CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Midnight Truck of Bell County" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 18, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by CoffeeAndCandle: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Alex Andreev: https://www.artstation.com/alexandreevSUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I remember I was almost asleep, and that half-state, we don't even realize you've nodded off, until something jerks you awake. It was a gentle knock. My watch said 12.30, and I rode to my eyes, propping myself up on an elbow. Yeah, Paul, I asked. The door creaked open a hair, and Paul's face slid through. Sorry, did I wake you? he asked. Paul and I had been roommate since our freshman year of college. He was quiet, respectful to the point of almost meek, never made a mess or used anything that wasn't his.

His only quirk was that he had trouble sleeping. Sometimes he'd be up days at a time before he could finally sleep, and then I wouldn't seem for days as he tried catching up and all that miss sleep in one big go. Still, he did his best to stay quiet and respect my more rigid schedule, and I couldn't think of a reason he might be knocking this late unless something was wrong. Yeah, but it's all right. Everything okay? His pile eyes slid around the room, searching for something.

Paul? He blinked. Yeah, sorry, I... I don't know if you might have had a guest here. No, why? I rubbed a particularly large clump of sleep from my left eye. Well, there's a truck parked outside, he said. In our driveway?

I asked, suddenly much more awake. Paul shook his head. No, on the street. I didn't know if you might have had a friend over or something. When did they park? I don't know. I just looked out and saw it there. I threw the covers away and swung my feet out from under them.

It's not a big deal, said Paul. I just didn't know. See, Paul grew up in Philly. I imagined it probably. wasn't that big of a deal for him to have random cars parked across the road all the time, but we weren't in Philly, or any kind of city where anything like that should conceivably happen. Our little rental was, well, if not rural, then ex-urban at least, with our nearest neighbour a half-mile down the road.

There was no house across the street from us, and no real reason anyone could have parked there. I reached into the drawer of my bedside table and pulled out a small 22 I kept for emergencies, making Paul's eyes go wide. Even the sight of a gun made his skin almost visibly crawl. I tried to teach him to shoot multiple times, but, well, if I said it didn't work, I'd be understating things to say the least.

I'd throw on a t-shirt and walk to the front window to see exactly the truck that Paul was talking about. It shuddered, ever so slightly, and small puffs of exhaust putting out of his tailpipe. You didn't tell me it was running. I didn't know I should have I mean if it's running it's not exactly parked then is it

I'll call the police no don't do that why because then we'll have two problems we'll just wait a minute and see if they leave they could have just gotten lost or something you think not really but maybe

used to happen all the time back home people would take the wrong turn and park at the end of our driveway while they tried to figure out where they were going on their phone Dad would stand at the window and watch them go. So, we did just that. We waited and watched through the window for ten minutes or so until it became clear that whoever was inside wasn't going anywhere.

I say whoever, because as far as I could tell, there was no one inside. The cab was dark except for a faint green glow from inside, probably the radio or the dashlights. I don't think they're leaving, said Paul. I sighed. Yeah, it doesn't look like it. What do you want to do? he asked. I was already getting my coat on and gesturing vaguely at it.

I'm going to check it out. Paul blinked. Why? I looked around. I mean, why not? What if it's some kind of serial killer or something? Not ten minutes ago you said it wasn't a big deal, I reminded him. It's not a big deal because it's out there and we're in here, he said,

gesturing to indicate that the truck was, as he said, out there, and we were, in fact, where we were. It's a big deal if you're going out there. I shrugged and nodded to the counter where I'd laid the gun. I'll be fine. I'm not going anywhere, said Paul, bravely claiming cowardice. I slipped on a pair of house shoes and picked up the 22 again. I know you're not. Just watch and lock the door behind me.

If anything happens, call the police. Why can't I call the police now? Because I don't want them to show up when I've got a gun in my hand, Paul. Frankly, I didn't want them to show up at all, but I didn't say that part. Our feelings about the police were one of the very few areas where we had a pretty sharp difference of opinion. I stepped out the door into the freezing wind and crunched across the frozen grass in the yard. My hands buried in my pockets and the hood on my parker pulled up but still shivering like hell. My breath came in short puffs, and my body protested that I'd left my warm bed for whatever this nonsense was.

