The Face In The White Truck
When they promoted me to division manager I knew there would be some driving involved and I was okay with that. We have clients and distributors all over, and once a year we hold a huge party and everyone’s invited; our way of saying thanks, officially, but really just a way to network and boost sales. The rest of the year we go to them, and that involves a lot of driving. I knew this. What I hadn’t anticipated was driving in such bad weather.
I flew into Green Bay, MI in a terrible snow storm. I hail from much further south and we rarely see snow, so I was nervous driving, but this was my first meeting with a client, so I was determined to get there. I wasn’t going to fail on my first trip. I got into my small rental car and hit the I41 north, heading for Marquette.
I’d never been this far north before, and I’m sure I would have enjoyed the scenery if I could see it. Google Maps said the journey should take around two hours, but I was driving slow, cautiously, and was taking nearly twice that long. Luckily for me the I41 ran straight into Marquette so I only had to stay on this road and I’d get there eventually.
It was later in the afternoon, just after I’d passed a little town called Gladstone, that a white truck barrelled passed me, bass faintly audible, nearly driving me off the road. Well okay, it gave me plenty of room, but it scared me so much I nearly ended up in the ditch. I’d seen barely any cars on the road, and none in the last half hour, so I wasn’t expecting it. It seemed to have come from out of nowhere; I didn’t see any headlights in the rear-view mirror or hear the engine getting closer, louder. Maybe I was just in my own little world at the time. Whatever the case, it snapped me back to reality.
A good thing too; I didn’t want to become complacent in this dangerous weather. The blowing snow seemed to be letting up, but that didn’t stop the truck from disappearing right in front of me. I suppose it didn’t help that the truck was white; camouflaged pretty well. The driver behind the wheel must’ve been used to these white-out conditions.
Maybe people who lived this far north drove in snow like this all the time. And apparently they all owned white trucks, because another one drove passed me a few minutes later, identical to the first one. Just like the last time, this truck had no headlights on and blasted music at me. Also like last time, it snuck up on me and gave me another start, and then abruptly disappeared. I was watching it this time; the snow wasn’t that bad – the truck just seemed to fade away. I shook the spooked feeling out of my head; I needed to focus on driving, not letting my imagination freak me out.
Just as I was beginning to calm down, a horn blared in my ears. I looked in the rear-view mirror to see nothing – then an identical white truck was beside me again. The thumping music accompanied by whaling vocals the only noise coming from it.
I looked over at the truck, surprised how eerily similar to the others it was. It was an older white Dodge, missing a passenger-side mirror, with larger-than-stock tires framed by rusted wheel wells that making it sit higher off the ground. It was a diesel, as evidenced by the dull silver smoke stacks sticking out of the bed. All three trucks that passed me shared the same features. Was there a club around here or something?
As I inspected the truck I was shocked to see that front end appeared to be mangled pretty badly. How it was still running I couldn’t say. But more interesting than what I saw was what I heard; the thumping bass wasn’t music, but fists pounding against the window. The warbled vocals were actually anguished cries from someone inside. One hand print, followed by a fist, repeating, alternating. I wondered, since they were punching loud enough for me to hear them in my car, how they didn’t break the glass. Then a face appeared, smudged and blurry against the window, and was quickly gone. Was this some stupid kids having fun? In this weather, at this speed? They must have a death wi-
Suddenly my car lurched and I felt the wheels lose traction. I’d taken my eyes off the road for too long. I lifted my foot from the gas and slid a little, but managed to stay on the road. I slowed to a crawl to catch by breath – that was too close. The truck, once beside me, must have continued to barrel on down the road, but I couldn’t see it in the distance, even with the snow beginning to lighten.
I continued on my way, picking up speed in the better driving conditions, eager to reach Marquette. I watched all around now; no truck was gonna sneak up on me this time. I concentrated on the road, looking for lines in the pavement, trying not to think about the face I saw in the truck’s window.
The pounding drew my attention – the truck was beside me again. It must have come from a side road or something because it hadn’t been behind me. The same face pressed against the window, breath fogging up the glass, preventing me from seeing much else. Then, as I watched, a finger frantically and scraggily drew the word HELP on the glass.
The truck then pulled ahead, and I noticed – just like the others, I think – no licence plate, but a pretty severe dent in the tailgate. I couldn’t see anyone inside from behind due to deeply tinted glass, but what I could see is that the driver’s side of the truck looked caved in, as if crushed when the truck rolled during an accident.
I didn’t have much time to think about it as the truck continued up the road and then suddenly stopped, catching me completely off guard. I hit the brakes as hard as I could, and began to skid. I craned the wheel, trying to turn away from the truck, and then trying just to stay on the road, but it was a losing battle. His brakes were better than mine. His traction was better than mine. I could only watch in horror as I slid inexorably toward him.
