"Midnight at Joe’s":
I’ve been working the night shift at Joe’s Truck Stop off I-70 in Kansas for five years, maybe longer. It’s a small place, stuck in the middle of nowhere, just a diner with chipped Formica tables, a couple of red vinyl booths, and a counter lined with stools that creak when you sit. The fluorescent lights buzz constantly, casting a pale glow over the linoleum floor, worn from years of truckers’ boots. Outside, the parking lot is a wide, gravel-strewn expanse, big enough for a dozen rigs, though most nights it’s just one or two, their engines silent, drivers asleep in their cabs. The hum of the drink coolers and the faint clatter of dishes in the back are all I hear after midnight. It’s a lonely spot, the kind where the world feels far away, and you’re left with your thoughts and the occasional stranger passing through. I thought I’d seen it all—drunk truckers, lost travelers, kids looking for trouble. But I was wrong.
It was around 2 AM when the bell above the door jingled, sharp and sudden in the quiet. I was behind the counter, wiping down the coffee machine, the rag damp in my hand. A young woman walked in, maybe twenty-five, pregnant, her belly round under a loose gray sweatshirt. She wore a puffy jacket, too big for her, the sleeves hanging past her wrists. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks. She carried a small purse, clutching it like it was all she had. Her eyes darted around the diner, scanning the empty booths, the dark windows, like she was expecting someone to jump out.
“Hey,” I said, setting the rag down. “Can I help you?”
She flinched at my voice, then looked at me, her eyes wide and nervous. “Is the payphone working?” she asked, her voice soft but shaky, like she was trying to keep it together.
“Yeah, it’s good,” I said, pointing to the corner where the old phone hung on the wall, its cord tangled from years of use. “You okay?”
She nodded quickly, but her hands trembled as she fumbled with her purse, digging for coins. “I just need to make a call,” she said, avoiding my eyes. She walked to the phone, her sneakers squeaking on the floor, and I noticed her glance back at the door, like she was checking to see if someone followed her. My stomach twisted. Something wasn’t right.
I went back to cleaning, but I kept watching her from the corner of my eye. The diner was empty except for us, the only sound the faint hum of the coolers and the clink of her coins dropping into the phone. She dialed a number, her fingers moving fast, and pressed the receiver to her ear. “Jake? It’s me,” she said, her voice low but urgent. “I’m at the truck stop. Yeah, I’m okay, but… there’s this truck that’s been driving around the lot. It’s been circling for a while. It’s making me nervous.”
I stopped wiping the counter, my hand frozen. The lot was dark, lit only by a couple of weak streetlights that barely reached the edges. I hadn’t noticed any truck moving out there, but the way she said it, her voice tight, made my skin prickle. I stepped closer to the window, peering out. The lot was still, just two rigs parked way out by the fuel pumps, their chrome glinting faintly. Nothing else. No movement, no headlights.
She kept talking, her voice getting faster, higher. “No, it’s dark, maybe black or blue. I can’t tell. It’s got no plates, Jake. It’s weird. It keeps slowing down near the phone booth outside.” She paused, listening, her fingers twisting the phone cord so tight it looked like it might snap. “I don’t know, I just… I didn’t want to stay out there. I’m inside now, but I can still see it.”
I moved closer to her, keeping my voice calm. “Hey, you want me to check the lot? Make sure everything’s okay?”
She glanced at me, her eyes wide, and shook her head. “No, no, I’m fine. Just… stay here, okay?” She turned back to the phone, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Jake, stay on the line. I’m scared. What if it’s not just some guy?”
My heart started pounding. I walked to the window again, pressing my face close to the glass. The lot was still empty, but now I was looking harder, squinting into the shadows. Was that a shape moving out there? A flicker of light? I couldn’t tell. The hairs on my neck stood up, and I felt that itch, like someone was watching. I turned back to her, about to say something, when she gasped into the phone.
“Oh God, Jake, it’s stopping. The driver is getting out. He has a flashlight. I think he’s looking for me.” Her voice broke, and she pressed herself against the wall, her free hand clutching her belly. The phone cord stretched taut as she slid down slightly, her eyes locked on the window.
