Mike
Well-Known Member
1976, Somewhere in the Deep South
The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the faintest traces of daylight as Old Gus "Grizzly" Thompson leaned back in the worn leather seat of his 1972 Kenworth W900, a beast of a machine that was his pride and joy. Gus, a veteran trucker with more miles under his belt than most men could dream of, was on a midnight run, hauling a load of whiskey bound for New Orleans. The 70s were a wild time for trucking—no GPS, no cell phones, just a CB radio, and the open road.
Gus had earned his nickname, "Grizzly," not just because of his towering frame and grizzled beard, but for his fierce reputation on the road. He was a man of few words but was respected by every trucker who’d had the pleasure—or misfortune—of sharing the road with him.
This night felt different. The air was thick with humidity, and the distant sound of thunder hinted at an approaching storm. But it wasn't the weather that had Gus on edge; it was the whispers he'd heard on the CB earlier that day. Rumors of a ghost truck—a phantom rig that appeared out of nowhere, challenging drivers before vanishing into thin air—had been circulating. Gus wasn’t one to believe in ghost stories, but there was something unsettling about the way the other truckers spoke of it.
As he cruised down the empty highway, headlights cutting through the darkness, the CB crackled to life.
"Breaker one-nine, breaker one-nine. Anyone out there got their ears on?" The voice was low, almost a whisper.
Gus reached for the mic. "This is Grizzly. What’s your twenty, driver?"
"Not too far from you, Grizzly. Just thought I'd give you a heads up—there's been sightings tonight. Be careful out there."
"Appreciate the tip. You keep the shiny side up, now."
Gus set the mic down, his eyes scanning the horizon. The road ahead was clear, but the sense of unease lingered. He turned up the radio, hoping some classic rock would ease his nerves. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s "Simple Man" blared through the speakers, and for a moment, he lost himself in the music.
Then, out of nowhere, a pair of headlights appeared in his rearview mirror. They were distant at first but closing in fast—too fast. Gus gripped the steering wheel tighter as the vehicle drew closer. The lights were blinding, and despite the road being straight as an arrow, the rig seemed to weave erratically behind him.
"Well, I'll be damned," Gus muttered under his breath.
The rig pulled alongside him, and for a brief moment, Gus glanced over. It was an old Peterbilt, chrome shining in the moonlight, but there was something wrong. The driver—if there even was one—was shrouded in darkness, face obscured by shadows. Gus felt a chill run down his spine as the phantom truck began to edge closer, forcing him toward the shoulder.
Gus wasn’t about to be run off the road. He downshifted, the Kenworth’s engine roaring as he pushed the pedal to the floor. But no matter how fast he went, the ghost truck stayed with him, like a specter from the past, haunting him.
Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the phantom rig veered off, disappearing into the night, leaving only the distant wail of its horn echoing in the air. Gus slowed down, his heart pounding in his chest. He pulled over to the side of the road, needing a moment to collect himself.
The CB crackled again. "Grizzly, you still with us?"
Gus grabbed the mic, his hand trembling slightly. "Yeah, I’m here. Just had a close encounter with our ghostly friend."
There was a pause before the voice responded. "You’re lucky. Some say that truck’s the spirit of an old driver, taken too soon, still running the roads he loved. He only shows up to those who need a reminder to respect the road… and their limits."
Gus chuckled, though it was more to steady his nerves than out of amusement. "Maybe so. I reckon I’ll take it as a sign to slow down a bit."
As he merged back onto the highway, the storm finally broke, rain pounding against the windshield. But Gus felt a strange calm wash over him. The road stretched out ahead, and he knew there were many miles to go before he reached New Orleans, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he had all the time in the world.
After all, the road had its ghosts, and tonight, Gus had met one. But he wasn’t scared—he was a trucker, and out there on the highway, fear had no place. Just the open road, the hum of the engine, and the promise of another dawn.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the faintest traces of daylight as Old Gus "Grizzly" Thompson leaned back in the worn leather seat of his 1972 Kenworth W900, a beast of a machine that was his pride and joy. Gus, a veteran trucker with more miles under his belt than most men could dream of, was on a midnight run, hauling a load of whiskey bound for New Orleans. The 70s were a wild time for trucking—no GPS, no cell phones, just a CB radio, and the open road.
Gus had earned his nickname, "Grizzly," not just because of his towering frame and grizzled beard, but for his fierce reputation on the road. He was a man of few words but was respected by every trucker who’d had the pleasure—or misfortune—of sharing the road with him.
This night felt different. The air was thick with humidity, and the distant sound of thunder hinted at an approaching storm. But it wasn't the weather that had Gus on edge; it was the whispers he'd heard on the CB earlier that day. Rumors of a ghost truck—a phantom rig that appeared out of nowhere, challenging drivers before vanishing into thin air—had been circulating. Gus wasn’t one to believe in ghost stories, but there was something unsettling about the way the other truckers spoke of it.
As he cruised down the empty highway, headlights cutting through the darkness, the CB crackled to life.
"Breaker one-nine, breaker one-nine. Anyone out there got their ears on?" The voice was low, almost a whisper.
Gus reached for the mic. "This is Grizzly. What’s your twenty, driver?"
"Not too far from you, Grizzly. Just thought I'd give you a heads up—there's been sightings tonight. Be careful out there."
"Appreciate the tip. You keep the shiny side up, now."
Gus set the mic down, his eyes scanning the horizon. The road ahead was clear, but the sense of unease lingered. He turned up the radio, hoping some classic rock would ease his nerves. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s "Simple Man" blared through the speakers, and for a moment, he lost himself in the music.
Then, out of nowhere, a pair of headlights appeared in his rearview mirror. They were distant at first but closing in fast—too fast. Gus gripped the steering wheel tighter as the vehicle drew closer. The lights were blinding, and despite the road being straight as an arrow, the rig seemed to weave erratically behind him.
"Well, I'll be damned," Gus muttered under his breath.
The rig pulled alongside him, and for a brief moment, Gus glanced over. It was an old Peterbilt, chrome shining in the moonlight, but there was something wrong. The driver—if there even was one—was shrouded in darkness, face obscured by shadows. Gus felt a chill run down his spine as the phantom truck began to edge closer, forcing him toward the shoulder.
Gus wasn’t about to be run off the road. He downshifted, the Kenworth’s engine roaring as he pushed the pedal to the floor. But no matter how fast he went, the ghost truck stayed with him, like a specter from the past, haunting him.
Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the phantom rig veered off, disappearing into the night, leaving only the distant wail of its horn echoing in the air. Gus slowed down, his heart pounding in his chest. He pulled over to the side of the road, needing a moment to collect himself.
The CB crackled again. "Grizzly, you still with us?"
Gus grabbed the mic, his hand trembling slightly. "Yeah, I’m here. Just had a close encounter with our ghostly friend."
There was a pause before the voice responded. "You’re lucky. Some say that truck’s the spirit of an old driver, taken too soon, still running the roads he loved. He only shows up to those who need a reminder to respect the road… and their limits."
Gus chuckled, though it was more to steady his nerves than out of amusement. "Maybe so. I reckon I’ll take it as a sign to slow down a bit."
As he merged back onto the highway, the storm finally broke, rain pounding against the windshield. But Gus felt a strange calm wash over him. The road stretched out ahead, and he knew there were many miles to go before he reached New Orleans, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he had all the time in the world.
After all, the road had its ghosts, and tonight, Gus had met one. But he wasn’t scared—he was a trucker, and out there on the highway, fear had no place. Just the open road, the hum of the engine, and the promise of another dawn.
