Creepy - Paper Sheets That I Found Geocaching & Deserted Highway

Episode Date: December 21, 2023

Paper Sheets That I Found Geocaching***Written by: Jonathan Owens and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Deserted Highway***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music for: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Which, listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Paper sheets that I found geocaching.

Written by Jonathan Owens and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. Dear listeners, I've carried this spiffy, leather-bound journal for weeks now, but not a word is inside it. Starting now. This journal will become a herald of our journey down. these caves. I hope that my future progeny will be inspired by this account of my civilization's early history. I'm afraid to admit that my travel companions have been naive. Weeks into our journey,

they mourn for the amenities of the 21st century. I still do not understand that I was serious when I said we were leaving modernity forever and pioneering our own world underneath the earth's surface. They must accept that boulders are now our pillows, and distant footsteps are our alarm clocks. Lighthouse calls me paranoid, but he doesn't understand the carefulness that an effective leader must have. I cannot lounge around like he does. He doesn't carry the esoteric knowledge that I have. He hasn't grasped the truth that people hate our quest for independence and want us dead for it. I abandoned the corrupt surface and promised myself that I would create a beautiful, liberated world with my brothers and these three children. We wandered through narrow ravines,

an eternal night, looking for a potential site to build our future colony. My eyes were strained from squinting in the darkness, and against my wishes, Lighthouse dropped all our bags. I told him that we could not halt our progress this early in the day. but he and my three kids ignored my orders, sat around each other, and ate their rations. Lighthouse recited stories of his first prom to the three kids all seated around him, as crummy fire that was barely flickering on the damp soggy peat. The two girls whispered plans about their high school's upcoming prom, as a young boy hoops played with whatever he found on the ground.

It would be best for these children to never. think about their previous surface lives again. Instead, my children should focus on helping me build our new empire under the earth. When I stepped out of the confines of my job and abandoned modernity, I promised myself that I would build a new civilization where the progeny could thrive with full stomachs and boundless imagination. We cannot achieve this if we are constantly looking back at senior prom memories or whatever booze my brother misses. My people cannot progress if we are constantly looking back. I brought introductory science textbooks that I had borrowed from the library.

Since there are only five of us, someone must master the sciences, and I decided that it must be hoops. The earlier that the boy begins his education, the better. Since there are only five of us, we will need immediate expertise in medicine and chemistry if the civilization is to succeed. But the boy kept fidgeting. His head was magnetized towards what the girls were doing. They trapped a dead rat and played with his torso like an action figure. I yelled at the boy to focus, but his head kept peering at their shenanigans.

The boy doesn't understand the necessities of what will fall upon his shoulders when he gets older. Lighthouse lifted hoops from my grasp and released him. His bitter attitude transformed into laughter as he waddled towards the girls. Imagine what sort of progress we would achieve if Lighthouse understood how important these days is when the greatness will begin. After another crummy breakfast of stale bread, we marched deeper into the cave. I commanded my family to keep an eye out for suitable land for inhabitants, but they all shrugged and slowly followed my torch. We did not march as far back because of Lighthouse's back back. The kids and Lighthouse sat around the fire talking about Prama again.

I couldn't stand for it, so I went to bed early. Lighthouse's cloggy voice makes me want to strangle him. Not only does he eat more than everyone else, but he constantly hinders our progress with his obnoxious anecdotes that he believes to be funny. Why couldn't I have been assigned a man that carries the same passion as I do. Instead, I was paired with a man whose blood is essentially Diet Coke. That night, I talked to no one, except for my counsel of men inside my mind.

Back at the surface, I intensely studied the acts of the ancient heroes who have conquered adversity, and whose actions reverberate in our minds long past their deaths. I studied them so I can be like them too someday. They've unlocked immortality through their deeds. I studied the lives of Andrew Carnegie, Nicola Tesla, and Henry Ford, and I have the nocturnal habit of meditating over their legacies. I have familiarized myself with the philosophies and life stories so frequently that I can simulate their likenesses inside my dreams.

I retrieved their counsel in the form of instincts. That night, I prayed to them about Hoops' inability to learn, and I felt the theme of persistence inside me reverberate. I will keep trying to teach the boy to be a man who will help me build my vision. I end this particular chapter frustrated. But I hope I can look back at this struggle fondly. Hoops like a focus must be a small, pothole to the road to immortality.

