"Mile Marker Vanish":
It was well past midnight when I saw him. I was driving my rig down I-5, the California freeway stretching out like a black ribbon under a starless sky. The hum of my engine was the only sound, aside from the occasional static from the CB radio. I was tired—my eyes heavy from the long hours on the road—but I had a delivery to make by morning, so I pushed on.
I thought about my wife, Lisa, and our two kids, Tommy and Emma. I missed them terribly. It had been three weeks since I last saw them, and I was counting down the days until I could go home. But for now, I had to focus on the road. The smell of diesel and old coffee filled the cab, and my hands gripped the worn steering wheel, steadying me against the monotony.
The highway was deserted, which wasn’t unusual for this time of night. Just me and the darkness, with my headlights cutting through the void. I passed a few other trucks, their lights like distant beacons, but otherwise, it was just me. The quiet was oppressive, broken only by the steady rumble of my engine and the faint hum of the radio.
I was about 20 miles north of Bakersfield when I first noticed something odd. There was a car pulled over on the shoulder, its hazard lights flashing. As I approached, I slowed down a bit, curious. But when I got closer, I saw that there was no one inside. The doors were closed, and it looked abandoned.
That’s strange, I thought. Maybe they ran out of gas or something. But why leave the hazards on if no one’s there?
I shook my head and continued driving. Probably nothing—just someone who got a ride or something. But it left me uneasy, like a small itch in the back of my mind. The road felt emptier now, the darkness pressing in a little closer.
A few miles later, my CB radio crackled to life. “Breaker 1-9, anyone out there? I need help.”
I grabbed my microphone, my pulse quickening. “This is Big Rig Bill. What’s your 20?”
There was static, then silence. “Hello? Anyone there?” I tried again.
No response. Maybe it was just a kid messing around, or maybe the signal was bad. But it added to the growing sense of unease. The empty car, the mysterious call—it was all a bit off. I put the microphone down and kept driving, my hands gripping the wheel a little tighter. The road stretched on, endless and dark. I turned up the radio, hoping for some music to distract me, but all I got was static. Great, just great.
Then, suddenly, in my headlights, I saw him. A man, kneeling in the middle of my lane, his arms outstretched as if he was crucified, facing me directly.
My heart jumped into my throat. I slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching as I swerved to the left lane. The truck lurched, and I felt the weight shift as I barely avoided him. For a split second, I thought I was going to hit him. My breath caught in my chest as I fought to keep control of the rig.
I looked in my side mirror and saw him still there, unmoving, like a statue in the middle of the highway. His arms were still outstretched, his head bowed slightly. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move. It was as if he was waiting for something—or someone.
What was he doing? Was he trying to get himself killed? Or was this some kind of protest? My mind raced with possibilities, none of them good. My hands were shaking, and sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cool air in the cab.
I slowed down, pulling over to the shoulder, my breath coming in short gasps. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator answered, her voice calm and professional.
“I just almost hit a man on I-5,” I said, my voice trembling. “He’s kneeling in the middle of the lane, arms out like… like he’s on a cross.”
“Can you tell me your exact location?” she asked.
I looked around, trying to see the mile markers, but in the darkness, it was hard to tell. “I’m not sure. I think I’m about 20 miles north of Bakersfield.”
“Alright, I’ll send someone out. Please stay on the line,” she said.
But I couldn’t just sit there. I needed to know if he was okay—or if he was still there. I put the phone down and carefully pulled back onto the highway, driving slowly in the left lane, keeping an eye on the right.
As I approached where I thought he was, I saw nothing. The road was empty. No man, no car, nothing. Just the dark asphalt stretching out ahead.
I slowed down even more, scanning both sides of the road, but there was no sign of him. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. My pulse pounded in my ears, and I wondered if I’d imagined it. Was I that tired? Had I been driving too long?
“Hello? Are you still there?” the operator’s voice came from my phone.
“Uh, yeah, I’m here,” I said, my voice unsteady. “But he’s gone. I don’t see him anymore.”
“Perhaps he moved off the road,” she replied. “We’ll still send someone to check.”
I thanked her and hung up, feeling a mix of relief and unease. What had just happened? Why was that man there, and where did he go? I checked my mirrors again, half-expecting to see him standing behind my truck, but there was nothing.
I continued driving, but I couldn’t shake the image from my mind. His pose was so deliberate, so eerie. It reminded me of stories I’d heard from other truckers—people standing in the road, trying to get hit. Some said it was for insurance scams, others thought it was suicide attempts. I’d always thought those stories were exaggerated, the kind of thing drivers tell to pass the time. But now, I wasn’t so sure.
