I've been hauling freight for the better part of 15 years, enough time to get familiar with just about every empty highway across the Southwest names Rick Harmon, based out of Colorado Springs.

Tonight I was hauling diesel generators down from Grand Junction, bound for a construction site out near Escalante.

It was a long, lonely stretch through Utah's high desert, cutting S along State Route 24.

I crossed into Utah around

10:45, fueled up Quick and Green River, and set off southward.

Anyone who's driven that stretch can tell you how isolated it is.

Miles of rocky emptiness, moonlit mesas and sandstone cliffs casting weird shadows across the road.

No cell reception, no traffic.

Just me, my rig and whatever kept skittering off into the brush at the edge of the headlights.

1/2 hour in, about 30 miles South of the turn off, I crossed a cattle guard.

That's when I saw him, standing just off the shoulder, clear as anything.

A man at first glance I pegged him for a hitch hiker, common enough on these empty roads.

But he didn't signal me.

He just stood motionless, arms straight down, watching the truck pass.

In that quick flash of headlights, I saw jeans, a white undershirt, and worn out boots.

Nothing else.

No backpack, no jacket, Just a silent figure completely out of place in the middle of nowhere.

I muttered to myself, gripping the wheel a little tighter.

Hitchhikers didn't usually make me uneasy, but something about his stillness, his isolation, just felt off.

My trailer hummed behind me, wheels rolling steady over asphalt, and I shook it off.

Maybe a local drunk.

Maybe somebody broke down, but I didn't stop.

I never stopped out here if I didn't have to.

25 minutes and 20 some miles later, near a dried up ravine that cut close to the road, I saw him again.

I swear it was the same guy.

Same stance, same clothes, same unsettling stillness.

My headlights brushed over him again, standing perfectly straight, unmoving.

No sign he'd even acknowledged my truck roaring past.

I scanned the side mirrors, looking for a parked car, a motorcycle, hell, even a bicycle, but saw nothing.

Just dark desert stretching endlessly on both sides.

Impossible.

I said aloud, my voice breaking the silence.

Even at a full Sprint, nobody could cover that much ground that fast.

It had to be my imagination, fatigue creeping in from the monotonous Hwy.

But I'd pulled much longer shifts before, and hallucinations weren't part of the deal.

Not like this.

My skin prickled.

I rolled down the window a few inches, letting cool desert air fill the cab, Kept my eyes straight ahead.

No music, no radio chatter, just Rd.

noise and wind.

My mind replayed the image, the man standing motionless, empty desert surrounding him.

I kept driving, uneasy now, waiting, half expecting to see him again, standing by the road ahead, arms down, waiting quietly in the dark.

About 20 miles further along Route 24, I decided it was time to take a rest.

By law I was required to log a few hours sleep, and even though I'd been shaken by seeing that man twice, exhaustion was creeping in.

There was a dirt pull out near South Caneville Mesa, marked as a rest area, a desolate spot I'd used before.

No lights, just a rusted trash bin and faded signs barely visible in the dark.

Pulling in, I cut the engine and sat quietly for a minute, listening as the hot metal of the truck ticked and cooled down.

I glanced out the windshield, letting my eyes adjust to the near blackness outside.

Nothing moved, only miles of flat scrub and distant rocky outcropping silhouetted by moonlight.

I reclined my seat and shut my eyes, forcing myself to relax.

Sleep usually came easy, but tonight every sound seemed amplified.

The wind outside, something faint scraping against the undercarriage.

Even my own breathing seemed unnaturally loud.

My nerves felt frayed, and despite my exhaustion, sleep refused to come.

Then came the tapping.

3 soft taps, rhythmic, spaced out evenly against the metal siding just behind my cab.

My eyes snapped open instantly, my breath catching immediately.

I rationalized rocks kicked up by wind, debris from the road.

But when I listened closer, the sound stopped abruptly, replaced by silence.

Too quiet, even for out here.

I leaned forward, grabbing my flashlight from the console, and carefully climbed down from the cab, sweeping the beam around the dirt clearing.

I saw nothing out of place at first.

Then, stepping to the side of the truck, I froze.

Footprints.

Fresh, clear footprints in the thin dust circling all the way around my rig.

Barefoot.

No tread, just the outline of toes and heels pressed neatly into the dirt.

My gut twisted painfully.

I spun the flashlight wildly around, but there was no trail leading into the desert.

No footprints came or went.

Just a circle around my truck, as if someone had appeared and then vanished.

Every instinct screamed at me to get out.

Forget the rest break.

Forget regulations.

I scrambled back into the cab, locked both doors and fired up the engine.

My heart thudded painfully in my chest as I pulled back onto the highway, watching the pull out fade behind me in the mirrors.

Hours later, after unloading the generators in Escalante and picking up another load bound back east, I found myself on Route 24 again.

It was near midnight once more, and every muscle in my body tightened as the same stretch of Rd.

appeared in the headlights.

This time it started with the CB radio.

A crackling burst of static startled me, the kind that comes when someone keys the mic without speaking.

I glanced down at the radio curiously, twisting the knob to clarify the signal.

As I listened, my own voice, distorted and grainy, played back clearly through the speaker.

Loads heavy.

Coming up on a hill.

My blood ran cold.

I'd said that exact phrase earlier, hours ago.

Miles from here.

I snatched the mic off its clip, my voice strained with anxiety.

Who's out there?

Identify yourself.

Static hissed back at me, empty and mocking.

No response.

Before I could think clearly, the Dome light in my cab clicked on by itself, then clicked off on again, off again.

My pulse raced.

Panic edged in.

I checked the fuse box beneath the dash, fumbling for anything loose, any logical explanation, but everything was in place, secure and undisturbed.

A quick movement in my side mirror drew my eye back to the highway.

I caught a glimpse of something, a shadowy figure darting past the tail of my trailer, swift and impossibly quick, too fast to be human.

My breath turned shallow.

I punched the accelerator, the truck roaring louder, pushing 70 miles an hour on that empty highway, ignoring every speed limit.

I refused to look back again, my grip locked tight on the wheel, my eyes pinned straight ahead as I raced toward Hanksville and whatever safety it's lights might offer.