Dear listeners, I write this chapter with a mile-wide grin, because history was made today. Holidays will form from my discovery. The day started as usual. My people trudged in the darkness. Our torches were faint stubs that whimpered and simmered. Lighthouse fretted over the longevity of our supplies.

But I told them that all. was fine. So lactate scratched our heads so we had to crawl in our knees. Hoops was complaining about sores and the soginess of his boots. I told him to shut up. Lighthouse wanted to rest

again. And I was about to unleash a series of insults that had been fermenting for weeks. But a sudden warmth settled my rage. As we crawled further, our torches became more redundant. I suddenly realized,

that a ray of sunshine was leading us to a haven, filled with fresh water and plant life. For the first time in weeks, we felt warm, and we were able to look at each other without squinting. We shed all our damp jackets and our crawling, accelerated and agalloping, as we approached closer to the cave garden. We bit into sweet vegetables beyond culinary classification. How motivating it was to eat fresh foods instead of moldy, Art-tack. Long before we stepped into this darkness, I knew that this garden waited for us to discover it. I rubbed my hands against the bark of the ancient trees, rinsed grime off my face in a nearby soft stream, and took plentiful gulps of its water. I began constructing homes within my imagination. These mythical trees can be built into a treehouse. At that moment, and I exploded with pride

and excitement because this underground forest would be the future settlement of my people. These caves were testing our persistence. This paradise exists because of the miracle of my persistence. I am this journey entry brimming with optimism and ideas. Praise be to perseverance. Dear listeners, it's been weeks since I have kept note, but I have wonderful tidings. My people are thriving in the moment. momentum of progress. Our belly remained full and our spirits have flown sky high, thanks to my

persisting leadership. The girls have adjusted well to the cave living. They wake up early and return hours later with arms full of fruits and vegetables. I wish that they would notify me before they go foraging. I had to talk to them about leaving the colony without notice. Hoops and the Man-child, Lighthouse, contributed nothing. This isn't exactly a surprise to me anymore. I ordered them to help me build our town hall, but that would make the boy cry for his mother. Lighthouse tended to him patting him on the back,

saying that it'll be over soon. I yank, Lighthouse, and order him to stop lying to the boy. We cannot halt our progress by being sentimental. We must keep going. I told the boy that we had no option but to accept our circumstances. But he continued crying. I suppose I need to be patient. It may be a grueling wait until Hop stops being a waste of oxygen.

But the rewards will be worth it. Now that I've built a steady flow of food, I want my people to work on our art output. Like the great Julius Caesar, I plan to advance our civilization. I want future eras to reference our beautiful aesthetic. Even when I am long deceased, I want people to read our people's tales and feel inspired. The future must sing our language and get our words tattooed all over their bodies. I want parents to recite our history to their children at bedtime. The arts could be an outlet where hoops can finally become beneficial to our civilization's expansion.

Perhaps he can inspire us all with the written word, instead of moping around. I provided Hopps pen and paper, but he threw both in a puddle. I yelled at him to retrieve it at once, but he ran away. Later I discovered sleeping under foliage. He thought he can hide from his responsibilities. I shook him awake to get some writing out of him, but I was answered with groaning. But I still persisted. my citizen did not give up and neither will I.

Hoops told me that he wanted me to die, but that was simply just childish anger. I hope that the boy understands that I wasn't trying to be harsh, but I was simply wanting him to turn his laziness into greatness. I wanted him to be smart like Meriwether Lewis, and mighty like Genghis Khan. I finally struck a deal with the boy. I will allow him to sleep.

Only if he supplies me with five minutes of quality writing. He struggled with the pen in his hand, and his handwriting looked as if a hen stepped and scraped the paper with talents. I squinted at his work and couldn't decipher its meaning. I slammed the pen and demanded him to write again. As expected, the stupid boy cried and hid. I screamed at him that he wasn't finished. The girls woke up and stared.

I hobbled at my makeshift bed made out of straw. I was so angry that I couldn't walk straight. I wanted to strangle the dumbass. He doesn't understand that the destiny we seek in this cave is dependent on his willingness to learn. A restful night's sleep slipped away as I tossed and turned. The boy is too frustrating. When I was his age, I wasn't so ill-tempered.