I grabbed the baseball bat from under the counter, my hands sweaty on the worn grip. We kept it there for trouble—drunks, mostly—but I’d never had to use it. “Stay there,” I told her, my voice sharper than I meant. I moved toward the door, bat in hand, and looked out. Nothing. Just darkness and the faint hum of the highway in the distance. But my pulse was racing, and I couldn’t shake the feeling something was coming.
The bell jangled again, loud and violent, as the door slammed open. A man stepped inside, tall, over six feet, broad shoulders filling out a heavy jacket. His cap was pulled low, shadowing his face, but his eyes caught the light—cold, empty, like they didn’t belong to a person. He didn’t look at me. His gaze locked on the woman, and she let out a small, choked scream, the phone slipping from her hand. It swung on its cord, Jake’s voice faint and frantic, calling her name.
“Hey!” I shouted, stepping forward, bat raised. “What’s going on? Back off!”
The man didn’t answer. He moved fast, crossing the diner in long strides, his boots heavy on the floor. The woman scrambled back, her purse falling, coins and a tube of lipstick scattering across the linoleum. “No, please!” she cried, her hands flailing as he grabbed her arm. She yanked against him, her nails scratching at his sleeve, but he was too strong.
“Let her go!” I yelled, my voice shaking. I swung the bat, aiming for his shoulder, but he turned, quick as a snake, and the bat grazed his arm. He didn’t even flinch. His free hand pulled a knife from his jacket, the blade short but sharp, glinting under the lights. My stomach dropped.
“Stay out of this,” he said, his voice low, calm, like he was talking about the price of gas. His eyes met mine, and I froze. There was nothing in them—no anger, no fear, just cold purpose.
The woman was sobbing now, her legs kicking as he dragged her toward the door. “Please, I’m pregnant!” she screamed, her hands clawing at his arm, leaving red marks. “Let me go! Someone help!” Her eyes met mine, wide and desperate, begging for something I didn’t know how to give.
I lunged again, swinging the bat, but he was ready. He shoved her against the wall, pinning her with one arm, and turned the knife on me. I tried to dodge, but the bat slipped, the handle smacking my temple. Pain exploded, white-hot, and I stumbled, grabbing the counter to keep from falling. The room spun, blood trickling down my cheek, warm and sticky.
I heard her scream again, shrill and terrified, as he yanked her outside. The door slammed shut, the bell jangling like a mockery. I forced myself up, head pounding, and staggered to the window. In the lot, a black truck was parked near the payphone, no plates, just like she’d said. Its headlights were off, but I could see her silhouette, thrashing as he shoved her into the passenger side. Her hands banged against the window, a muffled cry cutting through the glass.
I ran outside, the bat still in my hand, yelling, “Stop! Let her go!” The gravel crunched under my shoes, my breath coming in gasps. The truck’s engine roared, deep and guttural, and it peeled out, tires spitting rocks. I sprinted after it, my legs burning, but the taillights were already fading, swallowed by the dark. Her screams lingered in the air, then went silent.
I stood there, chest heaving, the bat hanging useless at my side. My head throbbed, blood dripping onto my shirt. The lot was empty again, just the two rigs and the faint glow of the diner behind me. I stumbled back inside, my hands shaking as I grabbed the phone, Jake’s voice still there, shouting, “Hello? Hello? What’s happening?” I hung it up and dialed 911.
“Someone’s been taken!” I said, my voice hoarse. “A woman, pregnant, at Joe’s Truck Stop on I-70. A guy with a knife, black truck, no plates. He took her. Hurry!”
The cops arrived twenty minutes later, their lights flashing across the lot, red and blue cutting through the dark. I told them everything—her nervous walk in, the call to Jake, the truck circling, the man’s cold eyes, the knife. I showed them the coins and lipstick on the floor, her purse still open where it fell. They searched the lot, the payphone, the road, but found nothing. No tire tracks, no witnesses, no cameras that caught anything useful. The rigs’ drivers hadn’t seen a thing, asleep in their cabs.
Jake showed up an hour later, his face pale, eyes red. He’d heard it all over the phone—her fear, her screams, the man’s voice. He kept asking me, “Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you do more?” I didn’t have an answer. I just stood there, my head bandaged by the paramedics, feeling like I’d failed her.
The cops said they’d look into it, check other truck stops, run descriptions of the man and the truck. But I could see it in their faces—they didn’t expect to find her. Truck stops like this are ghosts’ playgrounds, they said. People pass through, and some just disappear. Too many roads, too many shadows.