It was around 3:00 in the morning when the scattered lights of Hanksville finally came into view, glowing dimly against the vast emptiness surrounding the highway.

I'd never been so relieved to see civilization, even if the town barely qualified.

My hands shook slightly as I guided the truck into the brightly lit Hollow Mountain gas station, a tiny place carved directly into a sandstone Cliff.

The fluorescent bulbs overhead flooded every corner with light.

For once, the harsh brightness felt comforting rather than irritating.

I parked right under the strongest security Light, killed the engine and sat rigidly still for several minutes, just listening.

I was too on edge to even consider sleep.

Every creak of metal and hiss of cooling machinery sent jolts through my chest, my heart thumping as though ready to burst from my rib cage.

Glancing at the station's closed convenience store, I felt a pang of helplessness.

It wouldn't open for another two hours, and the only human presence was a clerk's vehicle parked at the far end of the lot, empty and cold.

But at least I wasn't alone in the dark.

The security cameras mounted high on the rock face gave me some small reassurance.

Whatever had chased me here surely wouldn't risk exposure now.

I took deep breaths, steadying myself, when suddenly a single sharp tap rang out from my passenger side mirror.

My breath caught instantly and my eyes darted toward the mirror.

I forced myself not to look outside.

Every fiber in my body screamed for me to start the truck, drive anywhere else, anywhere but here.

But there was nowhere safer to go.

This was the only lid Oasis for miles, and something told me that staying put was my best hope of making it through the night.

I waited in tense silence, minutes ticking by painfully slow, until the eastern sky began to lighten, casting pale streaks over the distant desert.

With sunrise approaching, the station clerk finally arrived, a weary middle-aged man unlocking the store and flipping on even more lights.

Seeing him felt like waking from a nightmare, and I quickly climbed out of the cab, nearly stumbling as exhaustion and adrenaline clashed inside me.

When I described what happened and asked if we could review the security footage, he gave me a strange look but agreed without question.

We stood behind the counter, staring into a grainy black and white monitor, replaying hours of footage at high speed.

Nothing.

No figures circling my rig, no flashes of movement, not even when the mirror had sounded that final tap.

The lot remained empty throughout the night, aside from my own anxious movements inside the cab.

You sure you saw someone out there?

The clerk asked softly.

I nodded grimly, the image of the footprint still seared into my memory.

You ain't the first trucker to say something like that, He added carefully.

Might want to talk to the sheriff before you head out again.

An hour later, I stood in front of the Wayne County Sheriff's Office, recounting my experience to a deputy who took notes quietly.

When I finished, he didn't seem surprised, only resigned without a word, he led me to a back wall filled with cork boards, maps and papers pinned up haphazardly.

Among them was a handwritten list labeled plainly Route 24.

Phantom Sightings, dozens of dates, times and drivers names, each accompanied by a short note.

Abandoned rig, quit trucking or missing.

He wrote my name at the bottom, adding the date and the simple note.

Stayed with truck, made it out safe.

You did the right thing, Rick, he said quietly.

Whatever that is out there, it's best not to be alone in the dark with it.

I thanked him, numb and exhausted, and walked slowly back to my truck.

I knew two things.

Clearly, I'd never haul another load down Route 24 again.

And I'd never forget the figure standing motionless by the roadside, waiting silently in the darkness.

I've been driving trucks nearly half my life, 15 years hauling reefer freight between Boise and Portland, mostly nights.

Less traffic, fewer hassles and cooler roads made the summer months bearable.

But no matter how much experience you have, some stretches of Rd.

never lose their edge.

Dead Man Pass, what locals call Cabbage Hill, was one of them.

It earned its grim nickname with a brutal history of rollovers and wrecks.

If you've driven I-84 through the Blue Mountains, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

The steep grade, the tight curves, the unpredictable summer rock slides, everything there kept your nerves raw, especially when the clock ticked toward 3:00 AM.

It was mid-july, humid enough that even the darkness felt sticky.

I'd left Baker City at around

2:45 AM, my refrigerated trailer packed with 31,000 lbs of frozen meats bound for Portland Scout.

My border collie was curled up on the passenger seat, and the road was empty enough to let my guard down, if only slightly.

Everything was smooth sailing

until around 3:30, when my headlights caught something unusual.

Just past milepost 227, A man was standing by the shoulder, frantically waving one of those reflective emergency triangles.

His vehicle, an old white SUV, was parked ahead at an awkward angle against the guardrail, hazard lights blinking silently into the darkness.

Instinct told me to keep going.

Dead Man Pass wasn't the place to play hero, but something about the desperation of his movements forced my foot off the gas.

I slowed and carefully pulled toward the shoulder about 50 yards in front of his car, keeping a safe distance in case something felt off.

As I shifted into park, Scout raised his head, ears perked.

Dogs always sense trouble before we do.

Rolling down my window halfway, I squinted into the side mirror, watching the man cautiously.

Instead of approaching my truck, he stood frozen behind his SUV.

He gestured urgently, motioning me to get out and come over.

No calling out, no explanations, just desperate, silent gestures beneath the pale glow of my tail lights.

Hey, you all right back there?

I shouted, aiming my flashlight out the window.

The bright beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating him fully for the first time.

My stomach tightened.

His face.

It wasn't panicked or grateful or relieved.

It wasn't anything just slack, emotionless, staring straight at me.

No expression, like he'd forgotten how a human face was supposed to work.

His clothes were filthy, his pants shredded down one leg.

He stood there motionless, hands still extended toward me like some bizarre statue.

A shiver crept down my spine.

Everything in my body screamed at me to get moving again.

You got a phone?

I yelled again, buying myself another second to decide.

He didn't respond, didn't move, didn't even blink.

The triangle dangled loosely from his other hand, its reflectors gleaming faintly each time it caught my lights.

I glanced at Scout, whose hackles were raised, eyes locked on the stranger.

Nope, I muttered.

No way.

I threw the rig back into gear, creeping forward slowly at first, pretending I was repositioning further down the shoulder.

In the mirror I saw him still standing motionless, illuminated by my red brake lights.

Then I punched the gas and felt relief surge through me as I left the unsettling figure behind, shrinking quickly into the blackness.