When I got closer, I realized how old the truck was. It was one of those old behemoths from the early 70s, but without any sort of brand marker. What I thought was black paint was instead some kind of matte primer all over the old thing, scratched off and dinged in some places and pulled in others. The chrome door handles were pitted and dulled, and there was a faint metallic, rattling in time with the engine. The floodlight above our porch barely reached me, the pale light making everything feel colder than it already was, and thickening the shadows around the woods across the road.

I walked all the way around the truck, peeking through the windows, and occasionally glancing at the dark woods that started not ten feet from the road. I was afraid I might see something, and more afraid that there might be something I wasn't seeing. Inside the truck was a nothing so profound that I don't think I could. can rightly recall it nothing. There was in a speck of dirt or trash as far as I could see, no McDonald's cups or straw wrappers,

no worn spots or tears in the seats. Absolutely nothing. The whole thing was immaculately clean, stained only by that green glow. I looked back to the house. Paul was standing in the window with his cell phone poisoned in his hand like a talisman. I waved.

He held up his hands, silently, asking the question, So, what the hell? I looked over my shoulder at the truck, then back at Paul and shrugged, making a face that I hope said, I don't know. I started back across the yard as another gust of autumn wind blew down the road, rustling the trees overhead and sending shivers down my spine as it left a deep silence in its wake. It took me a couple steps more to realise it, but when I turned, I saw the truck had gone still, with no more puffs of exhaust or quiet metallic rattle.

I frowned at it and took a couple steps back toward the road, my shadow falling long and thin in front of me, craning my neck to look around the street and the roads. There was nothing, as far as I could see. Did you turn it off? asked Paul the moment I stepped inside. No, I think it ran out of gas, I said, taking off my coat and hanging it on the hook by the door. door. You think? I mean, I don't know for sure. You didn't see anyone out there? I took a deep,

slow breath to resist the urge to be a smart alec. No, Paul, I didn't see anyone. So, what do we do now? Call the non-emergency line and have the city towed, I guess. It's on a public road. Cool, said Paul, seemingly happy to have something to do. What's the non-emergency line? Dude, you're a programmer. You know how to Google something. Right, yeah, sorry. Now, I said, glancing at the wall clock, I have to be up in about six hours,

so I'm going to bed. Night Paul. Night Jim. I didn't have strange dreams or a creeping sensation of doom like I feel like I should have. Looking back now, that somehow makes it all the worse.

I looked out the window the next morning, and it was gone. And I thought that would be. that? In fact, between classes and work and so many case briefings to read, I hate to say that by afternoon that next day, I'd almost entirely forgotten about the old truck. Once again, though, after midnight, and knock on my door woke me. This time, Paul didn't wait for me to answer, but opened the door himself. Jim, it's back again. What's back? I asked. The truck? he hissed. His face disappeared from the

cracking the door for a second as he looked over his shoulder. I started to ask, what truck, before my memory clicked into place. Did you see someone park it? No, same as last night. I just looked up and he was parked outside. The only light in my room was a long finger stretching out from the door. I stared at the ceiling for a moment, thinking, I'm not saying this is your fault or anything, but...

But you didn't tick someone off, did you? Paul shook his head Who would I have enough interaction with to tick off someone that drives a truck like that gym? That was a fair point There were a few people in the nearby town If a grocery store and gas station could be called that They'd whispered about us being a little more than roommates when we first moved But that rumor had been put to rest a long time ago

When I dated a local girl for a while my first year in school I briefly went back through my last week or so wondering if maybe I'd tick someone off. But, classes and work kept me so busy, I rarely had any interaction with anyone that wasn't involved in either one or the other, and none of them drove a truck like that. I threw the covers back.