Something must have cursed him. It must have. Maybe it was the girls. That must be the root cause of him being so distracted. Tomorrow I will sequester him until he produces quality work. I was finally able to pacify myself once I thought out this plan. Blissful sleep blessed me until lighthouse jolted me awake. His face was modeled with high.

and red scratches, lacing his skin. He said that he was on fire, and I prescribed to him the miracle of sleep would perform wonders. He called my advice bullshit and begged me to help him return to the real world. It was difficult to take his plea seriously because of his swoon stuttering. I told him that it wasn't the cave's fault that he shouldn't blame his surroundings. Instead, it was his poor hygiene habits that were the culprit of his. misfortune. The girls watched our argument as if it were a sporting event. It must be giggling at Lighthouse's emasculated appearance. A big man turned into a coward

at the slightest inconvenience. He whined about the caves until he tired himself out. Dear listeners, our spirits have stagnated. But I believe that my civilization is progressing. Everyone keeps to themselves. Only the girls whisper to each other. Lighthouse and hoops are conspiring against me. They huddle in corners gathering my resources. I'll have to keep a watchful eye on them. Other than everyone hating me,

the establishment of my dynasty is promising. Under my instruction, several huts have been built and our food supplies plentiful. I organized the vegetables we found and organized them in a communal bin. I excavated remnants of a discarded tub and repurposed it to function as a desk. Hoops begged to use it as a sled, but I told him that was uncouth behavior. It was to be strictly used as a desk for him to write on.

I instructed Hoops to write again, and the results were as expected. He tossed a pen in the following conversation when does this. I remember it exactly because I believed these words I champion finally unlocked something in the boy. My advice restructured his imagination to be one of Andrew Carnegie, Henry Ford, and Napoleon. I hate it here the boy cried. Why do you hate it? You have ample running space. You're in good company and you have valuable mentorship.

I hovered over him and held his shoulders like a good shepherd looking after his flock. But I'm hungry all the time. Then why don't you do something about it if you hate it so much? This path we are on is as much yours as it is mine. If you are hungry, then hunt. If you're bored, then look for amusement. The boy's eyes widened and nodded. My advice surely transformed the boys' meek mine into an instrument of pure power.

Hoops ran. The pen will be waiting for him tomorrow. I conclude this chapter with more optimism than ever before. I believe that Hoops finally understands our purpose in these caves. Soon we will witness great miracles from the boy. I couldn't sleep that night, but this time it was a good thing. I squirmed on my bed speculating about the great things I would have the boy do. Images of ornate pillars and a bustling central plaza appeared in my mind. That night I drew pictures of my grand vision until my arm exhausted itself. I must conserve ink to document our grandiose future. Praise be to my persistence. Dear God, please help us.

We are fucked. Whatever progress my people accomplished has crumbled into nothing. Three steps forward, 20 steps back. The light that warmed us. us and allowed us to prosper as dissipated. We wander like blind men in their first moments, and watched my people's faces dim into darkness, and we were all driven into a frantic frenzy.

The girls are missing, and some thieves stole our vegetable stockpile. The remainder of us men accidentally knocked over our huts in a rush to find each other. I cannot see the paper I am writing on. I am unsure if my pen is even working. I constantly yelled for my girls. I realized that I forgot their names, so I rambled off names that I believed would be theirs. I was only greeted with Hoops crying.

He wanted his stupid mother. The incessant crying finally stopped when I slapped him. I meant for the slap to be simply pedagogical, with the hopes of quieting him down. But I must have hit the side of his head. After that, I never heard from the boy ever again. Faint shuffling and then nil. I pleaded for him to return to me.

Then I threatened to snap that boy's neck if he didn't. Looking back, I must admit that I regret hurting the boy. Andrew Carnegie and Henry Ford would probably not have liked that I slapped and threatened a toddler. But may the listener understand that I had to. The boy was muttering nonsense. Minutes or hours later, a tiny flame flickered from a lighter, in a dismal darkness, and I lunged for it. I bounced off Lighthouse's large gut, and my temples landed on spiky rocks.

I tried to convince the idiot that a lighter could bring my people back, but I could only mutter-slurred speech. I explained this concept to Lighthouse, but he was too deletive. to understand the mission. He said that he didn't want his old lighter to be squandered by an asshole like me. I told him that such rudeness was unwarranted. His lighter vanished, and so did he. In the pure black air, I heard a slight snicker.

I slapped the air, hoping that I could retrieve the lighter. Lighthouse was an invisible ghost amused by my toil. I was furiously swiping at the darkness. trying to kill the laughing. I stubbed my toes against a rock several times. I cannot feel them anymore. But that's fine. Who needs toes?