Scout settled slightly, but I still felt tense, shaken.

I tried telling myself the guy was drunk or high, maybe lost or hurt and confused.

Maybe I should have called Highway Patrol, but radio reception here was notoriously spotty.

My thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, high pitched alert from the truck system.

Trailer door open.

A cold jolt hit my gut.

I clearly remembered latching and locking it before leaving Baker City, something I always double checked out of habit.

Probably a faulty sensor, I reasoned, trying to steady my nerves.

It had happened once before, months ago.

Nothing major.

Still, a nagging unease refused to leave me alone.

I glanced in my mirror again, half expecting the man or his SUV to reappear on the road behind me.

The blackness was empty and endless.

I drove on, feeling strangely vulnerable despite the massive steel rig beneath me.

I didn't realize it then, but pulling over at Deadman Pass had set something into motion.

Something I couldn't yet understand.

Something I'd soon wish I had never stopped to find out.

It took about a mile before I realized something wasn't right.

The truck felt off, almost as if the trailer was fishtailing slightly, enough to be noticeable, but subtle enough that I initially blamed it on wind gusts.

Scout was pacing anxiously across the passenger seat, whining quietly, his ears flat against his head.

He wasn't normally skittish.

Years on the road had made him as steady as any truck dog could be.

Seeing him rattled didn't help my nerves.

My dashboard lit up again, a sudden spike on the weight sensors built into the trailer's axle system.

My load had jumped up nearly £500, then immediately returned to normal.

Strange, but not impossible.

Sometimes faulty readings happened on long hauls, especially through terrain like the Blue Mountains.

Still, this one felt different.

I forced myself to breathe deep and steady.

I tried the radio, reaching out to any trucker within a few miles.

Anybody westbound around Dead Man Pass picking up crosswinds or weird road conditions?

I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

After a few seconds, static crackled before another driver responded.

Negative on the wind, eastbound quiet night out here, what's up Lisa?

Trailers acting weird, sensors bouncing all over the place.

I replied, forcing a casual tone.

Probably nothing, just jumpy, I guess.

The other trucker chuckled a dry laugh over the radio.

Careful out there, could be those Cabbage Hill ghosts.

Drive safe.

I didn't laugh.

My eyes kept flicking toward the side mirrors, watching the trailer carefully.

Scout huddled against the seat now, eyes wide.

It felt irrational, but his reaction convinced me this wasn't just paranoia.

He'd been through plenty of rough weather, bad roads, even animal encounters, but never acted this way.

I forced myself to keep driving, trying to rationalize.

Maybe the cargo shifted slightly when I pulled onto the shoulder.

Maybe I hadn't latched the trailer securely despite my clear memory of doing it.

My mind search for normal explanations, anything to avoid acknowledging the dread sinking into my gut.

Then the sensor jumped again, a spike of £600 lasting a few seconds before dropping back.

It was as if something large was moving around inside, shifting the weight distribution unpredictably.

My heart rate climbed, sweat dampening my palms against the steering wheel.

Scout, what's back there, buddy?

I murmured, knowing he couldn't answer but desperately wishing he could.

About 10 miles from Pendleton, I made a decision.

I took the next exit and called Oregon DO TS 24 hour hotline, requesting an immediate inspection.

The dispatcher sounded skeptical, but agreed to meet me at the eastbound weigh station just outside town.

I didn't care how it looked, I needed someone else to verify what I couldn't explain.

I slowed to a stop at the empty weigh station, engine idling softly in the pre dawn quiet, before stepping out.

I grabbed my heavy flashlight and opened the cab door slowly.

Scout refused to follow, pressing himself deeper into the seat.

My throat tightened.

Another bad sign.

The night air felt unnaturally thick and oppressive.

I moved quickly to the back of the trailer, heart hammering as I aim the flashlight at the latch.

It was open, not broken or damaged, simply unlatched, dangling slightly ajar.

The lock itself was still securely in place, confirming my earlier suspicion.

Whatever had happened here, it had started inside my trailer, not outside.

My pulse roared in my ears as I stared into the narrow darkness between the trailer doors.

I should have felt relief at not seeing anything immediately obvious, but instead my dread deepened.

The faintest smell drifted from the open gap, rich and earthy like fresh soil overturned from a grave.

Stepping back instinctively, I swung the trailer doors fully open.

My flashlight beam swept across stacked pallets, tightly wrapped and undisturbed at first glance.

Then, near the center of the trailer floor, I saw a broken pallet board, splintered as if crushed by something heavy near it.

Strange marks gouged the aluminum walls, erratic, deep scratches that could have only come from something large and powerful.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

I turned back toward the cab, half running now, and climbed inside.

Scout was trembling.

I locked both cab doors and waited for the inspection crew, eyes fixed nervously on the darkened mirrors.

What exactly had climbed into my trailer at Deadman Pass, and where had it gone?

The Oregon dot pickup rolled into the weigh station 15 minutes later, headlights slicing across my windshield, briefly blinding me.

Two inspectors stepped out, each carrying a heavy duty flashlight.

I climbed down from my rig, scout following hesitantly, glued to my side as we approached the trailer.

You the one who called?

Asked the taller inspector, an older guy with a weathered face and a skeptical look.

Yeah, that's me.

I said, forcing steadiness into my voice.

Trailer latch popped open.

Something inside isn't right.

Loads shifting, weird sensor spikes.

It's a mess back there.

He nodded slowly, glancing toward his partner, a younger woman who wore the tired expression of someone already regretting her night shift.

She waved me over as they moved toward the rear doors.

My stomach churned as I followed.

When the inspector opened the trailer fully, the air seemed thicker than before, heavy with a smell like damp earth and Moss.

Not rod, exactly, but something out of place, like wet dirt dragged in from somewhere far away.

The inspectors exchanged a puzzled glance, their casual skepticism fading quickly.

They stepped cautiously into the trailer, flashlights Criss crossing over the aluminum walls, highlighting the deep, ragged scratches that ran nearly waist high along both sides.

You got an animal loose back here?

The woman asked, her voice suddenly tight with unease.

I shook my head quickly.

No, just frozen meats from Baker City.

Doors were latched and locked before I left.