I thought about the people I’d read about in the news, folks who stepped onto highways in moments of despair. It made my chest ache to think about it. Was that man one of them? Or was it something else entirely, something I couldn’t wrap my head around?
I drove for another hour, my mind racing, until I reached a truck stop near Fresno. I parked my rig and went inside to grab a coffee. My hands were still shaking, and I needed something to calm my nerves. The fluorescent lights of the diner felt harsh after the darkness of the road, and the smell of fried food and stale coffee was almost comforting.
Inside, I saw Joe, a fellow trucker I knew from the road. He was sitting at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper.
“Hey, Bill,” he said, looking up. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I sat down next to him, my legs feeling weak. “You’re not far off,” I said, and I told him what happened.
Joe listened intently, his brow furrowing. When I finished, he shook his head. “That’s messed up, man. You know, I’ve heard stories about people doing that kind of thing. Some are trying to get hit for insurance money, others are just plain crazy.”
“Insurance money? By getting hit by a truck?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yeah,” Joe said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Apparently, if you survive, you can sue the driver or something. It’s stupid, but people do crazy things.”
“But he didn’t look like he was trying to get hit,” I said, my voice low. “He was just kneeling there, like he was waiting for something.”
“Maybe he was high on something,” Joe suggested. “Or having a mental breakdown. You see all kinds of stuff out here.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t convinced. There was something about his pose that seemed almost religious, like he was making a sacrifice. It didn’t sit right with me. I kept picturing his silhouette in my headlights, arms spread wide, as if he was offering himself to the road.
I finished my coffee and decided to try to get some sleep before continuing my journey. But that night, I kept seeing his face in my dreams—his arms outstretched, waiting for me. I woke up in a cold sweat, the image burned into my mind.
The next morning, I checked the news on my phone, but there was no report of any incident on I-5 that night. It was as if it never happened. I called Lisa when I got a chance, needing to hear her voice.
“Hey, honey,” she said, her voice warm but tired. “You okay? You sound off.”
I hesitated, then told her about the man on the road. “It was the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen, Lisa. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Oh, Bill, that’s awful,” she said. “You sure you’re okay? Maybe you should take a break from driving for a bit.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just shaken up.”
“Well, be careful out there,” she said. “Come home soon.”
“I will,” I promised, but as I hung up, I felt a knot in my chest. I wasn’t sure I was fine at all.
That image will stay with me forever—a reminder of how strange and unpredictable life on the road can be.
"The Night I Escaped":
It was a warm summer night in 2002, and I was just 15 years old, living in Columbia, South Carolina. That evening, I had gone to a friend's house to watch a movie. We laughed through a silly comedy, ate popcorn, and lost track of time. It was getting late, and I knew I had to be home by midnight, so I hugged my friend, promised to call her tomorrow, and started walking back home. The streets were quiet, with only the hum of crickets and the occasional car passing by. I lived in a nice neighborhood, the kind where people left their doors unlocked, and I felt safe walking alone at night.
As I turned onto a darker street, the streetlights grew dimmer, and the houses were spaced farther apart. I noticed a car slowing down beside me. I glanced over and saw a man inside, but I didn’t think much of it. I figured he was just another driver, maybe lost or looking for a house number. But then, the car stopped, and he got out. He was tall, muscular, with short hair and a look in his eyes that made my skin crawl. He moved fast, too fast, and before I could run or scream, he grabbed my arm and yanked me toward his car.
“Hey, let go!” I shouted, but his hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my voice. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. I kicked and twisted, but he was too strong. He shoved me into the back seat, and the door slammed shut. The smell of his sweat and cheap cologne filled the car, making me gag. He got in the driver’s seat, pulled out a gun, and pointed it at me. “Stay quiet, or you’re dead,” he said, his voice low and cold. I froze, my body trembling as he drove off, taking me away from the safety of my neighborhood.
I tried to focus, to think of a way out, but my mind was a blur of fear. Where was he taking me? What did he want? I thought of my mom, waiting at home, probably checking the clock. I thought of my little brother, asleep in his room. Would I ever see them again? The car turned onto a highway, and the streetlights disappeared, leaving only the glow of the dashboard. I stared at the back of his head, trying to memorize every detail—his short brown hair, the way his shoulders hunched as he drove. If I got out of this, I wanted to remember everything.
