The neon of Smokey's Truck Stop flickered against the dark, painting the asphalt in red and blue streaks that glimmered on Eddie's windshield. He eased the Peterbilt onto the lot, tires crunching against gravel. The warm light inside promised coffee, diesel, and the faint illusion of human connection, a stark contrast to the emptiness of the highway.
Eddie parked in a corner, far from the main cluster of rigs. He killed the engine, letting silence fill the cab. For a moment, he just sat, breathing in the smell of diesel, exhaust, and fried food wafting from the diner.
Stepping down from the cab, the cold night air hit him. Frost glittered on the lot, sparkling under neon. He tugged his jacket tighter and started toward the diner.
Inside, Smokey's was alive with the low hum of conversations, clinking dishes, and the hiss of coffee machines. A waitress in a stained apron greeted him with a nod, cigarette smoke curling upward from the break room door.
"Late night?" she asked, voice rough but friendly.
"Just passing through," Eddie replied, easing into a booth near the window. He placed his thermos on the table, even though he knew the diner would make him another cup anyway. Something warm in a mug always helped ground him.
Across the room, a pair of truckers leaned against the counter, swapping stories. One, a burly man with a beard streaked in gray, gestured wildly. "…and then that rig just disappeared right off the highway! CB went dead. No trace. I tell ya, I don't believe in ghosts, but, "
Eddie's ears perked. He kept his eyes on his coffee, letting the conversation brush past him.
The other trucker laughed, shaking his head. "Ha! Sure, Bill. And next you'll tell me the phantom rig is out there following us tonight."
Eddie's gaze drifted to the window. Outside, shadows clung to the edges of the lot, and he felt a familiar chill creeping down his spine.
The waitress came by with a steaming cup of coffee. She set it down without a word, letting the smell of roasted beans fill his senses. Eddie nodded his thanks, wrapping his hands around the cup. The warmth seeped into him, calming the tremor in his hands.
"Name's Rosa," the waitress said suddenly, surprising him. She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned slightly closer. "You're running the night haul, huh? I've seen rigs like yours roll in before."
Eddie raised an eyebrow. "And you know it's me?"
Rosa smiled faintly, eyes sharp. "Truckers leave trails. You don't think everyone's asleep at 1:30 A.M., do you?"
He smirked despite himself. "Fair enough."
Rosa studied him a moment, then nodded toward the lot. "Watch your mirrors. You're not alone tonight. Not everything out there is… ordinary."
Eddie's hand froze around the mug. "Ordinary?"
She shrugged. "Truckers talk. Some call it folklore. I call it caution. You might want to keep it in mind."
Before Eddie could respond, a man shuffled past the diner window, pausing near the rigs. Tall, thin, coat buttoned high. He didn't move, just stared. Eddie felt a prickle at the back of his neck. Something about the man's stillness made the hair on his arms rise.
The shadow from the highway… Eddie thought, glancing at his mirrors. But the man didn't move, didn't blink. He just watched.
Outside, the lot had become a theater of flickering light and silence. Eddie drained the last of his coffee and stood, stretching. The night's tension weighed heavily on him, the kind of tension only a long-haul driver knew, born of too many hours alone, eyes glued to the road, and the persistent whisper of the unknown lurking just beyond the beams of headlights.
He stepped back to the Peterbilt, checking the cab and trailer. Everything seemed normal, yet his instincts screamed otherwise. He climbed in, locked the doors, and sat, letting his mind drift over the events of the night.
The CB crackled faintly. A voice, distorted by static, whispered words Eddie didn't fully catch. But the tone, warning, urgent, left him gripping the wheel a little tighter.
Minutes passed, slow and deliberate. Then the shadow from the diner window appeared again, closer now, along the edge of the lot, disappearing into the night when Eddie tried to focus on him.
"Not getting paranoid… right?" Eddie muttered to himself, a nervous laugh escaping his lips.
He checked his logbook. Soon, he'd have to get back on the road. Black Creek awaited. But Smokey's had a way of slowing time, a place where the supernatural, the rumor, and the real world blurred together. And tonight, Eddie felt that blur pressing against him.
Across the lot, a couple of rigs idled. Their drivers, silhouetted against glowing dashboards, seemed ordinary. Yet Eddie's gut told him something was watching, something waiting. And as he prepared to leave, one thing became clear: the night was far from over, and Smokey's Truck Stop was only the beginning.