Whatever did this got in later, somewhere on Dead Man Pass.

The older inspector knelt down, shining his beam onto the broken pallet near the center.

Splintered wood lay scattered around the floor like matchsticks.

He glanced back at me, eyes narrowed.

And you didn't hear any noise?

No banging, nothing unusual.

Nothing.

I answered honestly.

Just sensor alerts.

A little sway in the trailer.

I pulled over as soon as I noticed.

I stepped further back, feeling the oppressive weight of the trailer around me.

Something told me I shouldn't be inside.

Scout hovered anxiously outside, pacing.

The younger inspector, who had moved deeper into the trailer, called out sharply.

Hey, come see this.

We moved carefully toward her, beams converging on a strange mound near the back axle.

A pile of dirt, dark and freshly disturbed, lay heaped against the aluminum flooring.

Bits of Moss and grass protruded from it, clearly not native to this stretch of Oregon.

What the hell?

Murmured the older inspector, kneeling to examine it closer.

He prodded the dirt gently, his face creased in confusion.

Where did this even come from?

I felt sick to my stomach.

My palms grew sweaty, the smell making me dizzy.

I don't know.

All I can tell you is something climbed in after I stopped.

Maybe it dug through the floor somehow.

Impossible, he interrupted sharply.

Trailer floors are reinforced, steel beams, aluminum plating.

Nothing digs through.

He stood abruptly, shining the light upward, illuminating the walls again.

He traced one of the gouges with his finger, voice quiet but serious.

These look fresh.

Whatever it was, it wanted out badly.

My mouth went dry.

Out.

Out where?

He didn't answer.

Instead, they both stepped past me toward the rear doors.

We're going to check your dash Cam footage, the older inspector said firmly, beckoning me to follow.

I hurried back to the cab, climbing inside to retrieve the camera's SD card.

Scout pressed close to me, shivering as if chilled.

I handed them the card silently, then watched as the younger inspector loaded it into a tablet.

She scrubbed through the footage quickly, finding the timestamp just before 3:30 AM.

The video was clear at first, my headlights cutting through darkness, everything normal, until suddenly, inexplicably, the screen went completely blank, nothing but blackness for nearly seven full minutes.

When the picture returned, I was already driving away, the road stretching ahead like nothing had ever happened.

She stared at the screen, baffled.

You stop anywhere else?

No, just dead man pass.

When I saw a stranded driver waving me down, I explained quietly.

Except now.

Now what?

She pressed, her voice sharp.

I took a breath, steadying myself.

Now there's nothing on the footage.

No man, no SUV, no record.

I stopped at all.

They exchanged uneasy looks, the older inspector clearly uncomfortable.

Listen, he said, finally.

We'll file a report, send this footage up the chain.

But officially, this is going to read like a break in.

Keep it simple, right?

I nodded numbly.

Sure, simple.

They climbed back into their pickup, promising a follow up that we both knew wouldn't come.

Once they were gone, I sat in my cab for a long moment, staring blankly at the dash, trying to make sense of it.

Scout curled beside me, finally calming a little.

I finished the drive to Portland in a fog, the trailer dragging behind me.

Feeling heavier than ever.

After unloading, I refused any more.

Solo Night halls through the mountains.

I'd seen enough.

The inspectors were probably right.

This would remain unexplained, filed away neatly as a simple break in another oddity lost among hundreds of Hwy.

incidents.

But I knew better.

Whatever climbed into my trailer at Deadman Pass wasn't looking for cargo.

It was looking for a way out.

And I'd given it one.

I was 13 years old when my dad missed our 4th of July reunion for the first and only time in my life.

Every year our family gathered at my uncle's property just outside Billings, Mt.

We grilled burgers, lit fireworks, and stayed up late swapping stories around the bonfire.

Dad, a long haul truck driver named Ray Martinez, had made it home for every reunion since I could remember.

But that year, 2011, things took a different turn.

He was driving a load of refrigerated produce from Cheyenne, WY to Bozeman, Mt Usually he'd take the Interstate through Casper and Billings, but wildfires forced him N through Cody, then W along Route 212, the Beartooth Hwy.

It was longer, lonelier, and more treacherous, but it was the only open route.

He promised to make it home by July 3rd.

When the day passed without word, my mother hid her worry behind forced smiles.

But even at 13, I could feel the tension thickening.

Years later, on a humid summer night in 2024, Dad finally told me the full story on our back porch in Billings, as crickets chirped softly and my own kid slept inside.

He spoke slowly, as though picking through memories long buried.

What he told me explained every silent glance, every hesitant look he'd given Route 212 since that July.

His story began just after midnight on July 2nd, 2011, as he navigated A twisting descent along Route 212 near Clay Butte Lookout.

Thousands of feet above sea level, the road was slick with gravel from a recent washout.

In the blink of an eye, the heavy trailer swung wide.

The entire rig shuddered violently, and Dad's Freightliner Cascadia skidded off the shoulder, sinking into the dry brush and loose earth below.

Dad wasn't hurt, just rattled.

His heart hammered against his chest as he checked for damage.

He stepped down onto gravel and dry grass, flashlight trembling in his hand, and circled the truck.

The rig was lodged in the dirt, its massive bulk half tilted, tires sunk deep.

It was hopelessly stuck.

No cell signal up there, Dad explained quietly.

Middle of nowhere, no traffic, Rd.

closures everywhere from fires.

My best bet was to wait until morning, flag down whoever might pass by, or hike to a Ranger station.

So he climbed into his sleeper cab and tried to rest, telling himself it was just a set back.

But when he woke at exactly 3:40 AM, the air was cold enough to see his breath, a sharp contrast to the heat he'd expected in July.

The truck's engine had cut out sometime during his sleep, leaving the cab dark and silent.

He slid behind the wheel and turned the key.

Instead of a familiar roar, he heard a grinding metallic shriek echo from beneath the hood.

The dashboard flickered angrily with warning lights, casting eerie shadows inside the cab.

Dad stepped back out, flashlight beam cutting through dust and darkness.

When he lifted the hood, a bitter chemical odor stung his nose.

His stomach tightened at what he saw.