I just need the girls. Someone to continue my dream. I hope that they didn't return to the surface. I can't be the only one down here. I lay on the soggy ground using broken logs as blankets. Any sound I hear. I explode from the ground and pursue it. Even if I wanted to return to the surface, no, no.

I must not jot down such heresy. Andrew Carnegie didn't give up. I will persist until I die. Dearest listeners, I am dying in darkness. My stomach is biting itself because I eat the leather binding of this journal in desperation. I alternate between feeling tremendously cold or sweltering stuffiness. I am partially glad that this darkness doesn't allow me to see the horrible state my body must be in. I do not wish to see all the scratches and caked blood on me.

As I record, my face flows with tears or blood I don't know. I cry because of the betrayal afflicted upon. me. My people have gone feral with fear. My dream was ruined by my peers' cowardice. I should have inspected the aptitude of these children before I took them. If only I enlisted a finer crew with more experience in glass, that would have changed everything. A flashlight startled me from my stupor. My eyes were too ruptured to see. But I recognized that husky voice calling out to me. Lighthouse begged me to return to the surface. He said that seeking autonomy is a valiant effort, but I was in way over my head with trying to build our own country.

He said tormenting a boy to suddenly be Shakespeare was wrong. cruelty. And I can't squeeze the next great novel or explanation for quantum mechanics out of a kid who just wants to play with dead rats. He said that I was trying to make a hammer do a bulldozer's work. I shuddered away from him. My moans couldn't quiet his deftest platitudes. He grabbed my face and poured water down my throat. How sweet the cold water tasted, but I knew where it came from. Lighthouse was trying to tempt me back to the surface with tap water from the surface. Lighthouse unraveled a granola bar and lifted it towards my face.

Andrew Carnegie and Napoleon would not approve of this weakness. I must carry out my dream still. This must be a test. I ran further into the darkness until I could hear him no more. This flashlight was now a faint silver. Goodbye temptation. You did not get me. Lighthouse.

What sort of living on the surface is better than living in freedom down here? You may live longer than the hand that writes this. But at least I have lived in a name. actual life. I pray that toil will haunt you forever in that cubicle of yours that you return to. Whoever is hearing this recorded history, will you appreciate my persistence? Because it seems like no one has. I wanted autonomy, but I was betrayed. I did everything right. I persisted through many struggles. My leadership was sublime, formulated from the cream of the crop.

But it seems like I was dealt a bad hand. My opponents might have won, but at least I never folded. I am approaching the last ounce of penny. If anyone gets to these recordings tucked beneath this boulder, May you use this tragedy as a cautionary tale. Please use my leadership as a blueprint for yours so that I can live vicariously through you. I hope someone listens to this. Please listen to this.

Please use this as something. Creepy Presents Deserted Highway. written by known of consequence and narrated by Michelle Cain. I'm an independent courier with a reputation for getting the job done, no matter what. That may sound extreme, but don't get the wrong idea. I don't do anything illegal or unsavory. I'm just a hard worker that takes commitments very seriously.

In this day and age, that's an extremely high selling point. Too many people are lazy and want, everything handed to them. Very few people want to put in the work anymore. I think it's further proof that our society is spiraling into a hellish existence of fucking morons with their hands out. This time of year is my busiest time, not because people require my services more in October, but because I take on a lot more jobs than normal. To be frank, I hate Halloween. The idea that it's socially acceptable to scare the crap out of unsuspecting strangers pisses me off. As a kid, I was always the smallest, and it made me an easy target.

I can't remember how many times my bag of candy was stolen by bullies while I was out with my friends. After a few years, I realized they weren't my friends so much as they kept me around to act as a shield. Bullies always zeroed it on me when we ran a group. and no one ever tried to help me. By the time I reached high school, I managed to get new and better friends. Believe it or not, I somehow managed to get in with the jocks and cheerleaders. It was probably so they could take advantage of my brain, and I did help a lot of them with their grades,

but I never did the work for them. That was one thing I was adamant about. In exchange for my help, they taught me about life and protected me from bullies. Sure, they'd razz me some, but no one took it too far, and it was hardly at my expense. It was kind of like I was their mascot or good luck charm. All four years I was with them, the varsity teams never last a game in any sport. I was still somewhat timid when I graduated, so instead of going to college, I joined the army. I figured if anyone could make me tougher, it would be the military.