Eddie leaned against the Peterbilt, letting the cold bite at his fingers as he surveyed the lot. Smoke curled from tailpipes, the red glow of brake lights mixing with the neon buzz of the diner sign. Truck stops were a world unto themselves at night, a place where time slowed, and stories flowed as freely as coffee.
A group of truckers had gathered near the entrance of the diner, laughing loudly. One, a wiry man with a shock of gray hair and a patchy beard, waved Eddie over.
"Hey, newbie," he called. "You hauling the mystery load tonight too?"
Eddie's eyebrows rose. "Mystery load?"
"Yeah," another chimed in, a younger driver with tattoos creeping up his neck. "Something's going around. Ghost Rider's chatter, rigs disappearing… you know the talk."
Eddie nodded slowly. Truckers loved their folklore, but he couldn't ignore the feeling gnawing at the back of his mind. The shadowy man near the edge of the lot, the strange words on the CB, the lights that had appeared and vanished on the highway, it wasn't just talk tonight.
Rosa appeared again, sliding into the group with a cup of steaming coffee in her hand. She handed one to Eddie, who accepted it silently, letting the warmth seep into his chilled hands.
"Mind if I join?" she asked, eyes scanning the lot.
Eddie shook his head. "Not at all."
The three of them listened as the older trucker, Bill, leaned forward conspiratorially. "I don't know how you young ones feel, but out here at night… it's different. Some rigs, some nights… they just vanish. Engines stop, radios die, and the drivers? Gone. No traces. Nothing."
The younger driver laughed nervously. "Stories for rookies, Bill. That's all."
But Eddie couldn't laugh. He had felt it. The voice on the CB. The lights in the mirrors. The weight in his chest. He took a sip of coffee and kept his eyes on the diner's entrance, where shadows seemed to flicker unnaturally.
Rosa leaned closer. "You're not imagining it. Something's out there. Something… persistent."
Eddie's fingers tightened around the cup. "Persistent how?"
She hesitated, then whispered, "Like it knows you're coming. Like it's waiting for you to make a mistake."
A cold shiver ran down his spine. He looked toward the edge of the lot. The shadowy man had moved, closer now, gliding between the trucks like he belonged to the darkness rather than the gravel beneath his feet. His face remained obscured, but his presence was undeniable.
Bill noticed Eddie's glance. "Don't worry about him. Lot's full of weirdos at this hour. Most of them harmless."
Eddie wanted to believe that, but instinct screamed otherwise.
The CB crackled again, faintly. Eddie reached for the mic automatically, though he already knew it would be static.
"…Morgan… don't stop…"
He froze. Not a whisper this time, but a deliberate warning. The words cut through the night, through laughter and engine rumble, settling in the pit of his stomach.
"See?" Rosa muttered. "Told you. It's not just stories."
Eddie nodded silently. He drained the rest of his coffee, the warmth barely reaching his hands now. He could feel the weight of the trailer behind him, the hours of driving ahead, and the strange energy that seemed to pulse in the lot.
The younger driver laughed again, trying to mask the tension. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Eddie glanced at him sharply. "Maybe I have."
The words weren't a joke. Not tonight.
Bill waved him off. "Don't let it spook you. Night's part of the game. Just keep your eyes open, and you'll be fine."
But Eddie wasn't fine. The lot, the diner, even the distant hum of other rigs, it all felt like a prelude. Something was coming, something he couldn't yet see.
He glanced back at Rosa. "I'm heading out soon."
She nodded, serious. "Good. Keep moving. Don't linger. And whatever you do… keep your mirrors clean."
Eddie didn't ask why. He didn't need to. The night itself seemed to speak, warning him in ways that only long-haul drivers could understand.
He climbed into the cab, the engine roaring to life under his hands. The shadowy figure lingered at the edge of the lot one last time, then disappeared into the darkness. Eddie felt his stomach twist. He wasn't just leaving a truck stop, he was leaving a warning, a signal, a first taste of the danger that waited on the road ahead.
He backed onto the asphalt, tires crunching the gravel, and merged onto the highway. Smokey's Truck Stop faded behind him, the neon sign flickering one last time before surrendering to the night.