The oil pan was ripped apart, as if something sharp had torn through the metal.

With deliberate force, oil dripped onto the gravel, mixing with coolant and pooling darkly at his feet.

He moved around the truck, eyes scanning the dim surroundings, heart thudding now with something deeper than worry.

That's when he saw footprints, bare, human like, elongated, pressed into the dirt and headed toward the dark wall of trees.

I thought maybe someone was stranded, desperate.

Dad told me, shaking his head slowly.

But then I heard movement, quick, quiet, too quick to be a person.

He paused in his retelling, taking a long sip from his glass, eyes distant.

Whatever it was, he continued, finally moved upright like a man, but faster, more fluid.

It went around behind the trailer before I got a good look.

Dad wasted no time scrambling back into the cab, locking the doors, pulling his pistol from beneath the seat, every nerve on edge, he sat rigid in the driver's seat, straining to hear anything beyond the silence.

Minutes crawled by.

Then at 4:12 AM, he heard footsteps, slow, deliberate, moving atop the aluminum roof of the trailer.

He sat frozen as they stopped directly over his head, the metal creaking softly beneath their weight.

And then silence.

Complete silence.

Time stretched out painfully as Dad waited, pistol gripped in sweating palms.

Whatever it was stayed perfectly still above him.

I didn't know what to do.

Dad whispered, looking at me through haunted eyes.

Couldn't shoot through the roof blind.

Couldn't just stay there forever.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him back into an uneasy sleep.

But sleep offered no escape, because what happened next blurred the boundary between reality and nightmare.

And when Dad finally woke, gasping in terror, he'd come face to face with something he'd spend the next 13 years desperately trying to forget.

I woke abruptly, choking for air, my heartbeat hammering painfully in my chest.

The vividness of the nightmare lingered like an oily residue.

My eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness inside the sleeper cab.

For a split second, I didn't know where I was.

Then reality returned.

I was stranded along Route 212, deep in the Montana wilderness, hours from any real help.

I checked my phone instinctively.

12:08 AM.

But something was wrong.

I checked it earlier, after the footsteps on the roof, and it had said 4:12 AM.

My thoughts felt slow, tangled.

The darkness outside seemed unnaturally dense, absorbing the feeble glow of the phone screen.

The nightmare itself clawed at the edges of my consciousness.

In it, I'd wandered through a twisted, impossible forest filled with trees bent at bizarre angles and roots, nodded like gnarled dead snakes.

I'd walked aimlessly, hearing strange clicking sounds all around me, feeling unseen eyes watching from behind every trunk.

In the center of it all stood a dark totem, carved crudely from burned wood and bleached bones.

Just before I'd awakened, something had stepped from behind it, tall and wrong, its face stretched into an expression halfway between agony and a grotesque grin.

I shivered, forcing away the image, rubbing the sweat from my face.

As I sat up fully, trying to gather my nerves.

A sharp movement caught my attention.

My heart lurched.

Something shifted outside, just beyond the driver's side window.

Without thinking, I whipped my head around and stared into the blackness.

My stomach nodded.

2 eyes stared back.

The face pressed against the window was pale, gaunt, almost skeletal.

Skin stretched tight across bones beneath the mouth, set in a straight unreadable line.

It wasn't quite human.

The proportions were wrong.

Elongated cheekbones, jaw set at an odd angle, forehead too high and it's eyes dark, reflective, too wide, filled with a chilling emptiness that froze me in place.

For several heart stopping seconds we simply stared at each other, my lungs locked up, muscles refusing to move.

My pistol lay on the passenger seat, inches from my hand.

I knew I had to grab it, but my body felt paralyzed.

Then, with a burst of adrenaline, my hand shot out, closed around the grip, raised the weapon, and fired.

The deafening blast shattered the silence as the window exploded outward in a shower of glass fragments.

Ears ringing, I sat stunned for a moment, my breath ragged.

I peered into the darkness beyond the jagged frame, pistol trembling in my grasp.

Nothing.

No body, no sounds of movement, no blood.

Just empty darkness and the night's oppressive silence.

My breath shook as I slowly lowered the gun.

My heart still pounded violently, and my ears buzzed painfully.

Cold mountain air seeped through the shattered window, carrying a faint odor of burning metal and sulfur.

Glancing again at the phone, my blood ran cold.

The screen displayed 12:13 AM, only 5 minutes since I last checked.

It was impossible.

It felt like hours had passed.

I rose cautiously from my seat and peered through the broken window, eyes darting around, searching.

The dirt beside the truck was smooth, undisturbed.

No footprints, no sign of anything moving.

The gravel lay untouched, as if the figure had never been there at all.

But I'd seen it clearly.

I knew I hadn't imagined it.

Backing away, I sank down into the sleeper bunk, wrapping my bleeding hand in a rag from beneath the seat.

My head spun, thoughts spiraling.

What was happening?

Time didn't make sense anymore.

Minutes stretched into hours, yet the clock barely moved.

Something deeply unnatural was happening, something I couldn't explain.

I spent the next hour sitting rigidly upright, gripping the pistol, listening intently to every tiny sound.

Gradually, fatigue began overtaking the adrenaline, pulling me unwillingly towards sleep.

I fought desperately to keep my eyes open, terrified of slipping back into that twisted dream.

But exhaustion claimed me again, and when I woke next, I wasn't inside the truck.

I was standing barefoot in the woods, surrounded by trees I didn't recognize, with no idea how I'd gotten there.

I stood barefoot in the darkness, the rocky earth digging sharply into the soles of my feet.

Disoriented and nauseous, I stared into unfamiliar woods, heart thudding as I struggled to remember how I'd gotten here.

My truck, my only lifeline, was nowhere Insight.

The darkness of the forest was thick, oppressive, offering no hint of familiar landmarks or roads.

Shivering, I realized I'd left the pistol behind, unarmed and vulnerable.

My pulse quickened.

The surrounding trees twisted upward at unnatural angles, the landscape unfamiliar.

Despite hours spent driving through this region, the air felt thick, oppressive.

Not a single insect chirped.

Silence pressed in, absolute and suffocating.

Behind me, branches cracked sharply, breaking the quiet.

Something heavy moved through the brush.

