’t you?"
My grip on the steering wheel tightened. My mind raced, trying to calculate my options. I could floor it and hope to outrun him, but what if he followed again? And that knife—or whatever it was—added a layer of risk I wasn’t ready to gamble with.
Before I could decide, salvation arrived in the form of blinding headlights. Another truck roared into the rest stop, its horn blasting a warning that shattered the tension. The man in black froze, his eyes darting toward the newcomer.
"Mike, you good?" The voice on the CB was calm but firm.
The man stared at me for another long, tense moment before turning on his heel. He climbed into his sedan and sped off without another word. My knees felt like jelly as the other trucker pulled up beside me.
"You alright?" he asked, stepping down from his cab.
I nodded, though my hands were still shaking. "That guy knew my name," I said hoarsely. "Had something in his hand. He wasn’t here for directions."
The other driver frowned, pulling out his phone. "We’re calling this in. No way he’s getting away with that."
The police arrived about an hour later, taking down our statements and examining the scene. They didn’t have much to go on besides my description of the man and his car, but it was enough. Turns out, he was a wanted criminal—a drifter who’d been targeting truckers along remote highways, robbing and threatening them.
They caught him a few hours later, holed up at a gas station not far from where I’d last seen him. Knowing he was off the road brought some relief, but the encounter left a mark I couldn’t shake.
That night taught me something I’ll never forget. The highway is a strange, unpredictable place, and no matter how well you think you know it, danger can find you in the most unexpected ways. It reminded me to trust my instincts, stay vigilant, and, above all, appreciate the camaraderie of my fellow drivers. Out there in the dark, it’s the small connections that can make all the difference between safety and disaster.
"The Highway's Shadow":
I was driving down an old highway, one of those lonely stretches of road in the middle of nowhere, cutting through the wide-open plains of Kansas. The kind of road where the land goes on forever, flat and empty, and the only things breaking the horizon are the occasional grain silos or lonely trees. The sun had already set, and the sky had turned dark, except for the faint glow of stars above.
My car’s radio was nothing but static, and my phone had no signal. I was completely alone out there, with only the hum of the engine and the occasional gust of wind for company. The plan was simple: drive from one small town to another, grab a cheap motel room, and be back on the road by morning. It was supposed to be easy. But nothing about that night would turn out as I’d planned.
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It read 9:47 PM. I muttered to myself, “Should’ve left earlier,” knowing full well that driving this late on a deserted road wasn’t smart. My headlights lit up the black ribbon of asphalt ahead, but beyond that, it was pitch dark. Not a single streetlight, house, or car in sight. It was just me and the empty road.
I was about halfway to my destination when I spotted something up ahead. At first, I thought it was a shadow or maybe an animal crossing the road. But as I got closer, my stomach tightened. It was a car—what was left of one, anyway. The back end was crumpled like a soda can, the windows shattered, and it was sitting off to the side of the road at an odd angle.
My gut told me to keep driving. But what if someone was hurt? What if they needed help? Against my better judgment, I slowed down and pulled over. The gravel crunched under my tires as I parked a few yards away from the wreck. My heart was pounding, and my palms felt clammy as I reached into the glove compartment for my flashlight.
“Hello?” I called out as I stepped out of my car, the beam of my flashlight cutting through the darkness. “Anybody here? Do you need help?”
There was no answer. The night was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl. I walked closer, the flashlight shaking slightly in my hand. The driver’s door was open, hanging crooked on its hinges. I shone the light inside the car, and that’s when I saw it—blood.
It was smeared across the steering wheel, the dashboard, and the seat. My stomach churned, and I took a step back. The wreck looked old, as if it had been sitting there for hours, maybe longer. But where was the driver?
I swept the flashlight around the area, calling out again. “Hello? Is anyone out here?”
Still nothing. Just the sound of the wind rustling the tall grass. I was about to turn back, to leave and find help somewhere else, when I heard it—a faint crunching sound. It was soft at first, like gravel shifting underfoot, but it was getting louder. Someone was walking toward me.