The sooner this was handled, the sooner I get back to sleep. I grabbed the cell phone and called the non-emergency number. Bell's County Sheriff's Department, came a tired female voice. Hi, this is Jim Campbell, out on three three, 2 Rifle Range Road. We called you guys last night about a truck,

someone just left running outside our house. Well, they've done it again. I was wondering if you guys could send out an officer to have a look, and then have it towed or something. There was the slight noise of typing on the other line, followed by distinctly worrying... Um... Hello?

Yeah, I'm here, said the voice on the other end of the line. I pulled up the address, and I have a call from you guys last night, but it says we sent a cruise route last night, and no vehicle was found. What? Yeah, the officer said they drove by and couldn't find any truck. I sighed, typical. Well, could you send another one out now? It's back.

I'm sure if you just give it a few minutes, the owner will move it again. Ma'am? I said, trying to be patient. I don't think you really understand where we live. There's no reason for someone to be parked on this road, at all. This is the second night in the row they've done it. Neither me or my roommate feels safe. A noise came across a line that might have the audacity to be a sigh. Okay, we'll have another officer out there soon.

Closest one is about 20 minutes away, all right? Thank you, I said through gritter teeth. Was that so hard? I didn't say that. This time, she said, with the tone of a mother wagging your finger at a child, if the truck leaves, get its plate and either give it to the officer when he gets there or call back.

I noticed Paul looking at me with a worried expression and I pointed at the phone and rolled my eyes. Yes, ma'am. I ended the call. The number hadn't even disappeared from the screen before Paul asked. Well?

They're sending out an officer. Phew, he said. Relaxing back on the couch. That's a relief. I wish I had your level. a belief in the competence of county cops, I told him, honestly. You're going to be a lawyer. Your job relies on them being incompetent. I blinked, unaccustomed to any kind of witty response from Paul.

Fair enough? We waited together by the window, watching the truck idle. The silence of the night seemed to press in against us, until Paul turned Netflix on and the gentle nothingness of conversation from the office drifted out. I checked my phone. It had been 17 minutes since I made the call, which meant the police should be around at any moment. I began to realize I was unconsciously holding my breath, waiting for... Something.

Maybe I knew that when the cop arrived, something would have to happen. A bar to me thought that, when the cop showed up, we'd see whoever was driving the thing, and then we'd at least have a face to put to this mess, instead of some vague sense that somewhere out there, maybe hiding the woods, was something we couldn't see. Jim? said Paul with dread in his voice. I looked up for my phone

to see the truck slowly rolling forward, not like it was accelerating, but like someone had taken the parking break off. The engine didn't roar and the headlights didn't turn on, but nevertheless it picked up speed slowly, gaining momentum as it rolled away down the street. I looked for the license plate,

but the thing didn't have one, and in seconds, it had disappeared down the dark road. Not two minutes later, the cop arrived and parked outside, also on the road. We pulled down our coats and met him as he walked up our driveway. He was a mustached guy, younger, with a thick trapper hat on that covered his ears. You the boys had called? We nodded.

So, uh, where's this truck you keep seeing? You passed it, I said, pointing the way the cop had just come. It went that way, not even two minutes ago. The cop turned to look back down the dark road, and some deeper, older part of me knew the formula of how this conversation would go, and I knew what he was going to say before he turned back to us. I didn't pass anyone on that road, he said, frowning. Even though I knew the words sent to chill at my spine.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, said Paul frantically. shaking his head. They didn't have their lights on, I tried. Maybe they pulled off somewhere in the woods. The cop looked off down the road, tucking his thumb and his belt. Suppose it's possible. Don't really know why he'd do that, though. What did the driver look like?

I frowned, hoping I could grab hold of the conversation before Paul, but I was too late. There wasn't one, he squeaked. My shoulders sagged as the cop's left eyebrow raised so high, I thought it would climb off his face. There wasn't a driver in the truck that, you just said, drove away. It didn't have a license plate either, I said, miserably. The cop leaned closer and sniffed a couple times.