I still work the night shift. I can’t quit, though I don’t know why. The diner feels different now, heavier. The bell jingles, and my heart stops every time. I keep the bat closer, check the lot every hour, my eyes scanning for that black truck. I see her face sometimes, in the quiet moments, her eyes pleading as he dragged her away. I wonder if I could’ve been faster, swung harder, done something—anything—to change it.
The cops never found her. No truck, no man, no trace. Jake calls sometimes, asking if I’ve heard anything, but I haven’t. The purse is still in the lost-and-found, untouched, her lipstick inside like a reminder. At night, when the lot’s empty and the coolers hum, I stare out the window, waiting for those taillights to come back. They never do, but I can’t shake the feeling he’s still out there, somewhere, watching, waiting for the next one.
"The Last Stop":
I’d been driving for hours, hauling a load of furniture from Ohio to New York. My shoulders were stiff, my eyes burning from staring at the endless road. It was late, probably around 1 a.m., when I pulled into a small truck stop in Sugar Grove, Pennsylvania. The place was tucked off a quiet highway, surrounded by dark fields and a few scattered trees. The lot had maybe five other rigs, parked far apart, their engines off, making the silence feel heavy. A single streetlamp buzzed overhead, casting a weak yellow glow over the fuel pumps and a small diner with grimy windows. I chose a spot at the far end of the lot, where the light barely reached, figuring it’d be quieter for sleep.
As I cut the engine, I noticed a woman standing near the edge of the lot, leaning against a rusted signpost. She was thin, her jacket too tight, her jeans faded, and her arms crossed like she was trying to keep warm. Her hair was pulled back, but strands fell loose around her face. I’d seen women like her before at truck stops—lot lizards, working the lots for cash. She caught my eye through the windshield, her gaze steady, almost searching. I looked away, busying myself with my logbook, hoping she’d move on.
“Hey, driver,” she called out, her voice cutting through the quiet. Her boots crunched on the gravel as she walked toward my truck, stopping a few feet from my door. “You looking for some company tonight? Help you unwind?”
I rolled down my window just enough to answer, keeping my voice polite but firm. “No, thanks. Just here to rest up before I hit the road again.”
She tilted her head, giving a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Long haul, huh? Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be around.” She paused, then added, “Watch yourself out here, okay? Not everyone’s friendly.” Her words hung in the air, and before I could respond, she turned and walked back toward the diner, her figure fading into the shadows. Something about her tone—the way she said watch yourself—made my skin prickle, like she knew something I didn’t.
I locked my doors, double-checked them, and pulled out a ham sandwich from my cooler. The cab was my home on the road, cluttered with coffee cups, a folded blanket, and a radio that barely picked up stations out here. I ate slowly, trying to shake the unease. The lot was too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every little sound feel big. A truck door slammed somewhere across the lot, and I flinched, peering through the windshield. Nothing. Just shadows and the faint glow of the diner’s neon sign.
I climbed into the sleeper cab, pulling the heavy curtains closed to block out the world. Lying on the narrow mattress, I listened to the faint hum of a rig idling nearby, the occasional clink of metal from the fuel pumps. My mind kept replaying the woman’s words, and I wondered what she meant. I told myself I was just tired, overthinking it. Sleep came slowly, but it came.
A loud bang jolted me awake. It was sharp, heavy, like something big hitting the ground right outside my truck. My heart raced, and I sat up, my blanket sliding to the floor. The cab was dark, the curtains still drawn, but I could hear voices now—two, maybe three, low and urgent, like an argument. I held my breath, straining to make out words, but they were muffled, too far away. The voices stopped as suddenly as they started, leaving only silence. I checked my watch—4:17 a.m. My mouth was dry, and my pulse wouldn’t slow. I thought about getting out to check, but something told me to stay put. I lay back down, staring at the ceiling of the cab, every creak of the truck making me jump. Sleep didn’t come again.
By 7 a.m., the lot was brighter, though the quiet hadn’t lifted. I climbed out of the cab, my boots hitting the gravel with a crunch. The air smelled of diesel and stale coffee from the diner. I stretched, my back cracking, and decided to walk around my truck to check the tires before hitting the road. That’s when I saw it, behind the trailer, near the back axle. A body, sprawled out on the ground, half-hidden in the shadow of my rig. My stomach dropped. At first, I thought it was a pile of clothes or maybe someone sleeping off a rough night, but as I stepped closer, I saw her—the woman from last night.