“Who’s there?” I called out, spinning around with the flashlight. The beam landed on a man standing just a few feet away.
He looked rough, like he hadn’t slept or eaten in days. His clothes were torn and dirty, and his face was pale, his eyes wild and bloodshot. I froze, my breath catching in my throat.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice raspy and cold.
“I... I just stopped to see if someone needed help,” I stammered, trying to sound calm even though my heart was racing.
He tilted his head, his expression dark. “Help? There’s no help out here. Not for you.”
Something about the way he said it made my blood run cold. I took a step back, glancing over my shoulder at my car. I was only a few steps away, but it felt like miles.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’ll just leave.”
He took a step closer, and that’s when I noticed the object in his hand—a piece of metal, rusted and jagged. My pulse quickened.
“You don’t get it,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Nobody leaves. Not anymore.”
My instincts kicked in, and I turned to run. But before I could move, he lunged, grabbing my arm. His grip was like steel, and I screamed, twisting and pulling with all my strength.
“Let go!” I shouted, panic taking over.
“You’re already too late,” he hissed, his face inches from mine.
In a desperate move, I swung the flashlight, hitting him square in the side of the head. He let out a grunt of pain and stumbled backward, his grip loosening just enough for me to break free. I didn’t look back—I just ran. My feet hit the gravel hard as I bolted for my car.
I flung the door open, jumped inside, and locked it. My hands were shaking so badly it took me two tries to start the engine. When it roared to life, I slammed my foot on the gas. The tires spun on the loose gravel before finally gripping, and I sped off, the headlights cutting through the darkness.
In the rearview mirror, I saw him standing in the middle of the road, his figure growing smaller as I drove away. But he wasn’t chasing me. He was just standing there, watching.
I didn’t stop until I reached the next town. By the time I pulled into the gas station, my hands were trembling, and my chest felt tight. The place was dimly lit, with a single pump and a small convenience store. I staggered inside, the bell above the door jingling softly.
The attendant, an older man with gray hair and kind eyes, looked up from his newspaper. “You alright there, kid? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I tried to steady my voice, but it came out shaky. “There was... a wreck. And a man. He tried to—” I paused, unable to finish.
The man’s expression darkened. He set down his newspaper and leaned forward. “Out on the old highway?”
I nodded.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’d be Caleb. Used to be a trucker, long time ago. Lost his family in an accident on that road. Folks say he lost his mind after that, started scaring people away. Some say he’s just trying to protect the road. Others... well, they think he’s gone dangerous.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. “He was holding a piece of metal. He tried to grab me.”
The man’s face grew even more serious. “You’re lucky you got away. Best advice I can give? Stay off that highway. Next time, take the interstate.”
I nodded, thanked him, and left. But as I drove away from that gas station, the fear lingered. Every shadow on the road, every flicker of movement in the corner of my eye, felt like Caleb, waiting for me to slow down, to stop.
That night, I realized how close I’d come to being another one of his stories—another warning whispered by travelers on the old Kansas highway. And even now, I can’t shake the feeling that Caleb is still out there, waiting for the next person to cross his path.
"The Backroad Trap":
It was late, close to midnight, when I decided to take the backroads home after visiting my aunt in a small town in rural Tennessee. The idea had seemed smart at first—cutting through the countryside to save some time instead of sticking to the highway. But as I drove deeper into the darkness, I started to wonder if I’d made a mistake.
The road was narrow and lonely, surrounded by tall trees that leaned in from both sides, almost touching overhead. My car’s headlights barely lit the way, casting eerie shadows that flickered and moved like they were alive. There were no streetlights, no houses, and no cars—just endless dark trees and the hum of my engine. Even the stars and moon seemed hidden behind thick clouds. My phone had lost signal about twenty minutes earlier, and the radio only played static, making the silence around me feel even heavier.
I’d heard rumors about these roads. Stories of strange happenings, robberies, and people disappearing. My aunt had laughed while sharing some of them over dinner, calling them old wives’ tales, but the way she avoided meeting my eyes afterward told me she believed at least some of it. I had laughed too, but now, as I drove alone through the shadows, those stories didn’t feel so silly anymore.