You boys, uh, had a good time tonight. I mean, before all this, he asked. We're not high, I said flatly. The officer raised both his hands innocently in. said, I wasn't implying that. Look, two guys our age say that a truck drove off that you didn't see, didn't have a driver, didn't have a license plate. The assumption is that we're either high or having a suspiciously similar psychotic episode.

It's neither. The officer looked at me like he was actually seen me for the first time. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at me up and down just a bit. Then the Lincoln College of Law sticker on the back window of my car caught his attention. Paul, by this point, seemed on the verge of tears. His head kept swiveling back and forth between the officer and the direction the truck had disappeared, and, despite the cold and each frantic breath fogging as it left his lips, he was sweating. Okay, why don't you boys give me a description of the truck, and I'll tell our people to keep an eye out for it.

Deal? What if it comes back after you're gone, though? asked Paul. The cop shrugged. Just call us again. we can't really do anything if it ain't here, and you don't have a license plate. We did our best to describe the truck to the cop. I told him about the primer-looking matte paint job and the pitted chrome, and how the interior looked perfect.

He took notes in a notebook he pulled from his jacket and asked a couple questions about the body style and where the mirrors were. When he was finished, he flipped it over and said, well, it sounds like about a 72 explorer. The only problem is those were some damn popular trucks back in the day. I wondered how such a young guy could be so knowledgeable about the popularity of trucks back in the 70s, but decided not to ask. So... So, we'll keep an eye out for it.

Doesn't sound like something that'll exactly blend in if it's out. But lots of people around here could have an old truck like that, parked in their yard, or behind their barns or whatever. If you two haven't ticked anyone off or caused any trouble you can think of, though. I don't think you have much to worry about. I mean this nicely. but there are a lot of nicer houses not far from here if someone were going to break in and burgle the place. He had a point there.

Our house was very clearly a rental that students had been riding hard and putting away wet, probably since it was first built. The cop told us a couple more times to call them if the truck came back and just keep an eye out and make sure the doors and windows were locked. Then he was gone, and we stood in the yard

and watched the taillights of his cruiser disappeared down the road, on Mrs. One, our eyes drifted over to the dark woods some few yards away. Paul spoke quietly into the winds, as it carried crisp, dry leaves around our feet, and brought the smell of wood smoke from some house nearby. Jim? Are we going crazy? I didn't answer.

Let's just go inside. I'm cold. He planted his foot on the cold ground with a small crunch. No, are we going crazy? Easy, he asked again. I looked at him in the grasping grow of our porch light. I knew why he wanted, even needed the answer. It was the same reason he didn't sleep.

It was the same reason he jumped at little noises. I don't know, I told him, honestly. He turned away from me to look back again into the yawning darkness, but he wore the stare at someone looking further than that. The past, maybe. I put my hand on his shoulder and we walked together inside, welcomed back into the warmth and comfort of a familiar place and the familiar sounds still playing from Netflix. I asked if he wanted me to stay up for a while, but he shook his head, already pulling his laptop from his bag. I'll get some work done, just go to bed, Jim.

I left him there on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tapping quietly on his laptop, and slid back between my sheets once more. They had gone cold And I didn't sleep for a long time Instead I laid there Listening to the quiet noise that filled it to the walls Typing Sometimes the laugh track from the TV And the footsteps as he moved between the living room and kitchen

Again and again Making I knew Cup after cup after cup of black tea He always made tea when he was thinking of his mom I don't think he ever realised it but it was a habit I had long recognised. Whether it was a nervous habit or a comforting ritual, I'm not sure. But every time he began to dwell on her,

he'd make cups and cups of the stuff, like he was brewing a potion that might keep his own mind from snapping like hers had. I wondered if I should do or say something. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize how precious little there was to be done about such a thing. I also knew that there was a real possibility that my bringing her up to him during all of this might very well validate his own fears. I was considering all these things, wondering what was to be done,

