Trucker Storyteller

I slammed into the lot and parked like I was fleeing a robbery.

Inside, under those harsh fluorescent lights, I finally started to feel real again.

I stood there, handshaking, trying to remember how to breathe.

A mechanic was doing checks on rigs out back.

I flared him down, asked him to take a quick look at my transmission.

He popped the hood, ran the diagnostics, nothing wrong.

I didn't tell him about the man in the truck or the people in the trees.

I didn't tell anyone for a long time.

I stayed off the road for a week.

When I finally drove again, I tried to trace that route, looked at satellite maps, checked old state road logs.

I mentioned it to a couple of veteran drivers over coffee one morning.

One of them, this old guy named Ray, just looked at me for a long second and said, some roads don't show up unless they're meant to.

If you saw what I think he saw, don't try to find it again.

I never took another job through southeastern Kentucky.

And I never saw that shortcut again.

That night, I was driving my 97 Kenworth W900.

Nothing flashy, red cap, black top, straight pipes, no chrome toys.

Just a workhorse that I kept running better than it looked.

I'd hauled a full load of lumber up to a sawmill near Creighton and was deadheading back home, planning to cross through the old pass east of Calden.

Around midnight, I pulled in, let the engine idle for a bit, checked my phone for bars, then shut her down, cracked the driver's side window an inch or two, locked the doors, and leaned back across the seat.