Truck 1177

The smell struck first—thick as a fist, sharp and rotten. Martin Avery stepped back, lifting his arm to shield his nose, but the air was soupy with the scent of something sour and sickly sweet, mingling with a metallic tang. A putrid, hot fog wafted from truck number 1177’s open cab, settling on his skin like grease.

Martin gagged, sweat prickling at his temples as he took another step back. He had smelled plenty of foul rigs—cabs that reeked of stale food, old coffee, sweat. But this was something different. It was foul in a way that felt wrong, like decay had settled into the metal itself.

But a job was a job.

His supervisor’s words echoed in his head: “Just clean it out for the next driver. Then you can call it a night.” A routine job, no worse than any other, he’d been told. And yet, Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that he was standing in front of something that wanted him gone. He had laughed off the stories he’d heard—the ones about drivers who refused to climb inside, who claimed to hear whispers or see shadows that didn’t belong. Ghost stories. Tricks of the mind. But now, standing with the door open and the smell clinging to him like a heavy coat, he wasn’t so sure.

He took a deep breath, his grip tightening on the door handle. “Just a truck,” he muttered, steadying himself. He was being ridiculous. He climbed into the cab, his boots scraping against the metal step, and pulled the door shut behind him.

The air inside was stifling. Shadows clung to every surface, thick and unmoving, as if even the light was trapped in here. Dust hung in the stagnant air, glowing faintly in the fading sunlight that crept in through the windshield. Martin took a shallow breath, hoping it would be better once he got used to it. But the air was everywhere, thick and rancid, sliding down his throat and coating his tongue in a taste that was both bitter and sickeningly sweet.

He blinked, trying to shake off the feeling of something pressing against him, close and heavy. “Just a job,” he whispered, but the words sounded hollow in the quiet, as though the truck had absorbed them, swallowed them up in its darkness.

Martin gripped his flashlight, clicking it on, and a thin beam of light cut through the murky air. The dust swirled in its path, and he could see, barely, the outline of the passenger seat beside him. The leather was cracked and worn, pocked with small, dark stains that made his stomach turn. He moved the flashlight over the dashboard, the seats, the floor, taking note of what needed cleaning. It was filthy, but not in the usual way; the dirt seemed fused to the surfaces, as if it had been left to rot there, untouched for years.

He pulled a rag from his back pocket, wrapping it over his mouth and nose, hoping it would block out the worst of the stench. His hand was shaking as he reached for the passenger seat, his fingers grazing the cracked leather. It was cold. Too cold, like he’d just touched metal left out in the dead of winter. A chill prickled across his skin, crawling up his arm, and he pulled his hand back, flexing his fingers to shake off the sensation.

The cab was silent—so silent that he could hear his own heartbeat, a rapid, pulsing thud that seemed to echo in his ears. But then, beneath it, he thought he heard something else. A faint sound, barely more than a murmur, drifting through the quiet.

He froze, straining to listen. It was too soft, too distant, like whispers slipping through cracks in the air. The sound wound around him, low and indistinct, growing louder and softer in turns, until it faded into nothing. He shook his head, letting out a shaky breath. Just the wind, he told himself, though he didn’t quite believe it.

A metallic clink echoed through the cab, and Martin jumped, his hand gripping the flashlight tighter. He turned, his eyes darting around the small space, but there was nothing—just the dark, the shadows, and the thick, clinging air. His heart pounded, each beat loud in the silence, and he took another breath, forcing himself to calm down.

Get it done and get out. He leaned over the seat again, wiping at the dashboard with the cloth, but the grime wouldn’t come off. It was like it was part of the truck, embedded in the very metal. He scrubbed harder, the rag scraping against the surface, and a faint, metallic scraping sound filled the cab, like nails dragging across metal.

Martin stopped, a cold shiver prickling at the base of his spine. He hadn’t been moving the rag anymore, but the sound was still there, low and insistent, scraping over the metal like something alive. His hand froze, and he looked down, seeing a line etched into the grime on the dashboard, a line that seemed to twist and writhe, forming words that he hadn’t written.

Get out.

He stared, his breath shallow, his hand frozen over the dashboard. His fingers tingled, as though the very air were pressing in on him, sinking into his skin. The silence grew thicker, pressing against his ears, his throat, until he could hear his own pulse echoing in his head. He turned, gripping the flashlight, shining it into the back of the cab, and his heart stopped.

There were faces in the darkness.

They were faint, barely visible, as though made of smoke and shadow, but they were there, pressed against the glass of the side windows, their hollow eyes staring straight at him. Their mouths were open, twisted in silent screams, and Martin felt his throat tighten, his skin prickling with a cold, creeping dread. He blinked, hoping they would disappear, but they only grew clearer, the shadows solidifying, taking form.

He twisted in his seat, heart pounding, but the cab was empty. Just him and the dark. But when he turned back, the faces were there again, closer, their eyes locked onto his, filled with a rage so intense it burned. His fingers dug into the leather of the seat, his whole body tense as he watched them, waiting for them to move, to reach out.

The flashlight flickered, and the faces faded into shadows, but he could still feel their gaze on him, pressing into his skin like icy fingers. The air was thick with whispers now, a tangled chorus of voices winding around him, slipping into his ears, seeping under his skin. His hand tightened on the door handle, his knuckles white, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The whispers grew louder, rising and falling in waves, each one laced with fury, with a hatred so intense it clawed at his mind.

And then, in the corner of his eye, he saw something move.

A shadow twisted in the passenger seat, forming a shape, something cold and dark and alive. It slithered up, rising into the shape of a figure—a woman, her skin pale and peeling, her eyes sunken, her lips curling into a snarl. Her mouth opened, wider than humanly possible, stretching into a void of darkness that seemed to pull him in.

“Stay,” she whispered, her voice low and rasping, winding through the silence, wrapping around him like chains. He could feel it pressing into his chest, cold and heavy, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

Martin’s hand shot to the door handle, yanking it, desperate to escape, but it wouldn’t budge. The handle was cold, slick with something wet and sticky, and his fingers slipped, his heart racing as he tried again, harder, but the door remained locked, trapping him inside.

“No, please,” he whispered, his voice trembling, barely audible over the roar of whispers that filled the cab. He clawed at the door, his fingers scraping against the metal, but there was no escape. The darkness was pressing in, coiling around him, sinking into his skin, binding him to the cab.

The shadows grew thicker, pooling around him, pressing against his chest, his throat, until he could barely breathe. He could feel the cold seeping into his bones, freezing him from the inside out, and the smell—oh, the smell—was everywhere, coating his skin, his mouth, his lungs, filling him with a rot that felt as if it were part of him.

In a final, desperate act, he grabbed his notebook, his hand shaking as he scrawled a single, jagged word onto the page: Help. The letters wobbled, barely legible, but it was all he could do, a final plea that might outlast him.

But then he felt them—the fingers. Cold, skeletal fingers wrapped around his neck, squeezing, cutting off his air, and his vision blurred, the faces in the mirror merging into a dark, writhing mass. The whispers became a roar, filling his mind, cutting through his thoughts, until there was nothing left but darkness.

Outside, truck number 1177 sat idling in the yard, its cab empty, silent, the stench of rot barely noticeable on the night air. And if anyone were to look inside, they might catch a glimpse of a new face among the others, pressed against the glass, eyes wide and empty, mouth open in an endless scream.