We pulled into a parking lot outside a small apartment building. He dragged me out of the car, his grip bruising my arm. “Don’t try anything,” he warned, waving the gun. Inside his apartment, the air was thick with a sour, rotting smell. Clothes and papers were scattered across the floor, and a single lamp cast a dim, flickering light. He pushed me onto the floor and started wrapping duct tape around my wrists and ankles. The tape bit into my skin, and I winced as he tightened it. Then he snapped handcuffs on me, the metal cold and heavy. I was trapped, helpless, lying on a dirty carpet, staring up at a stranger who held my life in his hands.
He knelt beside me, his face too close. “I’ve been watching you,” he said, his voice calm, almost friendly. “I saw you walking home from school, always in that blue backpack. I knew you were the one.” My stomach twisted. He’d been stalking me, planning this. “My name’s Richard,” he added, like we were having a normal conversation. “I’ve done this before.” Those words hit me like a punch. I realized I wasn’t just dealing with a random creep—this was a serial killer.
I tried to keep my breathing steady, to push down the panic. I had to stay sharp, to find a way out. I thought about my dad, who always told me to be tough, to never give up. I thought about my friends, who’d be waiting for me at school tomorrow, wondering where I was. I couldn’t let this be the end. Richard stood up and started pacing, muttering to himself. He seemed nervous, like he wasn’t sure what to do next. I watched him closely, looking for any chance to escape.
Hours passed, though it felt like days. My wrists ached from the tape, and my legs were numb from lying on the floor. Richard kept talking, mostly to himself, about things I couldn’t understand—names, places, things he’d done. Every word made me more certain he wasn’t going to let me go. But then, sometime in the early morning, he sat on the couch and his head started to nod. His muttering stopped, and his breathing slowed. He was asleep.
My heart raced. This was it—my only chance. I tugged at the duct tape on my wrists, ignoring the pain as it tore at my skin. It was tight, but I kept working at it, twisting and pulling until one hand slipped free. I held my breath, glancing at Richard to make sure he was still out. Then I carefully peeled the tape off my ankles, moving as quietly as I could. The handcuffs were still on, but I could stand now, and that was enough.
I scanned the room for a weapon, but there was nothing—no knives, no heavy objects within reach. I had to get out before he woke up. I crept toward the door, my bare feet silent on the carpet. My hands shook as I reached for the doorknob, expecting it to be locked. But then I saw a key on the table nearby. I grabbed it, my fingers fumbling as I tried to fit it into the lock. Every second felt like an eternity, and I kept waiting for Richard to wake up and grab me.
The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open. The cool night air hit my face, and for a moment, I felt a spark of hope. But I wasn’t safe yet. I ran down the street, the pavement rough against my bare feet. The pain didn’t matter—nothing mattered except getting away. I didn’t know where I was, but I kept running, my lungs burning, until I saw a house with lights on. I pounded on the door, my voice hoarse as I screamed, “Help me! Please, help!”
A woman opened the door, her eyes wide with shock. “What’s wrong?” she asked, stepping back as she saw my torn clothes and handcuffs. “He took me,” I gasped, tears streaming down my face. “He’s going to kill me. Please, call the police.” She pulled me inside and locked the door, then grabbed her phone and dialed 911. “There’s a girl here,” she told the operator. “She says someone kidnapped her. Hurry.”
The police arrived in minutes, their sirens cutting through the silence of the night. They took me to the hospital, where doctors checked me for injuries. Physically, I was okay—just some bruises and cuts from the tape. But inside, I was a mess. I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop seeing Richard’s face, hearing his voice. The police asked me questions, and I told them everything I could remember—the car, the apartment, the smell, his name. I wanted them to find him, to stop him from hurting anyone else.
In the days that followed, I barely slept. Nightmares woke me up, and I kept reliving that night, wondering what would’ve happened if I hadn’t escaped. I felt like I was always looking over my shoulder, expecting him to be there. My parents held me tight, but even their hugs couldn’t chase away the fear.
Weeks later, the police told me they’d found him. His name was Richard Evonitz, a serial killer who had murdered at least three girls in Florida and Virginia. My escape had given them the clues they needed to track him down. He took his own life before they could arrest him, but knowing he was gone brought me some peace. I had survived, and I had helped stop him.
The road to healing was long. Therapy helped me process the trauma, and talking about it made me feel stronger.
"No Signal, No Exit":
I kept my eyes on the dim headlights ahead. The highway stretched out into endless darkness. My little sedan felt vulnerable and alone. The driver’s seat felt hard against my back and I hated it as the car rolled on. I gripped the wheel a little tighter.