As I rounded a bend, my headlights caught something up ahead—a car pulled over to the side of the road. Its hood was open, and the hazard lights were blinking weakly, like a signal calling out into the night. I slowed down, my stomach tightening. A lone figure was standing next to the car, waving their arms.
For a moment, I thought about driving past. Something about the scene didn’t sit right with me, but at the same time, I couldn’t just leave someone stranded out here in the middle of nowhere. What if it was me standing there, hoping someone would stop? Against my better judgment, I eased my car to a stop a few yards ahead, keeping the engine running and the headlights pointed at the other car.
Grabbing a flashlight from the glove compartment, I stepped out, my heart thudding in my chest. “Hey,” I called out, keeping some distance. “You need help?”
“Yeah! Thank you for stopping!” The voice belonged to a young man, probably in his early twenties. He was dressed in a hoodie and jeans, his face pale and tired-looking in the glow of my headlights. He pointed to the engine. “I think my car just died. Could you give me a jump?”
I hesitated for a moment, glancing back at my car. It felt wrong, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. “Sure,” I finally said. “Let me grab my cables.”
I walked to the trunk of my car, opened it, and started searching for the jumper cables. The woods seemed quieter now, like even the crickets had stopped chirping. My hands were shaking, though I told myself it was just nerves. As I pulled out the cables and turned back toward the stranded car, the air around me seemed to change—heavier, colder.
Before I could process what was happening, I felt something sharp and cold press against my back. A voice whispered close to my ear, low and threatening. “Don’t move.”
I froze. My mind went blank, my heart pounding so loud I could barely hear anything else. “What... what do you want?” I stammered.
“Your keys. Your wallet. Now,” the voice demanded.
I realized then that the young man wasn’t alone. Out of the shadows beside the car stepped another figure—a bigger man, older, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face. He held a knife, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light.
My hands shook as I handed over my keys and wallet. The bigger man snatched them and started rifling through my wallet while the younger one stood there, smirking.
“This it?” the bigger man barked, waving the wallet.
“Y-yes,” I managed to say. “That’s all I have.”
The younger man chuckled, a sound that made my stomach turn. “You know, people like you make it easy,” he said, his voice mocking. “Thinking you’re doing a good deed, stopping for someone in trouble. But out here? That’s just dumb.”
I didn’t reply. I was too scared to say anything, too scared to move.
The older man shoved the wallet into his pocket and tossed my keys a few feet away. “Next time, don’t play hero,” he said with a sneer. “It might not end so pretty.”
With that, they walked off into the woods, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as they had appeared. For a moment, I couldn’t move. My legs felt like jelly, and my chest was so tight I could barely breathe. I stayed frozen, staring into the darkness where they had vanished, afraid they might come back.
When I finally snapped out of it, I stumbled back to my car and grabbed my phone. To my relief, there was one bar of signal. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely dial 911. The dispatcher answered, and I tried my best to explain what had happened and where I was. My voice trembled as I gave them the details, but they assured me help was on the way.
I sat in the driver’s seat, locking all the doors and gripping the steering wheel as I waited. Every noise outside—every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig—made me jump. The minutes felt like hours until I saw the flashing red and blue lights of the police car approaching. Relief washed over me so powerfully I nearly cried.
The officers took my statement, listening carefully as I described the two men and what had happened. One of them sighed heavily. “This road’s had its share of trouble,” he said. “We’ve been trying to patrol more, but it’s a big area. You were lucky. Some folks don’t get off so easy.”
They found my wallet not far from where I had parked, tossed in the grass with the cash missing but everything else still there. They handed it back to me along with my keys and told me to stick to main roads from now on.
Driving home, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened. The fear, the helplessness, the sheer luck that they hadn’t hurt me. The backroad wasn’t just a shortcut—it was a trap. A dangerous place where darkness hid more than just trees.
I’ve never taken a backroad again, no matter how tempting it seems. Some shortcuts just aren’t worth the risk.