and the very act of counting in considering them all quietly pulled me to sleep, like so many sheep being counted. I was miserable in class that day, and when I got home, Paul was asleep in his room. I sat in the living room reading case reports until I came to a case that caught my attention. Three sisters all attacked a house after living together for a number of years. They tore their clothes off and broke the windows, asking the family inside if they had, quote, prepared a room,

and even assaulted multiple officers during attempts to subdue them. After they were finally arrested, all three sisters were put together in the same cell, where they chanted nude on the cell floor, but otherwise remained, quote, quite reasonable, according to the briefing. Their reason given for attacking the house was that God had gifted them the house, and they were to be, in their own words, as Moses being led unto the promised land. All three were found not guilty by reason of insanity, clearly with the reason given by staff psychiatrist being Folli Simultani,

a term describing a sort of shared madness in which psychosis spreads from one person to another. I googled Folly Simultani and started to read up on the subject, getting only to the first couple of sentences which read, Affected individuals frequently live together and usually have an enmeshed relationship that isolates them from others, a situation that contributes to the lack of detection by others. Paul's door opened and I slammed the laptop shut, much harder than I meant to.

He walked out rubbing his eyes, dressed in checker bechama pants and a shirt three sizes too big. What was that for? He pointed at the computer. Nothing. You practically slam the damn thing. I thought fast trying to think of something. I was, uh, looking at stuff. Stuff, he asked, laughing.

Adult stuff. I nodded. Adult stuff. In the living room. Look, something popped up and then I just went down a rabbit hole. You know how it goes. He shrugged and pointed jokingly. As long as you're not, you know, in the living room.

room. I'm going to take a black light to this place later though. I've been not find nothing in here. You hear me? We both laughed and he walked into the kitchen. I watched him start making coffee and chastised myself with the thoughts I'd been having just a moment before. And yet, when I reopen the laptop, I bookmarked the page on Folly Simultani, just in case I had some time later to read through it. I didn't get a chance to read it. Between case briefs and reading for the night, but once again, just after midnight, I was awoken, though not by a knock. No, this time, it was the sound of music. It was some tinny, twangy guitar that sounded like someone was playing it through an old phone

speaker they'd dropped on a solo cup, or an old radio from the 1930s. I walked out to ask Paul to turn it down, but found in the living room, silent and still, was Paul peering out the window again. It's back, was all he said, without even turning to look at me. It's playing music now. I walked to the window and peered out into the cold night. The window has radiated the sharp smell of cold air, and I knew it must be well below freezing outside.

The truck sat again in the same place it had every other night, right at the edge of the forest, spluttering and putting out exhaust in the edge of the light. Jim? This can't be real. He shook his head. What? I mean, this can't be real. This is either some terrible prank from someone in town,

or we're both losing our minds. I could have phrased it better, and I saw the words hit him like a slap. You see it too, though, he said. I don't know what I see. I know that stuff like this doesn't happen, though. Either we indulging the pranks as though, or indulging her own insanity.

So the solution to both is the same. Ignore it. His eyes had grown wide like a scolded puppy. He turned back to the window. You really think we're losing it? A part of me, a very mean little part, thought. I think you're losing your mind and dragging me down with you. I shook the thought away, trying to convince myself.

It was just the cranky thinking of a person woken up in the middle of the night. "'I don't know what this is,' I said, "'but I'm going to stop paying attention to it. "'Paying attention to it isn't helping it go away, "'so maybe ignoring it will.' "'I walked over and grabbed the curtains "'and slid them across the window, "'shutting out the light from the porch

"'and plunging the living room into darkness. "'I don't want to lose my mind,' Paul's voice shook in the dark, "'and I could just make him out there beside me. "'I sighed and reached out a hand to pat him on the back, But, at the last second, reconsidered. You'll be right, Paul. Look at it this way. If you're losing it, then I'm losing it too.

So we'll go crazy together. I heard him laugh a little and breathed a little easier. It'll be a lot harder to convince everyone we're not gay if they heard us saying stuff like that, he said. Now it was my turn to laugh. Just put in headphones, try to sleep. That's what I'm going to do. My eyes were just into the dark, and I saw him nod, though I couldn't make out the expression on his face.