I don’t know that I was lucky; I didn’t hit the truck, but that’s because it was gone. My car finally came to a halt in the middle of the road, alone. The snow had stopped now and I could see clearly in every direction. The truck had simply vanished. It was impossible. I sat there for a few minutes, wondering what to do. The dent in the guy’s bumper suggested he’d pulled that stunt before, but as I being tormented by a clever driver or haunted by a ghost truck?
I pulled out my phone and dialled 9-1-1.
“Delta County 9-1-1. Where is your emergency?”
“Hi, I’m on Highway 41 just…um…nouth of Gladstone.”
“Do you know your exact location? How far nouth of the city?”
“No? It can’t be too far. I passed Harvey, like, twenty minutes ago.”
“Okay are you in your car sir? Are you safe?”
“Yeah I’m fine. I’m in my car. It’s this other truck.”
“Was there an accident?”
“No. Not yet anyway. I think there’s been a kidnapping.”
“Who has been kidnapped?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Okay, this white Dodge truck has been driving by me over and over again, I think trying to run me off the road. It’s really beaten up but somehow still driving. But there’s someone in the car who I think was kidnapped.”
“(pause) Did you say a white truck, sir?
“Yeah.”
“Can you describe the truck to me?”
“Uh, it was a white Dodge Ram, diesel, with smoke stacks in the back. There was no licence plate. But like I said it was really beate-“
“I’m sorry sir. You’ll have to forget about the truck.”
“What?”
“I’ve been told to ignore all phone calls regarding the white truck.”
“The hell are you talking about? This could be an emergency and you’re ignoring it?”
“It’s not an emergency sir. We…we don’t know what it is.”
“What it is?”
“We’ve just been advised to instruct people to ignore the white truck.”
“Why?”
“It’s from some accident years ago. We don’t know what to do about it. Just forget about the truck and continue on your way. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“How am I supposed to ignore him if he’s running me off the road? And what about the girl trapped inside?”
“I’m sorry sir, but if there’s nothing else, I must keep the line open for emergencies. I’ll have to disconnect the call.”
“I…but…”
She hung up. I sat there for a few meandering minutes, at a loss for what to do. After a moment to collect myself I realized I was still in the middle of the road, an accident waiting to happen, and began to drive away – when the truck blew by me again.
I floored the gas, spinning wildly until I gained traction. I was determined not to lose him. With no snow blowing it wasn’t hard to see the truck up the road – until it disappeared.
I wasn’t distracted this time. I didn’t blink. I was looking right at its dented, licence plate-less bumper as it vanished. Plumes of smoke, just vented from the stacks in the bed, still hung in the air.
It was impossible.
I let off the gas, bewildered and somewhat shaken. Was that why the operator said to ignore it? Was it a ghost truck? Was this a haunted highway? It had been the same truck every time, hadn’t it? It wasn’t a gang of them; it was one truck, roaming the highway, tormenting unsuspecting drivers. It couldn’t be real driver in a real truck – there was no way he could keep driving by me over and over again, driving circles around me. Not in this weather and on these roads – unless he was pulling over and waiting for me to drive by. But that didn’t explain how it was appearing and disappearing in front of my eyes. And if it was a ghost car…the person inside…the face…
Suddenly a horn blew and the truck was beside me again, the fists still pounding, the face still peering. A nose crushed against the passenger side window, lips moving, pushing out barely audible pleas for help. The eyes opened and met mine, sending chills down my spine. They were blurry but I’m sure I saw terror in them.
The truck tore passed, speeding on its way. I was compelled to pursue it, the mystery pulling me, but I resisted. I knew I couldn’t catch the truck and I didn’t want to risk wiping out trying to. Besides, it would probably disappear again, and I would rather not see that a second time. But I did. It was there one second and gone the next.
I looked at the time; the sun was setting and it would be dark soon. I didn’t want to be on this road at night. I should be in Marquette sooner or…
I slowed, just after cresting a hill, disbelief filling me. At the bottom of the hill sat a wreck in the ditch, a dozen or so feet below the road. As I grew closer I realized it was the truck, and it really had been in an accident this time. If I had to guess, it drove down the hill too fast and couldn’t make the corner, and ran off the road and into the trees, bounced off and rolled down into the ditch – although none of the trees had been damaged in any way, save for the one that was nothing nut a jagged stump. The ditch was v-shaped, and the old Dodge sat there nearly on its side – and not the caved-in side either.
