Back in 2001, I was hauling freight across a stretch of backroad in the middle of nowhere.
It was one of those two-lane highways where you could drive for miles without seeing another set of headlights.
The CB was quiet, the radio barely came through, and all I had for company was the sound of my engine.
A little after midnight, I spotted something up ahead. Hazards flashing on the shoulder.
Looked like a car broken down. I eased off the throttle and figured I’d call it in when I got to the next truck stop. But as my lights washed over it, I noticed both doors were shut.
Nobody in the driver’s seat. Nobody standing by the car. That was odd.
I passed by slow, keeping an eye on my mirrors. That’s when I caught a figure stepping out of the trees behind the car. A man, just standing there.
He didn’t wave, didn’t move toward the car, didn’t do anything. He just stared right at my truck like he was waiting for me. I didn’t stop.
Something about it didn’t feel right. I just kept rolling.
Maybe five minutes later, I saw headlights flare in my mirror. Looked like the same car, hazards still blinking.
I couldn’t figure how it caught up so quick, but there it was, right on my trailer. I thought about pulling to the side, but before I could, the lights just disappeared.
One second they were blinding in my mirror, the next the road behind me was pitch black. No headlights, no hazards, nothing.
That stretch of road went on forever. I kept checking my mirrors, waiting for the car to reappear.
My hands were tight on the wheel, and every little shadow in the trees felt like it was watching me. I told myself maybe I’d just imagined it.
Long hours behind the wheel will do that to a guy. But I didn’t really believe it.
By the time I hit the truck stop, my nerves were shot. I pulled into a space, shut her down, and climbed out to walk it off. That’s when I saw the back doors of my trailer.
Bloody handprints. Not smudges from road grime or dead bugs.
Handprints.
Fresh.
They were smeared down the doors like somebody had been clawing at the metal, trying to get in. I just stood there staring. I didn’t hear or feel anything back there while I was driving, but it was there plain as day.
I grabbed a rag from my side box and wiped at one of the streaks. It came off wet, tacky. Real blood. My stomach dropped. I didn’t know what to do.
Calling the cops crossed my mind, but what was I supposed to tell them? That a ghost car chased me and left bloody prints on my rig?
They’d laugh me off the lot.
I ended up hosing it down in the wash bay and not saying a word. Got back in my cab, locked the doors, and sat there in the dark until the sun came up.
I’ve been driving a long time and I’ve seen my share of wrecks, drunks, and shady characters on backroads, but nothing ever rattled me like that night.
I still think about the guy standing by the trees. The way he locked eyes with me. The way that car showed up behind me and then just vanished.
I can’t explain the handprints.
I never will.
But whenever I take a backroad now and see hazards flashing up ahead, I don’t slow down.
Not even for a second.
