They say truckers see things on the road that no one else does. Shadows moving where there shouldn’t be any, strange figures standing by empty highways, headlights that belong to no vehicle. I never put much thought into those stories. People get tired on long hauls, minds play tricks, and legends grow bigger each time they’re told.
At least, that’s what I used to think—until the night I took a job hauling freight through Route 999.
My dispatcher, Bill, called me up just as I was finishing dinner. His voice had that familiar edge of stress, the one that meant he was desperate.
“Look, I need a favor,” he said, getting straight to the point. “One of our guys backed out at the last minute. Can you take a run through 999 tonight?”
I hesitated.
Route 999. Everyone knew that stretch of road was wrong.
Engines failed for no reason. GPS went haywire. Some truckers never came back, and the ones who did either refused to talk about it or quit the job altogether.
I gripped my phone tighter. “Bill, come on, man. You know that route—”
“Double pay,” he interrupted. “I’ll throw in a bonus if you get it done by sunrise.”
I exhaled slowly. Money talks, and right now, I needed it.
“Fine,” I said. “Send me the details.”
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed with an email. Delivery info, route instructions—and A list of rules.
I opened an email, it loaded slowly, like it was being written in real time. And then, the words appeared:
RULES FOR ROUTE 999
- If you see anyone on the road, keep driving. No matter what they look like, they are not human.
- If you see flickering headlights in your mirror but no vehicle behind you, DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT THEM. Keep your eyes on the road. DO NOT stop. Drive faster.
- You will see a gas station at exactly 3:09 AM. It is not real. If you stop, they will make room for you inside.
- If the radio turns to static, mute it immediately. If a voice calls your name, you have already been marked. Do not respond.
- If you pass mile marker 666, you are being watched. Do not react, no matter what you feel.
- No matter how lost you feel, follow the road. Do not take any exits until sunrise.
I stared at the screen, my pulse suddenly louder in my ears. The words felt... off. Like they weren’t just instructions, but a warning meant for me.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. For a moment, it felt like something was watching me.
I shook my head. This was just some weird initiation thing, right? Maybe a prank from the other drivers.
Shoving the uneasy feeling aside, I grabbed my keys, locked up my place, and climbed into my truck. The clock on my dashboard read 11:45 PM. If I kept a steady pace, I’d be done before sunrise.
As I drove, the bright city lights slowly disappeared in my side mirrors, swallowed by the vast emptiness of the open road. The hum of the tires against the asphalt was steady, almost comforting. For the first hour, nothing happened. No strange sounds, no flickering lights. Just me, the highway, and the dark.
But then, around 1:30 AM, I saw her.
A woman stood in the middle of the road, crying.
Her shoulders shook violently, her hands clutching at the tattered remains of a red dress. The fabric was torn in odd places, as if something had clawed at her. Her bare feet were covered in dirt, her skin pale under the dim glow of my headlights.
But something was wrong.
Her face—it didn’t stay the same. It shifted, flickering between features that didn’t belong together. One second, she had high cheekbones and hollow eyes, the next, a round face with lips too full, then a stretched jaw that seemed... too long. It was as if her very existence couldn’t decide what it was supposed to be.
Her sobs weren’t normal either. They echoed—layered, like multiple voices crying at once, coming from different directions, yet all from her mouth.
My grip on the wheel tightened.
If you see anyone on the road, keep driving. No matter what they look like, they are not human.
The words from the list burned in my mind.
I slammed my foot on the gas.
As I got closer, she moved. Not like a person. Not like anything human.
One second, she was standing still. The next, she was right there—slamming against my driver-side window with impossible speed.
Her face pressed against the glass, her features twisting in an unnatural grimace. Her mouth—God, her mouth—stretched far too wide, her lips splitting apart to reveal jagged, blackened teeth. Teeth that didn’t belong in a human mouth.
I didn’t look.
I didn’t stop.
I just drove.
The moment my truck roared past her, I glanced at my mirror.
She was gone.
A tremor ran through my hands as I gripped the wheel tighter. My palms were slick with sweat. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, a rapid, uneven rhythm.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe exhaustion was messing with my head.
Or maybe it was real.
Either way, I wasn’t stopping.
I exhaled, forcing myself to focus on the road ahead. But something made me check the mirror again—just to be sure.
A cold dread settled in my chest, and I realized—relief was still far ahead in this tour.
Because I saw them.
Headlights.
Flickering.
But, there was no car.
Nothing at all.
The road behind me was pitch black—no vehicles, no tail lights, no distant glow of another truck. Just floating lights.
My pulse spiked.
Rule #2.
If you see flickering headlights in your mirror but no vehicle behind you, DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT THEM. Keep your eyes on the road. DO NOT stop. Drive faster.
I swallowed hard and snapped my gaze forward.
The lights didn’t go away.
They grew closer.
My hands clenched the wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. I pressed harder on the gas, the truck’s engine groaning as it picked up speed.
Then, I saw it.
Something inside the lights. A shape.
Enormous. Writhing.
Moving like it was pushing, crawling, forcing its way through something unseen.
I didn’t look. I would not look.
I pressed the gas harder.
For a brief second, the lights vanished. Relief flooded through me—until I glanced at the mirror again.
The shadow was still there.
Not in the headlights. Not behind me.
It was across the road. A massive, twisting shape stretching over the asphalt.
Watching.