“Are we going to make it to the next gas station?” Laura asked from the passenger seat, peering at me in the rearview mirror. Her voice was anxious.
I glanced down at the fuel gauge. We still had some fuel, I told myself, but the needle was so low it made me nervous.
“We should be okay,” I lied, trying to sound confident even as my throat felt dry.
The road stretched out in front of us, empty except for our headlights. Neither of us spoke. The only noise was the hum of the tires and the low rumble of the engine as it carried us further into the night. A faint vibration started under my feet as the dashboard lights flickered briefly. I frowned and shifted in my seat.
“Did you hear that?” Laura asked. Her hands gripped the handle above the door.
I listened carefully. The engine was quiet. The hum of the tires was all I could hear.
“You’re probably tired,” I said to calm her, but my own voice shook.
We had crossed into a more remote stretch. The last sign we saw said “Gas 40 miles.” Forty more miles. The highway felt endless and empty now. The lights of our car were the only flickers in the darkness.
My vision seemed to focus on a single point far ahead. A faint sparkle moved in the darkness, a glint that looked like metal reflecting our headlights. I blinked, but it stayed there. Was it coming closer, or was I hallucinating from exhaustion?
I squinted. It was a truck, far ahead, slowly coming toward us. Its headlights were dim from the distance.
“Is that a truck?” Laura whispered.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Probably some rig on a long haul.”
We watched as it neared. The highway had only one lane each way, so if it got close I would have to move aside. That thought made me uneasy.
But as the truck got closer, I saw a flash of something odd. One of its headlights was broken, replaced by a dull orange lantern light. The truck itself looked battered and old. The cab was rusty and the paint peeling. The glowing amber light was what caught my eye. No modern truck would have that.
The truck drew near. It didn’t pass us but stayed behind, about ten car lengths back. It matched our speed.
I started to sweat even though the night was cool. Something about it felt wrong. It wasn’t just an old truck. The driver hadn’t passed. Why was he staying behind us?
A wave of dread crawled up my neck. The dark road behind us was swallowed by night. The truck’s lights remained fixed on our car, silent and steady.
Laura turned in her seat, looking out the rear window. Her eyes were wide.
“Is that truck following us?” she asked quietly.
I swallowed. I didn’t want to believe it, but it looked like it. “I don’t know,” I said. “It seems to be keeping pace.”
She pulled her phone out and tried to get a signal. “No bars,” she said. It really was a dead zone.
“Get off the road,” I said, quietly but urgently. “Pull over or something.”
She blinked. “Right.” I saw the dim red brake lights come on, then fade again as we moved onto the shoulder.
I eased the wheel onto the gravel. The highway sign said “Next Station: 20 mi.” Great.
The truck slowed down a little, matching our drop in speed. It was still there, close behind, just far enough for me to see a dirty window. A man’s silhouette hunched over a worn steering wheel.
I locked the car doors with shaking hands. I couldn’t help it; my fingers went numb on the switch. We were sitting ducks on the gravel shoulder.
The truck slowed to a crawl, pulling up right behind us. It was so close I could see the driver’s eyes glinting beneath the rim of a baseball cap. The man’s face was hidden by shadows, but the dim light inside the cab made me uneasy.
“Are you okay back there?” A rough voice called from the driver’s side window. The man leaned out, balancing himself on the edge of the seat. His skin looked pasty in the yellow light. The engine revved low.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice. I forced a smile. It was just a truck driver. Probably.
“Yeah, we’re okay,” I said, though the fear in my throat made the words tight. Laura sat up, eyes on the stranger.
He leaned closer and I saw the side of his face. He had a long scar near his mouth and dusty blue eyes. There was something off about his smile, like it was stretched too wide.
“You folks need help?” he asked. His accent was low and scratchy.
Laura glanced at me, and I nodded. “Actually, yes. Our car broke down and ran out of gas. We were hoping to reach that last station but we’re stuck.”
He scratched his chin. “I’ve got some gasoline I can spare. Follow me up the road and I can fill your tank.”
Relief washed over me, then suspicion. Was this generous or dangerous?
Laura kept her eyes on him. “We might get a signal if we step out,” she suggested.
He eyed us carefully. “Come on now. This isn’t a safe place to stand around. Follow me and you’ll have gas.”
He reached inside the truck to grab something. My breath quickened; his movement made me nervous.
