Old Trucker Warned Me: Never Drive Route U.S. 93 After Midnight

An old trucker warned me never to drive on Route US 93 after midnight, and I wish desperately that I had listened. Now I’m the one warning others to avoid that stretch of road late at night, and I’m the one receiving the same look I gave him, half amusement, half polite dismissal. That look fades eventually. Mine did.

Some of you may know what it’s like to feel a fear so deep it settles into your bones and stays there. It doesn’t go away. It just changes shape. I don’t wish it on anyone, and I would give anything to go back and do things differently. One decision. One shift and the one call I shouldn’t have taken.

I was born and raised in Wells, Nevada. This is where I still live now, and it’s where I’ll die. But each year since that night feels longer, and I’ve started to feel old in ways that don’t show up in the mirror. I’m only forty-three, but fear has a way of aging you from the inside out.

I work for an emergency roadside services company. We handle commercial hauls, big tractor-trailers. I’m the one who gets called when a tire blows out at 1 a.m. I’m good at what I do, and I don’t mind the quiet. It used to be that late-night calls were my favorite, with less traffic, more stars. I still love the job… right up until the sun goes down.

One night, I got a call about a rig with a blown front tire just off Route 93, not far from the Wilkins stretch. It was a solo operator, older guy, driving a worn-out Peterbilt with more rust than paint. It must’ve been just after nine when I pulled up behind him, my hazard lights painting the road in slow pulses of amber and red.

He was already out of the cab, pacing near the shoulder, arms folded tight. short gray beard, trucker cap stained with sweat, and these sharp, pale blue eyes that could look right through you. I noticed him glance at the clock on his dash three times before I’d even finished grabbing my tools.

“You late for something?” I asked, trying to keep the tone light. He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, watching the sky like he expected something to come crawling out of it.
“There are things on this road that don’t want us here,” he finally said. “You’d be wise not to drive this stretch after midnight. I’ve seen it once. That was enough.”

I tightened the last lug nut and gave his tire a kick to be sure it was good. “Well,” I said, brushing off my hands, “plenty of time to get wherever you’re headed before the witching hour.” I meant it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh. Just muttered a quiet thanks and climbed back into his cab and took off, like he was trying to beat something to the finish line.

I stood there for a moment longer, watching him go. Tail lights swallowed by the dark. I figured he was just another old-timer with too many miles behind him and not enough sleep ahead. You meet all kinds doing this job, and strange conversations are just part of the territory. Still, I kept thinking about the way he’d said it: I’ve seen it once. That was enough.

Wells is full of superstitious types. Ranchers who nail horseshoes above every doorway, old-timers who won’t cut cedar during a full moon. I grew up thinking it was just small-town folklore, leftovers from a world that used to be afraid of the dark. Until a few years ago, I’d have told you it was all nonsense.

But now I know better. Now I triple-check my mirrors after sunset before getting out of my truck. I keep the radio on, even if there’s only static. I lock the doors on every roadside call, even when I’m standing two feet away from my service vehicle. Because there’s something out there. And it doesn’t care what you believe.

I live alone, which makes it easier to run calls anytime. No one waiting up. No one asking questions. I don’t drink, can’t. I’m allergic to alcohol, so I’ve always been the one people call when they need a ride at 2 a.m. or a tire changed in the middle of nowhere. I guess that’s what made me so reliable. I’m the one who always shows up.

I like my job. Or at least, I did. It gave me space. Gave me purpose. I’ve driven stretches of road most people don’t even know exist. I’ve helped broken rigs on mountain passes, patched hoses in dust storms, and once even pulled a truck out of a ditch with a winch and a prayer. But all of that changed the night the call came in from Wilkins.

The request was simple: a stranded motorist out of gas. Nothing unusual. It was late, but not too far out of my range. I was already ten minutes down the road when I glanced at the clock. 12:07 a.m. That old trucker’s warning crawled back up my head, and I smirked despite myself.