Pacing and measured, deliberate steps, I turned quickly, breathing shallowly.

Staring into the shadows, I saw nothing clearly, just glimpses of movement.

Dark and swift.

It stayed low, shifting side to side, weaving through the underbrush with unsettling speed.

My instincts took control.

I ran.

Branches tore at my arms and face as I sprinted blindly, eyes streaming tears from panic and exertion.

Every breath burned as I dodged trees and leaped fallen logs, desperate to put distance between myself and whatever pursued me.

I stumbled, tripped, righted myself, pressing on through the darkness.

Then, mercifully, I broke through the trees onto a rough clearing.

Ahead, barely visible beneath moonlight filtering through clouds, stood a small log cabin.

Smoke curled gently from its chimney, promising shelter.

My legs trembled from exhaustion, but I surged forward, driven by raw fear.

I reached the cabins porch, breathless, pounding my fist against the heavy wooden door.

Help.

My voice cracked, echoing hollowly through the clearing.

Please open up.

After several 10 seconds, footsteps shuffled inside and the door creaked open cautiously.

An old man appeared, eyes narrowed warily above a Gray beard, shotgun gripped firmly in weathered hands.

What the Hell's going on out here?

He demanded gruffly, eyes scanning the tree line behind me.

My truck broke down.

Something's chasing me.

I gasped, voice shaking.

Please let me in, I don't know what's happening.

His eyes studied me sharply, evaluating, before he stepped aside, ushering me quickly inside.

He bolted the door behind us, gesturing toward a worn armchair near a crackling wood stove.

Sit.

He instructed, voice softer now.

You're safe, for now, at least.

I sank into the chair, still trembling.

Glancing nervously at the closed door, The old man placed his shotgun carefully on a table, eyes thoughtful as he studied me.

Name's Jonas, he finally said.

Been out here long enough to know something strange when I see it start talking.

I told Jonas everything.

The crash, the engine shredded without reason, the figure at the window, the lost hours and the impossible way I'd woken up deep in these woods.

He listened silently, expression grim, nodding occasionally.

When I finished, he leaned forward slowly, his voice low and deliberate.

Heard stories all my life, Jonas said.

Hunters, campers, folks disappearing or waking miles from their tents with no memory of leaving them.

Most think it's nonsense, hallucinations from altitude or fear.

But it's real, Real enough.

He stood, crossing the small cabin to an old wooden shelf lined with books and faded photographs.

Carefully, he pulled a worn journal from between 2 heavy volumes and thumbed through its yellowed pages.

You ever heard of the apple, Carey?

He asked, glancing up at me.

I shook my head silently, chest tight with dread.

Old stories say they lived here long before any settlers or known tribes.

Secretive, hidden, deep practice.

Dark things.

Things folks stopped whispering about generations ago, he explained quietly, eyes locked on mine.

But they weren't alone.

They made things, Summoned them maybe, or change themselves into something else.

They're called the wrong ones.

Mimics.

They look human enough to trick you, but they aren't human, not anymore.

He closed the journal slowly, watching my reaction closely.

My throat went dry.

Why me?

I finally whispered.

Jonas shook his head slowly, eyes shadowed.

No reason anyone can figure.

Sometimes folks get close to places they shouldn't see.

Maybe you drove through the wrong stretch at the wrong time.

Once they set eyes on you, they don't let go easily.

They warp your memory, twist up time, make it hard to know what's real.

How do you stop them?

My voice was barely audible.

Jonas sighed deeply, shoulders sagging.

You don't.

He answered softly.

You just wait and hope they lose interest.

The good news is, you're still here.

Means they haven't taken you yet.

We sat quietly for hours, until dawn broke.

Jonas brewed coffee, bitter and strong, handing me a steaming cup without a word as sunlight pushed away the shadows.

Jonas led me back toward the road, both of us wary, scanning the trees constantly.

My truck stood exactly where I'd left it, yet now it was torn apart completely, Doors ripped open, tires shredded, engine gutted violently.

We exchanged a glance, knowing what had caused the destruction.

Nothing was missing, just senseless, deliberate ruin on the shoulder.

Gently as we climbed toward higher ground to find Signal finally calling in help.

Before I left, he pulled me aside.

Whatever you do, he warned, eyes solemn.

Don't come back here.

Don't tempt fate.

Twice, I promised, meaning every word.

But as I watched the rescue truck approach, I realized something chilling.

There were entire stretches of that night, hours that I still couldn't account for.

Even Jonas, with all his warnings, couldn't explain that missing time.

I climbed into the rescue truck silently, glancing once more at Jonas's cabin in the distance.

Deep down, I knew whatever had chased me wasn't finished.

Not completely.

But for now, at least, I was getting out alive.

13 years had passed since that night on Route 212.

Life had moved forward, as it tends to do, dulling the edges of what I experienced until it felt more like a vivid nightmare than a memory.

I avoided speaking about it, burying the event deep.

But the truth about that July night never faded completely.

It was always there, beneath the surface, quietly waiting.

Now, on a humid August night in 2024, I sat out back on the porch with my grown son, sipping whiskey under the pale glow of the porch lights.

The evening had been joyous.

My grandson's birthday party filled the house with laughter.

The quiet now felt comfortable, peaceful, until my son asked a question I'd spent years secretly dreading.

You ever see anything out there that really scared you?

I hesitated, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.

Silence stretched uncomfortably.

My son waited patiently, sensing my internal struggle.

Finally, I took a deep breath and looked into the darkness beyond our fence.

You remember the 4th of July reunion I missed in 2011?

I began cautiously.

He nodded.

I told you the truck broke down, but that wasn't all of it.

I recounted every detail slowly, methodically, dredging up memories Long suppressed.

The crash, the shredded engine, the figure at the window, the lost hours in the woods and Jonas's grim warning.

Each word felt heavy, like an anchor dragged up from deep waters.

My son listened, silent and intent, the humor of earlier now completely drained from his face.

When I finished, he sat back in his chair, exhaling deeply.

Why didn't you ever say something sooner?

He asked quietly.

Because I spent years trying to convince myself it wasn't real.

I admitted.

Telling anyone made it harder to pretend, but it happened, every bit of it, and it still haunts me.