I pulled over nearby, noticing no tire tracks had been left behind by the truck and at least an inch of snow covered it. As impossible as it seemed, it must’ve been here for a while. This couldn’t have been the same truck that drove by me several times. Unless…that was a ghost truck, and this was the real one, the actual wreck. Why would it still be here? Had no one come across it before?
I got out of my car and cautiously descended into the ditch toward the truck. Its engine wasn’t running. In fact there was no noise other than the wind. The driver’s door was open a crack, but no door chime sounded and no light spilled from within. There weren’t any footsteps in the snow around the car, on the road, or in the ditch. It had just stopped snowing so there was no way any tracks had been filled in – they were never there. The truck, as usual, had appeared from out of nowhere.
I didn’t want to look inside the truck yet, afraid of what I might find. Instead I walked around the truck first, inspecting it. I put a hand on the smoke stack, which provided two interesting details. First, that it was, in fact, real; it wasn’t a ghost truck or a hallucination. Secondly, the exhaust was cold. Even in the dead of winter, with all the driving it should have been hot. It was ice cold, adding to the growing impression that the truck had been here for a while.
Moving around the front of the truck, I took stock of the damage. With the severe crease in the middle of the bumper and grill, it looked like it had ploughed straight into a tree. The windshield was cracked and shattered and shoved outward on the driver’s side. It all added up, yet it was incredible that it could still drive in its condition – unless it wasn’t, and what I’d seen driving was a ghost truck.
I approached the open driver’s door, which was pinched outward after something had crushed the roof. Or perhaps the truck had landed on its roof at some point in its tragic past. If there were any answers they’d be inside.
Bracing myself for the worst, I grabbed the doorframe and wrenched the door open. Surprisingly, it opened quite easily, but unsurprisingly, I found the truck empty, save for all the snow coating the interior, suggesting again that the truck had been sitting here for a long time. It felt forgotten, abandoned. The truck seemed to be dead, with no lights or sounds. Interestingly, after reaching in to check, I pulled a set of car keys from the ignition.
Suddenly the truck lurched, as if blown by the wind, and my grip on the doorframe slipped. I tumbled into the cab, the door slamming slut behind me. As I tried to right myself I felt the truck moving, back and forth, like someone was pushing it, trying to get it out of the ditch. I told myself it was just the wind, but that wouldn’t explain what happened next.
The truck took off. Somehow, despite no keys, despite no power, despite all logic, the truck began to drive itself out of the ditch and onto the road. I looked out the rear window to see my rental car fading in the distance. I craned my leg around to the brake pedal, not being able to sit in the driver’s seat due to the low roof, and put as much pressure as I could on it. The truck never even slowed down. It was like it was possessed.
I tried the steering wheel next, but it too was locked in place. In fact, according to the shifter, the truck had never left park. There was no power in the cab. The dash didn’t light up and its gauges were zeroed. The windows wouldn’t work without power; same goes for the power door locks, though they should still disengage manually. But they wouldn’t budge either. It was like being in the back of a cop car. Even the windows wouldn’t break no matter how hard I kicked at them. Nothing made any sense. This had to be an elaborate prank, right?
I searched the center arm rest and glove box and any other nook and cranny, looking for information, something that would shed light on my situation. I just found receipts and old food wrappers, and a dead cell phone. I grumbled after that, realizing my cell phone was back in the rental car.
I suddenly remembered the face I saw in the window earlier, a girl’s face, I believe. What had happened to her? Where was she now? Did the truck finally open its doors, setting her free, knowing fresh meat would be along soon? And now what would happen to me? I was trapped, that much was clear, but for how long, and to what end? Will anyone know I’ve been kidnapped? Will anyone ever find me?
A pit of despair opened like a chasm in my stomach. I don’t know how long I sat staring out the window, but the resurgence of blowing snow brought me out of my stupor. I blinked as I saw the car beside us; we were passing it. Perhaps this was my chance. I shouted at the top of my lungs and pounded my hands on the window, trying to get their attention. Night had fallen and the blowing snow obscured my view of the driver, so I don’t know if they saw me.
The white truck sped on recklessly into the night and I wondered if I’d see that car again, like how the truck stalked mine. How long would it be before someone realized I needed help, and if they do something or just ignore me?
I should’ve listened to the 9-1-1 operator and just drove on. She said the truck has been haunting the highway for years. What could I possibly have done to fix it, to solve the mystery? I should have just ignored it. I would have arrived at Marquette eventually, and even if the truck pursued me all the way, what could it do after that?
Time will tell if it’s too late for me, but if you see a white Dodge that has no business being on the road, please take it out. I mean, help me if you can, but if not, put this truck down. It looks like something tried to before but didn’t get the job done. Now it’s your turn; finish it. Do what I could not. Don’t end up like me.
The Chris Effect 
Leave a comment