Her jacket was torn at the sleeve, her jeans scuffed with dirt. Her face was pale, her eyes open, staring at nothing. Dark bruises circled her neck, like someone had squeezed hard and didn’t let go. I stumbled back, my breath catching, my hands shaking. I wanted to yell for help, but my voice wouldn’t come. My legs felt like they might give out, but I forced myself to stay upright, to think.
“Hey! You okay over there?” a voice called, snapping me out of it. A trucker, maybe in his fifties, with a gray beard and a flannel shirt, was walking toward me from his rig parked a few spaces down. He had a thermos in one hand, but when he saw my face, he stopped, his eyes flicking to the ground behind my trailer. “What’s—oh, man. Oh, no.” He dropped the thermos, coffee splashing on the gravel. “Is that… you didn’t do this, did you?”
“No!” I said, my voice louder than I meant. “I just found her. I saw her last night, but I didn’t—I swear I didn’t do anything.”
He studied me, his face hard, then looked back at the body. “This is bad, buddy. Real bad. Places like this… girls like her, they’re targets. I’ve heard stories. You don’t wanna know.”
“What kind of stories?” I asked, my throat tight.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Guys out here, some of them ain’t right. Drifters, drivers, worse. They know these girls work alone, no one watching out for them. A few years back, I heard about a driver picking up girls like her, leaving them… like this. Cops never caught him.” He shook his head, his eyes darting around the lot. “You better call the police. Now.”
My hands were still shaking as I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. The operator’s voice was calm, asking for details I could barely string together. “There’s a body,” I said, my voice cracking. “A woman, behind my truck. She’s… she’s dead. I don’t know what happened.”
“Stay where you are,” the operator said. “Officers are on the way. Don’t touch anything.”
I hung up and stood there, staring at the ground, trying not to look at her. The trucker stayed with me, pacing a little, muttering about how he should’ve left last night. Other drivers started to notice, a few walking over, keeping their distance but whispering to each other. I caught fragments—“another one,” “same as that girl in Erie,” “they never find who does it.” My stomach twisted tighter with every word.
Two police cruisers pulled into the lot, lights flashing but no sirens. An officer with a notepad approached, his partner scanning the lot with a hand on his holster. “You the one who called?” the first officer asked, his voice clipped, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Yeah,” I said. “I found her this morning. I didn’t touch her.”
He nodded, but his expression didn’t soften. “Walk me through it. Everything you saw, everything you did.”
I told him about seeing her last night, her offer, how I’d turned her down and gone to sleep. I mentioned the bang I’d heard, the voices in the dark, but I couldn’t give specifics. It felt like my brain was stuck, replaying the same awful moment of finding her. The officer wrote it all down, his pen scratching loud in the quiet.
“You didn’t see anyone else with her?” he asked, glancing up. “No one hanging around your truck?”
“No,” I said. “It was just her. I locked my cab and stayed inside.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then turned to his partner. “Get the tape up. We need to secure this.” They strung yellow crime scene tape around my truck, and a small crowd of truckers gathered near the diner, watching, whispering. I heard one say, “They found a girl like this last year, couple hours from here. Never solved it.”
The officer came back, his face serious. “We’re gonna need to search your truck. Dash cam, logbook, everything. You got anything in there we should know about?”
“Nothing,” I said, handing him my keys. “It’s just my stuff. I didn’t do this.”
They searched my rig for over an hour, checking every corner of the cab, the sleeper, even the trailer. I stood by, feeling the eyes of the other truckers on me, like they were sizing me up. The officer’s partner asked me more questions—where I was coming from, where I was headed, if I’d stopped here before. I answered as best I could, but the whole time, I kept seeing her face, those bruises, her empty stare.
Finally, they let me go. “Your story checks out for now,” the first officer said, handing back my keys. “But I’d stay away from places like this. These stops, they’re not safe. Not for girls like her, not for drivers like you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice low.
He hesitated, then said, “We’ve seen this before. Girls working the lots, they go missing, or worse. Sometimes it’s a one-off, sometimes… it’s the same guy, moving from stop to stop. We don’t know yet. Just watch your back.”