After a long silence, I rose and went inside.

From an old box stored in the attic, I retrieved something I'd never shared with another soul.

A small fragment of bark, yellowed and curled with age, its edges crumbling.

Jonas had handed it to me just before I climbed into the rescue truck, eyes full of a warning I hadn't fully understood back then.

Returning to the porch, I placed the bark gently into my son's hand.

He squinted, tilting it toward the porch light to read the faded writing.

Don't call them.

Don't follow them.

If they stop watching you walk, don't run, don't think.

My son stared silently at the words, letting them sink in.

What did he mean by don't think?

He finally asked.

I shook my head slowly.

I don't know exactly.

Maybe that they mess with your perception.

Make your mind play tricks.

The less you dwell on them, the safer you are.

The more you acknowledge them, the more power they seem to have.

We sat in thoughtful silence.

He eventually stood, clasped my shoulder firmly, and went inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering taste of memories.

I took out my phone, fingers trembling slightly as I typed Route 212 into the search bar, pulling up satellite images of the highway I'd never driven again.

I studied the twisting route closely, tracing it with my finger on the screen.

Even now, years later, my throat tightened just looking at it.

I realized then just how drastically I'd altered my life after that night.

How I'd rerouted deliveries, added hours, sometimes days, onto trips simply to avoid that place.

But I'd never fully admitted to myself why.

Sighing heavily, I turned off my phone and stood up, gazing into the darkness.

The unease was still there, simmering just beneath the surface.

Something Jonas said echoed in my mind clearly now.

Once they set eyes on you, they don't let go easily walking inside, I stopped and turned back one final time toward the yard.

Looking past our fence, into the shadows beyond, I felt certain, deep in my bones, that whatever I encountered on Route 212 hadn't meant to harm me.

Not directly.

They had been curious, interested perhaps, in a way a child might study an insect pinned beneath glass.

But curiosity like that wasn't human, and it wasn't innocent.

I locked the back door, carefully double checking the latch before turning off the lights, casting the porch Into Darkness.

Upstairs, as I climbed into bed, I knew with grim certainty that the fear I'd carried for 13 years wasn't irrational.

It was earned, bought and paid for with lost hours and shredded metal, a pale face at the window and footprints in the dirt that shouldn't have existed.

And as sleep finally took me, I knew one thing clearly above all else, I would never travel Route 212 again.

I've driven rigs for over a decade now, mostly hauling livestock feed from Great Falls down to Billings.

It's steady work, predictable even, and US 87 became a second home for me years ago.

On those long drives, you get to know every rise, every curve, every patch of grass.

Montana has its own way of lulling you into a quiet sense of routine, so when something breaks that rhythm, it sticks with you.

Late summer had been brutally dry and wildfire season was in full swing.

Long stretches of sagebrush and grazing land were crispy and brown during the days the sun blistered my windshield.

By evening, the temperature dropped sharply enough to send chills through the metal doors of my cab.

My truck had been a dependable companion, a Big Blue Kenworth I'd taken good care of.

And as always, I kept a small arsenal of energy drinks, protein bars and my Glock tucked in the glove box.

I'd only reached for it once before, when a coyote charged me at a rest stop outside Lewistown.

Until now, nothing else had ever come close to rattling me.

It happened around dusk, about 25 miles north of Roundup.

I'd already been driving for hours, squinting into the horizon, waiting for the dark to bring some relief.

I'd clicked on my headlights just minutes earlier, washing the empty 2 lane Rd.

in a dull yellow glow.

That's when something moved out of the corner of my right eye, just off the shoulder.

My first thought was deer.

Maybe a pronghorn.

But when I looked again, my stomach twisted.

It was a man, shirtless, barefoot, sprinting like his life depended on it.

My foot lifted from the accelerator, instinctively easing my speed from 65 down to 40.

At first, I thought he might be running from something in the fields behind him, a dog, a rancher who knew what.

But when I glanced again, his eyes met mine.

They were wide and intense, staring straight through the passenger window as if he knew exactly who I was.

His muscles were tight, his body bruised all over, skin streaked with dirt and dried blood, hair tangled and matted.

He looked desperate, haunted.

I nearly hit the brakes to stop for him, but right as my hand hovered over the air horn to signal I was pulling over, the man cut sharply right and dove head first into the thick grass alongside the highway.

One second he was there, the next he vanished.

My heart hammered as I rolled slowly past the spot.

My eyes scanned the brush, expecting him to pop back up and wave me down.

He never did.

A surge of guilt twisted my gut.

What if he needed help?

What if someone was chasing him?

But what if he was dangerous?

The bruises suggested violence, maybe drugs, maybe trouble.

Either way, the thought of stopping now felt wrong, like stepping into something bigger than I could handle alone.

After a moment's hesitation, I radioed dispatch, but all I got back was crackling.

Static cell coverage was practically non existent here, so calling anyone was out of the question.

I swallowed hard, steadied my nerves and kept driving.

15 minutes later, my knuckles were still white around the steering wheel.

I'd almost convinced myself that I'd imagined the whole thing when out of the darkness to my right, the same man appeared again, running parallel to the truck, matching my speed precisely.

Every hair on my body stood on end.

He didn't wave or shout.

He just ran, eyes fixed dead ahead, arms pumping methodically, stride even.

I floored the accelerator, the engine growling in protest, but when I dared to glance in the side mirror, he was still there, running alongside as effortlessly as before.

My breath caught in my throat, Sweat broke out on my forehead.

There was no way no human could keep pace with a rig going that fast.

And yet there he was, a dark silhouette flickering through the headlights peripheral reach.

Then, just as suddenly as he'd appeared, he veered sharply and vanished again into the shadows beyond the shoulder.

My rig thundered forward, leaving him or whatever I just witnessed behind in the darkness.

I didn't stop.

I didn't look back.

I pushed forward, heart hammering against my ribs, eager to leave Roundup behind.

But deep down, I knew the night wasn't finished with me yet.

I made it to Billings around 10, nerves raw and mind still replaying the runner's face.

Pulling into the truck stop on South Billings Blvd.

felt like stepping into the first safe zone I'd seen in hours.