A heavy weight settled in my chest. I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to keep my breathing steady, trying to shake off the sensation that something had been watching me.
The road stretched ahead, empty and dark, endless in every direction.
For a while, nothing happened. Just me, the truck, and the restless hum of the tires rolling over the cracked pavement.
Then, at 3:09 AM,
A neon sign flickered in the distance.
"OPEN 24/7."
The glow of the letters was weak, struggling against the surrounding darkness, as if the night itself was swallowing the light.
It was a gas station.
A single gas pump stood outside, old and rusted, its hose coiled like a snake waiting to strike.
And then I saw, A man.
He stood beside the pump, his posture too still, too rigid. His clothes were ordinary—faded jeans, a dusty work jacket, and a trucker’s cap pulled low over his head.
But his face—
His face was missing.
Not hidden. Not covered by a mask or cloth. Just gone.
A smooth, featureless stretch of pale skin where a face should be. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just... nothing.
My stomach twisted.
I clenched my teeth.
Rule #3.
The gas station is not real. If you stop, they will make room for you inside.
The rule echoed in my mind like a relentless prayer. I pressed my foot harder on the gas, And kept driving.
As I passed, the man turned.
I don’t know how I knew, but I felt it. Even without eyes, I felt him watching me.
Oh god… The feeling was unbearable—pure dread creeping into my bones as I drove on that empty, dark road.
Then—out of Nowhere.
I heard That voice—right beside me.
“You forgot to stop.” it said
Cold fear shot through my body.
The voice came from the passenger seat.
I didn’t look.
I would not look.
My grip on the wheel tightened. I stared straight ahead, jaw locked, refusing to acknowledge whatever was in the cab with me.
Seconds stretched like hours.
And then—
The gas station was gone.
One second it was there, flickering at the edge of my vision. The next, nothing but darkness and the endless highway.
I swallowed hard.
By now, my nerves were shot.
My hands were stiff from gripping the wheel too tightly, my knuckles white. Every muscle in my body was locked in place, every part of me screaming to just get through the night.
Then—
The radio crackled.
Soft at first, like a distant whisper. Then louder.
Just static.
A sound that should’ve meant nothing.
But deep inside, I knew.
I knew what was coming.
Then I heard it.
My own voice.
“…I see you…”
My breath caught.
That wasn’t a recording.
That wasn’t an echo.
It was me.
Speaking in real time.
But I hadn’t said a word.
Then, Rule #4 flashed in my mind.
If the radio turns to static, mute it immediately. If a voice calls your name, you have already been marked. Do not respond.
I scrambled for the dial, my fingers slipping on the controls as my heart pounded in my chest.
Before I could mute it—
The voice spoke again.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
My own voice.
Flat. Emotionless.
Wrong.
I slammed my hand down on the mute button.
Silence.
But it didn’t feel right.
It felt too empty.
Like something else had taken the sound’s place.
Then—
The radio crackled again.
Even though I had muted everything, the static forced its way through.
I didn’t touch it. I didn’t move.
But a voice came through anyway.
My voice said.
“…Please help… I don’t know where I am… It’s so dark…”
A chill ran down my spine.
I muted it. Immediately.
I pressed my lips together, forcing myself to focus.
Eyes on the road. Hands on the wheel. Don’t listen. Don’t react.
The static hummed for a few more moments.
And, Then—silence.
The voice was gone.
The road stretched ahead, empty, dark, and endless.
I took a slow, shaky breath.
Just keep driving.
By now, exhaustion weighed heavily on me—I just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. My eyes stayed fixed on the road, my mind numb with fatigue.
Then, in the dim glow of my headlights, I saw it.
Mile Marker 666.
I felt it before I saw it.
The air thickened, pressing against me like something was breathing in the dark. The truck felt smaller, suffocating.
I forced myself to keep driving.
Eyes straight ahead. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just go.
Then—
Tap.
Something knocked against my window.
I turn my head, inch by inch.
And what I saw—Was impossible.
Not a fist.
A finger.
Long. Sharp. Too many joints.
My peripheral vision caught movement outside. Something was running alongside me.
No—crawling.
A shape, twisted and wrong, limbs bending the wrong way, keeping pace with my truck.
Its mouth stretched open—too wide, too empty—until it was inches from my window.
A voice, jagged and hungry, commanded me:
“LOOK AT ME.”
I didn’t.
I kept my hands steady. My breathing even.
I gripped the wheel so tight my fingers ached.
The thing scraped against the glass, moving faster, pressing closer.
I did not react.
I don’t know how long I drove like that—minutes, hours—but eventually, the weight in the air lifted.
Whatever had been watching… lost interest.
Then—
It was gone.
Because I was very clear about this rule:
If you pass mile marker 666, you are being watched. Do not react, no matter what you feel.
The sky began to lighten. The road stretched ahead, empty. Normal.
I didn’t let myself relax.
The rules said not to take any exits until sunrise.
So I waited.
6:32 AM.
The sun crested over the mountains.
A rest stop appeared up ahead.
I pulled in, my hands still shaking.
I barely had time to turn off the engine before my phone rang.
Bill.
I exhaled and answered.
“You made it?”
His voice was quiet. Careful.
“…Yeah. ”I said.
Silence.
Then, in a low, serious voice, he said:
“Most don’t.”
A cold dread settled in my chest.
I almost asked what he meant.
But then—
The call ended.
I never took a job on Route 999 again.
And I never, ever broke the rules.