I nodded, but his words sank into me like a weight. I climbed back into my truck, locked the doors, and sat there, gripping the steering wheel. The lot was emptying out, trucks pulling away, but I couldn’t move yet. I kept thinking about the bang I’d heard, the voices, wondering if I’d been that close to whoever did this. I checked my mirrors, half-expecting to see someone standing there, but it was just the empty lot, the diner, the flickering light.
When I finally pulled out, I kept glancing back, like something might follow me. I don’t stop at places like that anymore, not alone, not at night. But sometimes, when I’m driving late, I hear that bang in my head, or I catch a shadow in my mirrors, and I wonder if he’s still out there, waiting at the next stop, watching for the next one.
"No Sleep on Exit 17":
I’ve been a trucker for nearly fifteen years, hauling everything from furniture to frozen goods across the country. Long hauls are my life, but they wear you down—the endless highways, the hum of the engine, the way time blurs into a haze of mile markers. I was on a run from Oregon to Ohio, carrying a load of handcrafted tables and chairs, the kind rich folks buy to impress their friends. I’d been driving since dawn, and my body was screaming for a break. My eyes stung, my back ached, and my coffee thermos had been empty for hours. The GPS said the nearest proper truck stop was still ninety minutes away, too far to push without risking a nod-off at the wheel.
Then I saw it—a small dirt lot just off the highway, barely noticeable in the dark. It was nothing fancy, just a patch of gravel surrounded by dense trees, the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking. No signs, no lights, just a faint path leading off the road. I hesitated, but exhaustion won out. I couldn’t keep going. I turned onto the gravel, my tires crunching loud enough to make me wince in the silence. The lot was empty, not a single car or truck in sight. Just me, my rig, and the black wall of trees closing in around me.
I parked near the edge, facing the highway so I could pull out fast if needed. Habit, I guess. The engine ticked as it cooled, and the quiet settled in, thick and heavy. I climbed into the sleeper cab, my little home on the road. It’s a cozy setup—a narrow bed with a worn quilt, a mini-fridge with water and a couple of sandwiches, a photo of my old dog taped to the wall. I locked the doors, checked them twice, and drew the curtains tight. The cab felt safe, like a cocoon against the dark. I set my alarm for 4 AM, giving me a few hours to rest before the next leg. Fatigue hit like a wave, and I was out cold in minutes.
A noise yanked me awake. At first, I thought it was part of a dream—a low, guttural sound, like a dog growling, but off, too human. My heart started pounding, and I lay still, straining to hear it again. There it was, louder, closer, right outside my cab. Barking, sharp and wild, but not from an animal. It was a man’s voice, rough and unhinged, barking over and over, each sound slicing through the quiet. My skin crawled, and I sat up, my quilt sliding to the floor.
I reached for my phone, my hands shaking so bad I nearly dropped it. I flicked on the flashlight app and eased the curtain back, just enough to peek out. The beam caught a face pressed against my window, inches from the glass. He was older, maybe in his fifties, with a tangled beard and hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in months. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, gleaming in the light, and his mouth was open, foam collecting at the corners as he barked again, a wet, guttural sound. His hands slapped the glass, leaving smears of dirt and spit, his fingers curled like claws.
I yanked the curtain shut, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it’d burst. Who was this guy? Was he drunk, high, or just out of his mind? Out here, alone, it didn’t matter. I was trapped in my cab, miles from help, with this lunatic pawing at my truck. The barking stopped for a second, replaced by a low mumble, words I couldn’t make out, like he was talking to himself. Then it started again, louder, more frantic, and the banging got harder, each hit shaking the cab.
“Hey! Get away from my truck!” I shouted, my voice cracking. I don’t know if he heard me, but the barking turned into a snarl, and he pounded faster, the rhythm erratic, like he was losing control. I scrambled into the driver’s seat, fumbling for my keys on the floor. My hands were slick with sweat, and I dropped them twice before finally getting them into the ignition. The engine roared to life, the sound deafening in the quiet lot. The man howled, a raw, animal sound, and started slamming his whole body against the door, the metal groaning under the impact.