Even though my scores were pretty damn high, I didn't go into anything that utilized my smarts. I went into transportation, specifically driving. Not only did I learn how to fight, but I learned how to drive anything on wheels and a few things without. It wasn't until my first tour in a combat zone that I regretted not doing something like fly Apaches. They get shot at all the time, but at least they don't have to worry about a roadside IE. After a five-year stint, I got out with an honorable discharge and reintegrated back into civilian life. I only had some minor PTSD, and I can stay with some confidence that after two years, I got back to a level of normalcy. About the only thing I really missed was the camaraderie of my unit.

There were a number of low-life scumbags, but I'd managed to avoid most of them. In my five years with them, I only got into the same. two fights, and those had been mostly drunken brawls. I can't say I won either fight, but the other guys didn't walk away unscaped. I certainly came out of the serviceless timid. If I had a pinpoint what made me tougher, I'd say it was three different things. Obviously, the training had a hand in it. Learning, discipline, and how to fight were the first steps. Going to a combat zone and facing real dangers was a good second step. Taking a few rounds to the body armor certainly enraged me to fight back.

I'd say the last contributing factor was watching movies with my battle buddies. I know that sounds lame, but they always loved watching horror movies. As a timid youngster, I hated horror movies. I couldn't stand them, even when they were just on TV. Having the more gruesome parts cut out should have been enough to get me to watch them, but I still couldn't do it. When you're in a barracks and someone puts on a horror movie, you set yourself up for failure if you leave. I didn't want to be seen as weak because weakness makes you a liability in combat. So in order to prove myself to not only them, but to me, I stayed and watched.

After a while, the horror movies stopped being so scary. In fact, they became downright laughable after my convoy was attacked on my third trip outside the wire. I started watching them alone in my downtime and learned all the tropes and stereotypes. Since I've been out, I've stopped watching them, but mostly because they become repetitive and boring. In my opinion, Halloween has devolved into older kids having licensed to be little shitheads. My first year back, I set up a table on my driveway and handed out candy like a lot of people in my neighborhood. Kids ran up and down the streets trick-or-treating because the pandemic had finally settled. It had been a good time and I greatly enjoyed it.

But things changed once it got dark. Parents took their kids inside and the older bunch started coming out. I still had some candy left, but that's not what they were interested in. That year, those little bastards terrorized the neighborhood. They teaped front yards, egged houses, and cars, and even broke into some backyards. My security cameras captured footage of someone breaking into my shed and tossed all my tools around. I nearly grabbed my shotgun to scare them off, but these Helians aren't afraid of rogue guns. They're confident no adult is going to shoot them for causing mischief.

So I grab my paintball gun instead. The entire neighborhood got vandalized so bad that the HOA decided to put a security patrol into the budget for every Halloween that year after. I did my part by adding floodlights to the perimeter, a few more cameras, and made sure I was away on business. There were a handful of parents threatening to go to the cops because I shot their kids with my paintball gun, but counter threats of suing got them to shut up. I felt guilty that first year I wasn't going to be around for Halloween. So much so that I bought a dozen Jackal Anandern Pails and a few boxes of full-sized candy bars. The morning of Halloween, I left these full pails on the doorsteps of all my neighbors

that I knew had little kids. I even left notes apologizing that I wouldn't be around to hand out the candy. Now I'm on the open road, cruising at 80 on a deserted highway. Normally, I have a bunch of small jobs to keep me busy within the city, but a client reached out to me for something unusual and specific. I'm taking a sealed box to an address approximately 100 miles away from a home. There have been a few occasions when I've accepted a job like this, but for 700 bucks, I'm willing to go the distance. Under normal circumstances, I'd have to do five runs to make that much, and on Halloween, I certainly don't mind being in the middle. of nowhere. I'm driving into the sunset and there are no clouds in the sky to keep the glare out of my

eyes. The sun visor doesn't do any good with the sun this low and my sunglasses can only do so much. I drop my speed to 70 as the glow grows fainter. I hate driving into the sun. It makes it harder to see obstacles in the road. Something could easily dart across the road in front of me. I wouldn't see it until it was too late. I reduced my speed. further. I pass something on the side of the road and nearly jump out of my seat. That guy came out of nowhere, but thankfully he didn't move onto the road. I glanced in my rearview mirror to see him pick his head up at me as he walks along the road. Even with a bright yellow shirt on, I hadn't seen him until I was right on top of him. Under other circumstances, I'd have seen him a mile off, but with the