I heard him sniff loudly. Okay, just ignore it. I'll visit the police station tomorrow too. We'll see if we can get to the bottom of this. He nodded again, and I watched him disappear into his bedroom, closing the door silently. When he was gone, I peeked through the curtain again. The truck was still there, sputtering.

but, and I can't be sure of this, it seemed just a few feet closer, almost like it had moved slightly to listen better. The music still played, and when I laid back down, I could still hear it faintly. I took my own advice and turned on my television, putting on Looney Tunes and turning the volume up

just enough to drown out the noise. It took a while, but I finally fell asleep. The next day, after my classes, I stopped by the county sheriff's, office. The office had the well-worn, creaking look of so many small-town municipal buildings, like it had been built in the twenties or thirties, and been held together by duct tape and barely sufficient municipal grants ever since. The front desk was sat behind a webbed cage, and one of the fluorescent lights flicked in a way that gave me a headache after only a few

seconds beneath it. The woman behind the desk quit tapping on her phone long enough to look up at me, wearing her look that said she was already bored with whatever I was about to say. Can I help you? Yes, I live out on Rifle Range Road. I called the other day and you guys sent out an officer for a truck that was sitting outside our house. It's still coming every night and my roommate and I came to ask you if you can have an officer come out and either wait or drive by around midnight or... I trailed off when I saw the faint glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eye.

The cop had probably told everyone here about the two roommates seeing ghost trucks, making sure to use air quotes around the word roommates like everyone else does. Ah yeah, that called Donnie went out to the other night. I almost roared my eyes that his name was Donnie, but caught myself. Maybe, guy with a mustache. That's him. Ah. She grabbed the office phone and tapped a couple buttons, then said,

Yeah, Donnie, your call from the other nights here. It was a pause. Then she said, that one. She hung up the phone, and a second later, Donny emerged from a side door, his hands in his jacket pockets. Howdy again, fella?

I nodded. Hello again. I'm going to be honest. I didn't know I'd specifically see you. He shrugged. Well, I was the one that went out the other day, so usually we keep the same person on stuff if we can. Yeah, that makes sense.

So, I'm guessing that truck keeps coming back. He asked, giving a quick smile to the lady behind the desk. Look, we're not crazy. I know this is weird. I know it's strange. I guess, but we're not. That's why we've not made a bigger deal about this, because we know it's weird, and it doesn't make a lot of sense.

Okay, okay, said Donnie, holding his hands up. Don't get all riled up. You said he keeps coming back. Does it come every night? And how did? Every night. He stuck his hands in his pocket. all right, specific time or anything.

My roommate usually sees it right after midnight. That's when he wakes me up at least. Donnie nodded. Just after midnight. All right. How's about this then? I'll come out tonight about 11 and I'll park and hang out for a couple hours. That way.

If there's something odd, then I'll see to it. If it's just some kids pulling a prank, maybe when they see the police getting involved, they'll knock it off. That sound good. Yeah, that would be great if you could. Donnie nodded again. All right, I'll come out around 11 then. Just make sure all your drugs are put away and everything.

He laughed, but I went stone still. That was a joke, he said. I explained everything to Paul when I got home, and we tried to carry on our normal routine. I tried studying, but couldn't focus worth a damn. And Paul, well, Paul, Paul did the same thing he always did, just quieter and slower. He overcooked his pasta, spilled the hot water for his tea,

and rewrote the same lines of code six or seven times a piece. Neither of us said it, but we both knew tonight could end in one of three ways. Either the truck came and Donnie saw it and we knew we weren't crazy. The truck came and Donnie didn't see it and we realized we probably were crazy. Well, the truck didn't come and everything stayed in limbo. I couldn't speak for Paul. the third one worried me the most. Ten minutes after eleven, a police cruiser lazily rolled to a stop on the side of the street,

little to the right of where the truck usually did. The car kept running, probably to have the heat on, but the lights turned off. And from the window, all we could see was the blue glow from the onboard computer inside. Should we close the curtains? asked Paul. Why? I don't know. No. I said after a moment. I want them open.