Ahead stretched the dark ribbon of highway, empty, alive, and waiting. Eddie gripped the wheel, glancing at the mirrors, listening for static, preparing himself. Whatever was out there, whatever he had glimpsed, tonight the road belonged to it as much as it belonged to him.
And somewhere in the static of the CB, the faintest whisper followed him as he drove on:
"…don't stop, Morgan… we're waiting…"
Eddie shifted in the seat, the Peterbilt's engine thrumming beneath him as he pulled onto the highway. The neon glow of Smokey's faded into the rearview mirrors, replaced by the endless black of the night.
His hands clenched the wheel, knuckles white. The shadow at the truck stop, the whispering CB, the warnings from Rosa, they were all pressing on him now, settling like a weight in his chest.
He tried to focus on the rhythm of the road: tires rolling over asphalt, engine humming, occasional gusts of wind rattling the trailer. But the night was not quiet. The air seemed thicker, heavier, almost alive. Every mile stretched longer than the last.
Out of the darkness, a pair of headlights appeared in his mirror. The same ones from the highway earlier? Eddie wasn't sure. He eased off the accelerator, watching carefully. The lights didn't pass. They hovered, constant and unyielding, reflecting in the mirrors like twin eyes in the night.
The CB crackled again, faint and distorted.
"…Morgan… keep moving…"
Eddie's throat went dry. This time he didn't reach for the mic. He knew it was no human voice, not entirely.
He pressed the pedal down, the Peterbilt groaning under the weight of its load. The lights mirrored every move, impossibly synchronized with his rig. His heartbeat hammered, loud enough that he could hear it over the engine.
Ahead, the highway curved sharply. Eddie maneuvered carefully, forcing the rig around the bend. The headlights followed perfectly, like they were part of the road itself.
Then they vanished.
Eddie exhaled slowly, gripping the wheel tight. Not real. Just fatigue. He repeated it like a mantra. But the CB hissed once more, the static forming a voice that chilled him to the bone:
"…we're waiting…"
He shook his head. He didn't want to think about it. The night was alive, but he had miles to cover. Black Creek awaited, and he was behind schedule.
The road opened into a stretch of farmland, wide and open, the moonlight glinting off frost-covered fields. Eddie's headlights caught strange tire marks in the asphalt, deep gouges, zigzagging unnaturally, then disappearing into the darkness. His stomach twisted. Whoever, or whatever, had made them had moved with impossible weight and speed.
He pushed forward, every sense alert. Sleepy drivers made mistakes; he couldn't afford one tonight. The load was mysterious, heavy, and important. He didn't ask questions. That was rule number one.
The hours dragged on. The CB remained silent, except for occasional bursts of static that made him flinch. The radio's country ballads offered little comfort. Shadows stretched and shifted at the edge of his vision, sometimes taking shape, a man, a figure, or simply the trick of headlights reflecting off trees.
Eddie thought of Rosa's words: "Like it knows you're coming. Like it's waiting for you to make a mistake."
He didn't like the idea, but he had to keep moving. Dawn was hours away, and every mile brought him closer to Black Creek, or to whatever the night had waiting.
Then, in the distance, something moved.
A rig? No. Too big, too fast. The headlights blazed, blinding in their intensity. Eddie jerked the wheel, tires squealing slightly as the Peterbilt responded. The lights didn't falter.
The growl followed, low, mechanical, yet inhuman, echoing through the cab, through the road itself. "…Morgan…" it rumbled, stretching his name across the empty fields.
His chest tightened. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to accelerate, to escape. But the road was narrow, and the weight behind him was unforgiving.
Hours of night driving had taught him something crucial: out here, in the dark, the highway demanded respect. And right now, the highway was angry.
Eddie adjusted his mirrors, keeping his eyes ahead while scanning for movement. The frost glimmered in the moonlight, the empty road stretched ahead, and the wind whispered secrets through the rig.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the lights vanished again. Silence returned, broken only by the steady hum of his engine. Eddie exhaled, muscles trembling. He wasn't safe yet. Not even close.
Somewhere ahead, Black Creek waited. But out here, in the hours before sunrise, Eddie realized that the road didn't belong to him tonight. And maybe, just maybe, it never had.
He pressed the accelerator, determined to keep moving, eyes glued to the horizon. Behind him, the night waited patiently, silently, like a predator stalking its prey.
The first mile from Smokey's Truck Stop had ended. The real journey was just beginning.