I threw the truck into gear and started rolling, slow at first, my eyes darting between the road and the side mirror. He was running alongside me, his face twisted in rage, his arms flailing as he kept up with the truck. I couldn’t believe it—he was fast, too fast for a guy his size, his boots kicking up gravel as he chased me. I pressed the gas harder, the tires spinning before catching traction. He stayed with me longer than I thought possible, his silhouette in the mirror a blur of motion, his mouth open in a silent scream now that the barking had stopped.
Finally, the highway opened up, and I floored it. He fell behind, his figure shrinking until he was just a speck in the darkness. I kept checking my mirrors, half-expecting him to reappear, sprinting out of the shadows like some nightmare that wouldn’t quit. My hands gripped the wheel so tight my knuckles turned white, and my chest felt like it was caving in. I drove for miles, the highway stretching out endless and empty, no cars, no lights, just me and the hum of the engine. I tried my phone, but there was no signal, just static on the screen. Calling for help wasn’t an option.
After what felt like forever, I spotted a glow on the horizon—a real truck stop, the kind with neon signs and rows of rigs parked tight. I pulled in, my hands still trembling as I parked near the diner, where the lights were bright and warm. The lot was alive with activity—drivers walking to their trucks, the low rumble of engines, the clink of dishes from inside. I sat in the cab for a minute, trying to calm down, my breath fogging the windshield. I could still hear that barking in my head, see those wild eyes staring through the glass.
I grabbed my jacket and headed into the diner, needing people around me, needing noise to drown out the fear. The place smelled of fried eggs, coffee, and cigarette smoke, and the hum of conversation was like a lifeline. I slid into a booth near the counter, my hands still unsteady as I ordered a black coffee. The waitress, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, set the mug down and frowned. “You alright, hon? You look like you’ve seen something awful.”
I took a sip, the heat grounding me a little. “Yeah, just… had a scare. Stopped at a dirt lot back there, off the highway. Some guy came up to my truck, barking like a dog, banging on the windows. Chased me when I drove off.”
Her eyes widened. “Barking? That’s not something you hear every day. You okay?”
“Shaken up, but yeah. Just glad to be here.”
A driver in the next booth, an older guy with a gray beard and a flannel shirt, leaned over. “Heard that kind before. Had a fella in Nevada once, middle of nowhere, screaming nonsense at my rig. Thought he was gonna climb in. You call the cops?”
“No signal out there,” I said, shaking my head. “And he’s probably gone by now.”
Another driver, younger, with a buzz cut and a tattoo on his forearm, turned from the counter. “Happened to me too, couple years back. Guy tried to jimmy my door open while I was sleeping. Woke up to him tugging at the handle. I yelled, and he bolted, but man, I didn’t sleep right for weeks.”
The older guy nodded, sipping his coffee. “These remote spots, they’re cheap and quiet, but you’re rolling the dice. Folks out there, some are just down on their luck, but others… they’re not right. Drugs, mental stuff, who knows. You gotta stay sharp.”
“What do you do to stay safe?” I asked, desperate for anything to make sense of it.
“Lock your doors, always,” the older guy said. “Keep a flashlight handy, maybe something heavy nearby, like a tire iron. And don’t stop in places like that unless you got no choice. Stick to spots like this, where there’s people, lights.”
The younger driver chimed in. “I got a dog now. Big mutt, rides with me. Barks like hell if anyone gets close. Best decision I ever made.”
I nodded, taking it all in. The coffee was helping, warming my hands, calming my nerves. “Thanks, guys. I’m sticking to places like this from now on.”
The older guy gave a small smile. “We all learn the hard way. You’ll be alright. Just keep your eyes open.”
I stayed in the diner longer than I needed, listening to the drivers swap stories—some funny, some chilling. It felt good, being around people who got it, who knew the road and its dangers. But when I finally climbed back into my truck, I couldn’t shake the image of that man’s face, his spit-smeared mouth, his wild eyes. I checked the locks three times, peered out the windows into the brightly lit lot. No shadows moved, no barking broke the night, but my skin still prickled.
I didn’t sleep much after that. Every creak of the truck, every distant sound, had me sitting up, heart racing. When I hit the road at dawn, I made a promise to myself: no more empty lots, no more taking chances. The highway life is lonely enough without inviting trouble. I still drive, still love the open road, but now I’m always watching, always waiting for a shadow in my mirrors, for a sound that doesn’t belong. That night changed me, carved a fear into me that no amount of coffee or diner talk can erase.
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