I want to see when it comes. What if it doesn't? He asked, barely more than a whisper. I didn't answer. At 11.50, the truck did come. It rolled into view without lights or sound and parked in its usual spot. A second later, the tinny odd music began playing,

notes that might have been described as lulting if they hadn't sounded so stunted and decrepit. We watched as Donnie leaned out and turned his cruiser floodlights to the truck. We saw him speak into his radio, then climbed out of his car. Who's there? he asked. The words floated into the night and across the desolate frozen yard to Paul and I. The truck didn't answer. This little game's over. Now, come on. Who's in there?

Again, no answer. Just the tinny notes rising and falling as rhythmically and steady. as breathing. He unholsted his gun an inch closer, craning his neck to look into the cab and kept his gun ready. When he was close enough, he cautiously reached for the handle. In one quick motion, he flung the door wide to the cab, quickly moving his gun from the seat to the floor to the ceiling before realizing, just like I had, that there was no one inside. There was nothing inside. He turned to look at the both of us, still watching from the window, then began to walk slowly around the truck, making the same loop that I'd made that first night.

He bought his flashlight from his belt, and held it with his gun as he inched around the bed, the taillights and the cold wind combining to turn his skin a pale, raw red. He moved all the way around until he was standing again beside the driver-side door, looking confused. He slid his gun into its holster and hugged his thumb through his belt loops, looking first one way, then another, into the darkness, stretching away on either side. I saw him sigh, and then climb in and turn off the radio. The last tinning notes drifted into the cold wind, and were gone.

It's amazing how menacing silence can be. The music gone. Some deep sense of dread that had been creeping through the back of my mind roared into the forefront at the same moment a pit formed in my stomach, twisting and writhing under the sudden and unquestionable knowledge that something horrible was coming. I banged on the window, and Donny's head snapped a look at us. Get out, run! I yelled, pining my fist so hard against the glass that I thought it might break.

He frowned and started to climb back out, but the truck store swung closed. I watched him grab at the latch inside and put his shoulder to it, but he didn't budge. His face was starting to grow panicked now, and I felt Paul's hand clutch in my arm. Donnie banged his fist against the window, rearing back and throwing his waist. weight into each swing, but the glass only bulged and bent without even a crack forming. Jim, said Paul frantically, Jim, what do we do? Donnie pulled his gun once again, and turning his head away and plugging one ear, fired through the window. The bullet erupted through to the other side, but instead of

shattering, the truck's window, now with a small hole through it, began to cloud over like a thin membrane of skin as dark fluid began to leak from the hole. Veins began to appear within the membrane, pulsing under the cloudy film as dark trials of liquid oozed down to the door and began to drip to the ground. Paul released his grip in my arm and heard the sound of him retching behind me as he ran to the bathroom. I stayed beside the window, watching his tiny faded to a blur behind a clouding window before he was nothing more than a shadow puppet, the shape of his fists still beating

against it without effect. I felt the bile rising up in my own throat, but bit my cheek to hold it down, frozen to the spot, unable to look away, but desperately not wanting to watch for a second longer. I caught the faint sound of screaming through the window now, a squeezed noise filtering through the bullet hole. Help, help, help! God damn it, help me! The tinny sound of a guitar started again and rose until it drowned out the screams,

and, as I watched, the truck slowly. slowly began to roll away into the night, the same as it had every other night, this time carrying its fated passenger. The truck disappeared into the night and the music faded with it. All I could smell was ozone, and all I could hear was the sound of Paul hyperventilating in the bathroom. I felt deeply, dreadfully cold, or maybe it was just a cold dread, but either way, I stood shivering at the window for a long, long time.

and then I called the cops. They were already on the way, it turned out. Officers from Bell County, County sheriffs from surrounding counties, ambulances, crime scene investigators, they all fill the streets, their flashing lights chasing the shadows of the night deep into the trees of the forest. They searched, Paul, myself, the house, the property, the surrounding properties. They searched everything they could get their hands on, stopping only occasionally to glare at us. I know they think we did it, or at the very least, had some hand in it. They put both of us in the back of a cruiser, hardly speaking to us.