The road was quiet. Quieter than it should have been. The kind of stillness that presses on your ears and makes your thoughts feel too loud. But the weather was clear, and the stars were out in full. It should’ve been peaceful. Instead, it felt hollow, like the night was waiting for something.

I reached the location in good time. A woman was alone, sitting in her car. She looked relieved to see my truck’s flashing lights wash over her. I grabbed the Jerry can and walked up to her with my company jacket on and clipboard in hand.

She thanked me right away, her voice a little too eager. Said she was trying to make it to Wells before she broke down. After a bit of small talk, I learned her phone had a hard time finding a signal, and she’d been sitting out there in the dark for over an hour before finally getting a signal long enough to make the call. She hadn’t seen another car in nearly forty minutes.

Something about that struck me. This road isn’t busy, but it’s not abandoned either. Still, I didn’t mention it. I topped off her tank, and before she got in, I offered to follow behind her into town. She looked grateful enough to cry. We made a plan, once we hit Wells, she’d wave me off, and we’d both go our separate ways.

She kept a steady pace ahead of me, staying just beyond the reach of my headlights. I made sure to keep close enough that she could see me if she checked her mirrors. There was a comfort in the rhythm of it. Two lone cars cutting through the dark, the hum of tires on pavement, the faint red glow of her taillights.

The landscape around us was ink black. No moon. No wind. Just the thin white lines of the road and the walls of darkness pressing in from both sides. You couldn’t see ten feet past the shoulder. It was like driving through a tunnel made of pitch black.

Then something ran out in front of me. It happened so fast. All I saw was a shape, low and wide, moving like it had too many legs. I swerved hard, instinct taking over, heart slamming against my ribs. I braced for the impact, knowing I couldn’t possibly have missed it. But the hit never came.

I slowed to a crawl, trying to make sense of what just occurred. My palms still clenched on the wheel. My breath, which had felt trapped in my chest, was finally able to exhale. Whatever it was, it had moved like no animal I’d ever seen, too fluid, too silent, too… wrong. But there was nothing in the road behind me. No sound. No signs of an impact. Nothing.

I pressed the gas, needing to catch up to her. Her taillights came back into view. Maybe I’d imagined it. Or some weird trick of the lights. I blinked hard, took a long swig of the cold coffee that was in my console, and slapped my face, trying to stay sharp. Just a shadow. Just the dark playing games. I told myself.

But then something slammed into the side of my truck so hard it nearly knocked me off the road. I gripped the wheel and swerved, tires shrieking, shoulder gravel grinding beneath me as I fought to stay straight. The woman ahead hadn’t noticed, she kept going, oblivious. To what happened. I had no choice but to pull over. Something had hit me. Something real.

I threw the truck into park, hands trembling as I grabbed the flashlight from the glovebox. I scanned the roadside first—nothing. No movement, no eyeshine, no animal scurrying off. Then I checked the road behind me. Again, nothing. Just a long stretch of empty asphalt bathed in moonlight.

I walked around to the passenger side and saw the dent, deep, like something had body-checked the truck at full speed. It didn’t make sense. Whatever hit me should still be lying there, or at least left something behind. Fur. Blood. Anything. But there was nothing.

The damage wasn’t superficial either. I leaned in, running my fingers along the crumpled steel. This wasn’t a deer. No paint, so it couldn’t have been a side swipe from another vehicle.

And that’s when the cold hit. A sudden, sharp drop in temperature that raised goosebumps across my arms. I could see my breath fog the air, and behind me, I heard it. Breathing. Heavy, wet, animal-like panting. Right at the back of my truck.

I froze. The flashlight beam trembled in my hand as I tilted it down towards the back of my truck. There was nothing there. No shadow. No figure. Just the sound, steady, rasping, far too close. I could see the steam from my breath, and something else. A second plume, rising and falling in rhythm with the panting at the end of my truck, but nothing was casting it.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I dropped the flashlight in front of me. The road was empty and silent. But the breath didn’t stop. I wanted to scream. Instead, I backed away in slow, shuffling steps, afraid to turn around, afraid to turn my back to it, afraid of what it might do if I did.