setting sun in my eyes, he was invisible. After a few more miles, the sun is completely set, and I take my glasses off. The road stretches on in a straight line in front of me, completely devoid of other vehicles. Normally, I'd see at least one or two cars, even some 18-wheeler's, going in the opposite direction, but not tonight. It feels like I have the entire road to myself, and I pick my speed back up. It's not like I'm getting a bonus for getting the package to its destination sooner, but this is a a long trip, and I'd like to get back before midnight. If I play my cards right, I might be able to squeeze another delivery in. As the light fades on the horizon, my music cuts out, and I see something

on the opposite side of the road ahead of me. It's small, but as I get closer, I can see that it's a person. As I pass mile marker 186, I can distinctly make out the silhouette of a person. They're walking in the same direction I'm going, and the person glances back at me. He waves a hand at me as I pass, and I find it strange. What are the odds of seeing a second person walking along this deserted highway, wearing a yellow shirt? I once again glance in my rearview mirror, and it looks like the guy's starting to run. He didn't have his thumb out or anything, and I sure has held it and slowed down,

so what's up with that? I shrug it off as I put it off. past mile marker 188. Picking up my phone, I pull up my music app to see why my music stopped. For some reason, there's no signal out here. Trying to go into offline mode doesn't work either, and I'm forced to drive in silence. Best network coverage my ass. Fucking cell phone companies always claiming to have nationwide coverage, but out this far from the city, coverage is shit. Even having songs downloaded on the app should work, but the damn app won't even open anymore. I wish vehicles would still come with an ox connection. At least I'd be able to hook up an

MP3 player or even go old school and use a CD player. Not that I have any of those things with me. As the darkness becomes more complete, I keep an eye out for one of those green signs that let you know how far it is to the next town. I catch sight of another matter. marker, but before I can read the number on it, something in the distance catches my eye again. This highway has more foot traffic than it does vehicles, because that's the third person I've seen. And he's wearing a yellow shirt, too. Is there some sort of county law that requires anyone walking on the side of this road to wear a yellow shirt? That'd be a weird law, but it does help make them visible. So it makes a kind of sense?

I wonder, how do they enforce that? Do cops hand out yellow shirts to anyone they come across? That would be absurd. This person doesn't appear to be moving. In fact, he's facing me and holding up a cardboard sign. I slow to a respectable 50 so I can read his sign, but it doesn't make any sense to me. What the hell does M. Plea mean anyway?

I pass by without stopping, and he turned, with his sign held high. Glancing at him in my mirror, the sign makes sense now. It says, Help me in large, bold letters. I have no idea how I can still see him, but I can and the chill runs up my spine. After another mile or two, I see another mile marker, but I can't be reading it right. I slow down considerably so I can clearly see the numbers. But I passed mile, 186 a while ago. How the hell can I be back at it? I didn't make any turns and I sure as hell didn't turn around. So how am I looking at 186 again? A knot forms in my stomach and I slam on the accelerator. My tires scream as I peel out, bringing my speed back to 60 in less than five seconds. This has to

be some sort of trick. A bunch of locals with yellow shirts must have changed. change the mile markers to screw with anyone driving through. That's the only thing that makes sense. It does have me regretting not bringing my sidearm on this trip. I usually only carry it when my cargo is high value. By now, I'm expecting it, the guy on the opposite side of the road, and he's there. Like the last guy saw on the side, he's running in the direction I'm traveling. He must hear my engine approaching because he turns his head. I slowed down. and roll my window down to yell at him. He looks like a grown-ass man,

and he should have left such childish pranks behind when his balls dropped. I lean out and call out to him in an angry voice. But before I can berate him and his friends, he changes his trajectory. The crazy son of a bitch steps onto the road and makes his way closer to me. I duck back inside my truck and press hard on the accelerator. Something hits my back fender, hard enough to make the truck shutter.