Bright overhead lights cast pools of white across the cracked pavement, making the whole place glow unnaturally in the darkness.

Even at this late hour, there was comfort in the distant drone of idling engines and murmured voices over by the gas pumps.

I parked the rig and shut off the engine, leaning back in my seat to breathe deeply.

I'd planned to grab a bite and crash in my sleeper cab, but something felt off.

A persistent vibration had nagged at me the last 20 miles, subtle but insistent.

Maybe I'd hit something earlier and hadn't realized it.

Rd.

debris or a pothole.

After tonight, I wasn't taking chances.

I reached behind my seat for the flashlight, grabbed my gloves, and hopped down from the cab.

The cool night air made my skin prickle as I stepped around the rig, shining the beam along the trailer tires.

Nothing unusual there.

When I crouched lower, my pulse quickened.

Something was stuck under the truck's chassis, just above the rear axle.

As the beam caught it, a chill went down my spine.

A tangled clump of black hair hung from one of the mounts.

I leaned in closer, hoping it might be animal fur, but the moment I tugged it loose, I knew better.

It was coarse and long, unmistakably human.

My stomach lurched and I scrambled back from under the truck, breathing shallowly through clenched teeth.

The hair felt wrong between my fingers, like a violation.

Instinctively, I flicked it onto the pavement and stared at it, pulse hammering.

How in the hell had human hair gotten caught there?

Had I hit someone?

The bruised runner flashed through my mind again, but I'd never felt any kind of impact.

Still shaken, I stepped back toward the cab, suddenly conscious of eyes on me from the trucker's milling about the pumps.

I forced a casual wave, then climbed back into my seat and locked the door.

The hair lay in the beam of my headlights, a dark clump stark against the cracked asphalt.

Sleep came.

Reluctantly, I tossed and turned in the sleeper cab, unable to find rest.

Every small noise outside, the crunch of gravel beneath boots, the distant slam of a truck door Jarred me awake again.

Twice I sat up sharply, certain someone had brushed past my rig.

Each time, the window revealed nothing but stillness and empty pavement.

Morning couldn't come soon enough.

At first light, I stepped out, groggy and unrested.

I stretched stiff muscles, determined to put the night behind me, when I caught sight of something dried and reddish brown smeared along the rear bumper.

A sinking dread twisted inside my chest.

It was blood, dry and unmistakable, caked onto the steel and uneven streaks.

It hadn't been there yesterday.

Without hesitation, I climbed into the cab, slam the door shut, and fired up the engine.

The steady rumble felt comforting now, like protection.

As I steered out of the truck stop, heading north toward home, I made a silent vow.

No more stopping and Roundup.

Not ever.

Whatever was happening there, it was someone else's problem.

From now on.

My rig barreled down the highway, and this time I refused to glance toward the grass lining the roadside.

Some things are better left unseen.

2 days passed, but the sense of dread hadn't faded.

It clung to me, shadowing every thought, poisoning every quiet moment.

I tried burying it beneath chores at home, cleaning out the garage, tuning up my old pickup, but nothing erased the image of that bruised runner or the hair twisted around the axle.

I started wondering if I should have said something to the sheriff, or at least mentioned it to someone else, but I didn't know how to explain without sounding crazy.

Then, around lunchtime on the second day, my phone buzzed with an unfamiliar local number.

I hesitated briefly before answering, bracing myself.

Is this Sam Weller?

A gravelly voice asked.

Deputy Harris with muscle.

Shell County Sheriff's Office.

I felt a sick tightening in my chest.

Yeah, speaking.

You called dispatch about something strange near Roundup two nights ago.

Someone running along US 87.

That correct?

Yeah.

Guy looked beat up, running barefoot.

Didn't seem right.

There was a pause on the line, heavy and uneasy.

We need to talk to you about that.

Where are you now?

Home in Lewistown.

Why?

What happened?

He cleared his throat.

We had a rancher call it in yesterday morning.

Found a man alive down in a culvert off the highway north of Roundup.

Guy had a length of chain still locked to his ankle.

Says someone held him in a pit, beat him when he tried to escape.

Claims he broke free and tried flagging down passing vehicles.

My throat felt like sandpaper.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, steadying myself.

He was chained to his ankle.

Yeah, the deputy said.

Looks like he was kept underground.

Pretty rough shape.

We're trying to piece together how long he was out there.

I remembered the bruises, the desperate expression of the runner who had stared through my passenger window.

Nausea rose again.

Listen, Sam, the deputy continued gently.

He mentioned seeing a semi truck, a blue rig, heading southbound.

Twice Said he tried waving you down but thought you didn't notice him.

I noticed, I admitted quietly, guilt washing over me, but he kept disappearing.

He never waved, never yelled, just ran.

Well, you weren't the only one to pass him by.

Trust me, he said.

We just need to clarify details.

You didn't see anyone else nearby?

Another vehicle?

Something suspicious?

No, just him and nothing odd with your rig after.

No signs of contact.

My throat tightened again.

I pictured the hair, dark and tangled beneath my axle mount.

I pictured the dried streaks of blood smeared on my bumper.

My heartbeat was pounding hard in my ears.

No, I lied.

Nothing.

There was another pause, just long enough to make me wonder if the deputy believed me.

Finally, he sighed.

All right, we'll be in touch if we have more questions.

Stay safe out there, Sam.

You too, I muttered, hanging up.

I leaned heavily on the countertop, breath ragged, palm sweating.

Every instinct screamed at me that I had dodged something horrific, something very human and very real was happening along that highway, something worse than any nightmare I'd ever imagined.

That evening, as shadows stretched long across my driveway, I worked silently, installing a high-powered spotlight bar and a dash mounted camera in the rigs cab.

My hands trembled slightly as I tightened the bolts, each turn of the wrench a quiet promise to myself.

The highway had always been my lifeline, my comfort one.

But that night it felt different, dangerous, unpredictable.

I knew I'd drive again, but never through Roundup, never along that stretch of US 87.

The rumors would spread among truckers, whispered at rest stops and diners.

Don't slow down near Roundup.

Don't stop for anything and above all else, if you see a runner along the roadside, keep your eyes forward and your foot down and never look back.