Then the panting changed. It grew deeper, hungrier. A low, guttural growl curled out from the darkness. That was enough. I turned and ran, bolting around the front of the truck towards the driver’s side door like a madman, boots slapping the pavement, lungs burning, every instinct screaming that if I looked back, it would catch me.
I don’t remember opening the door.

Just the slam of it behind me and the lock clicking down. My chest heaved. I gripped the wheel and dared a glance at the side mirror. This thing had come around the backside of the truck; it was now on the driver’s side, same as me. Dust swirled at the back edge of the truck, as if something had skidded to a stop. Something big. Something I still couldn’t see.

The pressure in the air was thick and wrong, like the moments before a lightning strike. My hand on the gear shift, I slammed it into drive. The engine roared to life, I hit the gas so hard the tires squealed against the pavement.

That’s when I saw it. A large, dark shadow shaped like a dog, only much bigger. In my sideview mirror, I could see dust and dirt pluming like footsteps. Heavy ones, running alongside me, almost keeping pace with the truck. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just fast, it was really fast. Almost matching my speed. Letting me know I wasn’t safe yet.

I focused on the road, knuckles white on the wheel, whispering prayers I hadn’t said since I was a kid. It stayed with me for miles, until I finally reached the edge of Wells, and just like that, it was gone. The pressure in the air lifted. The sound vanished. But the dread stayed.

I pulled into the first gas station I saw, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead like they were struggling to stay awake. I parked beneath them, needing the brightness, needing witnesses, even if it was just security cameras and sleepy-eyed attendants. I stepped out slowly, every joint stiff, breath still shallow.

The dent was still there. Deep and clean, like something massive had rammed into the truck’s side. I ran my fingers along the crease in the metal, trying to convince myself it had been a bear, a deer, anything that made sense. But there was no fur. No blood. Just that hollow, unexplainable damage.

Inside, the place was dead quiet. I asked for a pack of cigarettes at the counter, even though I’d quit years ago. My hand was shaking as I pulled out my wallet. The cashier, a young woman with dark circles under her eyes and chipped black polish, looked me over like I’d crawled in off the road.

“You’re the second guy I’ve seen here looking like that…” she said slowly, eyebrows pinched, voice a notch lower than before. “The other one didn’t say much either. Just bought a lighter and sat in worn-out Peterbilt till morning.”
I froze. “What did he look like?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

She shrugged. “Older. Real pale. Eyes that could look right through you. Looked like he’d seen something crawling up from under the road.” She tapped the counter absentmindedly, then leaned in just a bit. “He said it followed him. Said it pretends to be hurt. Makes you stop. Then it watches what you do.”, “That was months ago, never seen him again”.

My stomach turned. I didn’t respond, just paid and stepped back outside, the bells on the door jangling behind me like nervous laughter. I lit the cigarette with trembling fingers, the first drag burning my throat, grounding me just enough to stop the shaking.

But as I exhaled, I caught movement across the lot. A shape standing still near the edge of the woods. It didn’t flinch. Just stood there, tall, dark, and still. Like it had been waiting for me to look. I should have listened to that old man. His warning wasn’t the rambling of someone who’d seen too many miles; it was survival advice. I’ve left the dent in my truck as a reminder of what I went through, a scar that I don’t want to forget. I told my company I won’t take late-night calls anymore. Not near Route 93. Not ever again.

I miss how simple things felt when the dark didn’t carry weight, when driving at night was just another part of the job. Now I watch the clock as the sun sets, and every shadow feels like it’s waiting for me to make the wrong move.

Let this be a warning from me, and from an old trucker I wish I’d listened to: Never drive Route U.S. 93 after midnight.

This has been Pale Lantern Media.
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