“What is he doing?” Laura whispered.
He tossed an empty jerry can onto our trunk. I jumped. “Hey!” I cried as it hit with a thud. Laura stared in shock. The trucker hopped down and strode toward the car.
“Fill that up,” he said, pointing at the can. “I’ll get the gas.” His eyes flicked to me.
I locked the doors and pressed myself against the seat. This was weird. But he had offered help.
“I don’t have any cash with me right now,” Laura stammered. “I— I have cards. Just let me get some.”
He waved a hand in front of her. “No need,” he said. “Just hurry up before someone sees.” His voice lowered. “Just do as I said.”
I realized his tone had changed. It was no longer friendly.
Suddenly, instinct screamed at me to refuse. “No,” I said quietly. “We’ll stay right here.”
He glared at me. “Don’t be difficult,” he snapped. “She’ll be right back.” He pointed at Laura. “A woman can pour gas.”
He tightened his grip on the metal crowbar now in his hand. My eyes widened; his knuckles were white around it.
My car was off the road and blocked by his truck. The road behind was empty darkness. I felt trapped. I watched him carefully.
I needed to think.
“Look, we appreciate it,” I said, voice steady. “But it’s late. Maybe you should go.”
He snarled under his breath and didn’t move. His truck’s engine growled quietly.
My fingers found the flashlight in the glove compartment. I clicked it on and pointed it at him.
He ducked his head. The light’s beam danced across his chest and the side of his truck, where the company name was half peeled away.
I might have made a mistake.
He hurled a heavy tool at the side of my car. Sparks flew as it hit the metal.
His eyes flashed with anger. He lunged forward, raising the crowbar. My heart pounded.
“Get out of the car,” he ordered, voice low but deadly serious.
“No,” I said, feeling the panic rise. I needed to protect Laura.
He swung the crowbar at me. I turned the key and slammed the car into gear.
The tires screeched on gravel. Laura yelped as the car jerked forward. The truck fishtailed, trying to keep up.
I stomped on the gas.
The car jolted into motion. The engine roared as we sped forward. The truck rammed into the back of us, spinning us around. The cab windows rattled.
“Jump out!” I screamed at Laura.
She hesitated, eyes wide as the crowbar smashed against the window beside her.
He was up at my window now, swinging again.
“I can’t leave you!” she cried.
I reached over, undid her seat belt and shoved her toward the passenger door.
She tumbled onto the road shoulder as I swerved to avoid hitting her. I reversed and crashed back onto the highway. A lone headlight approached quickly.
The truck was still on the road, squealing as it lost grip. It missed hitting her by inches.
I fought the wheel back toward the shoulder, and the engine backfired as gravel flew.
The truck halted a short distance ahead, its windows dark and silent.
For a moment, all was still. I could smell gasoline and fear.
Laura pulled herself up and saw me kill the engine. We sat on the shoulder facing the truck. The driver leaned back in his seat, turned away. He seemed to be thinking.
I slid the safety catch back on my door.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
She nodded, shaking. I put my arm around her.
Then we saw it: an old pickup truck with headlights on, parked a hundred feet back. A man was standing near it, phone in hand, watching.
“Help! Police!” I yelled, hoping he heard.
The trucker spotted him and shifted his big rig into reverse, rumbling forward.
“Run!” I yelled.
Laura and I bolted behind the pickup as the trucker gunned his engine, swinging the rig at the stranger.
The trucker swerved wildly, missing the man but losing control. The big rig skidded and finally stopped, mangled on the side of the road.
I flung open the pickup’s door and jumped in with the man. He hit the hazard lights. Without waiting, I floored it. The tires fought the gravel as we blasted past the stopped truck.
Laura sat in the backseat, breathing hard but safe.
I drove on until I found another shoulder. I pulled over. No signal here either, but I could wait. We were alive.
Behind us, the headlights of the wrecked truck faded around a bend. It was over.
We sat in silence a long moment, finally hearing our hearts slow.
“I think we should never stop on a highway at night again,” Laura said softly.
I nodded, still gripping the steering wheel. “We got lucky,” I agreed. “Too lucky.”
We waited and soon the man with the pickup called 911. About an hour later, the highway swarmed with police cars around the truck.
In the morning, a deputy told us a crew of highway thieves had been using an old rig like that to rob drivers. We were safe for now, but luck alone had saved us.
Laura and I never forgot that night. The highway seemed empty, but it was alive with someone else’s plan.
We made it home in the dawn light, shaken and grateful.