I get really mad and slam on the brakes. I expect this kind of shit from punk-ass kids in the city, not from full-grown men in the fucking boonies. I know this is one of those horror movie tropes where the unsuspecting motorist gets out of his car and is almost immediately attacked. I may not have a gun to defend myself, but I do have a decent-sized pocket knife. that I always carry. With the blade locked open, I get out of my truck and scan the immediate area. The guy in the yellow shirt is nowhere to be seen. I glance under the truck to make sure he didn't

crawl under there for a sneak attack, and there's no one there. I call out to the asshole, but there's no response. There's a big dent in my back fender from where he ran into my truck, and I lose my temper. I call out for the coward again, calling him all sorts of names and implying things I couldn't possibly know about his mother. My rage has pushed my fear and worry to the background. This truck is my livelihood, and I have taken great pains to make sure it's in tip-top shape. Anytime I get so much as a scratch on it, I take it to the shop to get fixed. Having a spotless, undamaged vehicle, gives my client's peace of mind that I'm a competent, trustworthy driver, and that their cargo will be safe with me.

The last thing I want to do is spend my hard-earned money on something as mundane as a dent repair. The night is quiet as my taunts echo off into the night. Aside from my breathing, the only sound is the engine of my truck. I have expected a handful of guides to emerge from the darkness to relieve me of my vehicle, but there's nothing. I don't even hear the typical sounds of insects that always accompany the middle of nowhere. I wait until I'm back inside my truck to close the blade of my pocket knife.

With the doors locked, I peel out and flick off the mile marker sign with 188 on it. As if on cue, my speakers give a unique beep as my phone reconnects to the network and my music starts up again. A quick glance at the clock has me confused. It's been about an hour since the sun set on the horizon, but this says it's been about 15 minutes since I saw the first yellow shirt. Maybe the phone hasn't repopulated the correct time yet? Most new vehicles rely on their connection to a phone for the time. I let out a big sigh of relief when I see mile marker 190,

shortly followed by a sign that says the next town is only five miles away. As I continue cruising at 80, I kept sight of another sign. This one looks like it went up during the Reagan administration and has gone untouched since. The white background is dirty, and the black and red words are faded. It's been a long time since I've seen one of these signs. It warns motorists that there's a prison within two miles and states that under no circumstances should anyone pick up a hitchhiker. I can't help but think about the guys in the yellow shirts.

Have they been prison escapees? That doesn't really track, though. If they'd escaped, why would they be walking back toward the prison instead of away from it? For that matter, what kind of prison has their inmates wear it yellow instead of orange?

There's a lot about this that doesn't make sense, and it stinks of horror movie tropes. After a few miles, I see lights from a gas station, but even better, I see a county sheriff SUV at one of the pumps. I pull up to the adjacent pump and immediately start filling my tank. I've got my back resting against the driver door when a bulky woman in a uniform comes out of the building. She's got a bag of snacks and sodas in her hands and gives me a nod. I greet her and begin approaching. I make sure to keep my hands visible at my sides, being as unthreatening as possible.

as I tell her about my weird-ass night. I expect her to want to run a field sobriety test on me, but she doesn't. If anything, she seems interested in what I have to say, especially when I mention the yellow shirts. No prisoners wear orange in these parts, and I haven't heard anything about an escape. They tend to give us a heads up about that sort of thing.

That's exactly what I thought, and I thank her for hearing me out. It is interesting, though, You see, back in the 80s, the local prison had an inmate road crew that serviced these highways. They'd spend hours in chains with guards on horseback. Every inmate on that crew wore sturdy denim pants and bright yellow shirts. I hadn't gotten a good look at their pants, but it sounds right. What mile marker did you say you saw I'm at?

I tell her, and I can see in her face that she remembers something. If I recall correctly, there was a prison escape from one of the crews at Mile Marker 187. I only remember it because it's the police code for murder. Well, that and the guy was never caught. It's like he disappeared in the thin air. Well, it couldn't have been the guys I saw on the road. They'd have to be at least in their 60s, and there's no way someone that old could put a big-ass dent in my truck. You hit someone with your truck?

She drops her bag of goodies into the vehicle and goes to my truck. With a dent like that, there's no way I hit someone. They had to have run into me. I'm jolted as the sheriff jumps back with a startled scream. A man in a yellow shirt stands up in the back of my truck, his hands up and surrender. The sheriff has her weapon out and orders the man to slowly climb out of my truck. He babbles on about having been stuck out on the road.

unable to find his way back to the chain game. He's begging the sheriff to understand that he hadn't tried to escape. One minute, he's swinging a hammer. The next, everyone is gone and he can't get off the highway. The sheriff gets the guy in cuffs and into the back of our vehicle. Get comfortable. She tells me, there's going to be a lot of questions for you. I don't think I'm going to finish my delivery tonight.

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