Paul stayed out the window as they drove us away, the blue and red flashing lights turning his skin as sickly purple colour. What are they going to do to us? he asked. Question us, make sure our stories match up, probably split us up. They're going to think we're crazy. I know, I paused, and the gravity of that began. to sink in. I know. They did just that too. We were split up and questioned, then questioned again. I didn't lie. I told the truth. You understand, said one of the interrogators condescendingly.

Why we're having trouble believing you, right? I nodded, looking at the steaming styrofoam cup of coffee they had gotten me. The white styrofoam was almost dazzlingly white under the fluorescent light. They did that to make you go to the bathroom and make you uncomfortable. But I didn't care. The heat and the bitterness both felt good. So, why don't you tell us what really happened then? Asked the man. He was a fat guy that had the air of someone who probably beat his kids. I spoke slowly and clearly. He got in the truck to turn it off. The door's locked. He tried to break the windows and couldn't. He shot the windows and they didn't break. The truck drove off. The man sighed and his partner leaned over.

Look, we can't help you if you don't help us, man. You understand that, right? I understand. I understand why you don't think I'm telling the truth. And I understand why this all sounds crazy. I really do. That being said, I imagine his cruiser was a crypt of the camera. You'll see I'm telling the truth.

We both are. They both stared at me, and I stared at them. And, for just a bare moment, I saw a flicker of hesitation. pass across their faces. And that was how it went, until they finally pulled me out of the room. Paul was already standing in the hallway, and we were escorted back out to another car.

On our way out, someone opened a door in front of us as they left a room. Before it closed, I caught a glimpse of a large screen on the wall, all playing dash-gum footage, or playing the same dash-gum footage, actually, and caught the sound of someone going, play it again, before the door closed. It was 7 a.m. when we got home.

They had destroyed the house, and we picked our way through the thrown books and spilled garbage to both collapse on the couch. We just sat there for a few minutes, staring into empty space, not talking. Eventually, my watch chimed seven. Why did this happen? asked Paul. I didn't answer. Instead, I got back up and started getting ready. Where are you going? I've got class.

No truck came that night. Then again, it could have, and I'd just slip through it. I was asleep well before I hit the pillow, dead to the world for all intents and purposes. Still, somehow, I know that it didn't. Some deep part of me knew it wouldn't. After all, it had gotten, well, if not the prey it wanted, at least something.

It took us days to put the house back together. You don't realize how little attention you pay to where things are until you have to put them all back. Every night when it got dark, without agreeing to it or even talking about it, we both stand at the window, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for more than an hour, waiting for something neither of us could articulate as we stared into the dark. A continuation, a resolution, some kind of closure, something. And we did that every single night for months,

until life started to fall into that sullen night. normalcy that follows life-changing events. It wasn't until we stopped, until the creeping thought that maybe it had all been some bad fever dream had begun to creep into the edges of my thoughts, that it all came rushing back with a quiet knock on my door just after midnight. Jim? No, I whispered. No, Jim.

Paul's voice was hoarse. Come look. The living room was dark when I walked out, with the office playing on the TV. All that darkness only served to frame what I saw on the street though, an empty cup car idling in the street filled with a faint green glow. That's been some years ago now, and I've long since graduated and moved away from Bell County. I live on the top floor of a large apartment building now in Philly, far away from the street below, but there are nights still where I can't sleep, and I step out onto our balcony, and I swear that I see an old pleading,

cruiser that doesn't look quite right or an old truck idling and my heart skips a beat. But almost every time I see the cop inside or an old man counting the addresses looking for where he's going. Almost.