Chapter 1: Midnight in the Smokies

The first thing you learn driving at midnight in the Smokies? Don’t slow down for flashing lights—unless you want to become the next roadside ghost story.

Out here, people always say: keep your eyes on the asphalt, not on other folks’ trouble. Every time the strobing blue and red comes into view and cars start crawling, I can still smell Tommy’s cheap cigars and the old pine-scented air freshener swinging from his rearview. It’s just common sense—don’t go hitting the brakes for every thumb you see.

Doesn’t matter if you’re cutting through the backroads of Tennessee or winding through California passes. Tommy always said, “You don’t know what you’re picking up—or who’s hiding in the trees.” Sometimes, a little kindness needs a lot of caution, especially after midnight.

And just because you’re behind the wheel of a big ol’ pickup, don’t think trouble can’t catch up. There’s always some fool out there with more guts than brains. I learned quick: steel and horsepower might make you feel safe, but sometimes it just makes you a bigger bullseye.

Ten years later, Tommy’s warnings still rattle around in my head, especially on nights like this. Sometimes, I swear I hear his gravelly laugh and the crackle of his radio: “Don’t go looking for trouble, kid—trouble finds you.”

But tonight, I broke every rule.

The air in the cab felt thick as old syrup, heavy with that feeling you get when you know you just crossed some invisible line. I could almost hear Tommy’s disappointed sigh, echoing between the dash and the dark.

It was right around midnight when I spotted them—a family of four, wild-eyed and frantic, waving me down from the shoulder.

My headlights swept across them as I came around the bend—two adults, two kids, bundled up tight, their faces ghostly in the glare. Their arms flailed, desperate. Out here, your own beams are the only lifeline for miles.

The man dropped to his knees as soon as he caught my lights, hands raised, sobbing right there on the asphalt. Something about the way he broke made my gut clench—this wasn’t just car trouble.

Their black Chevy was parked all cockeyed on the shoulder, hazard lights flickering, trunk cracked open like they’d been digging for something—maybe a jack, maybe a weapon. But their fear was the kind that seeps under your skin.

I hesitated, thumb tapping the steering wheel, memories of a close call years ago flickering through my mind—my little sister waiting at home, Tommy’s voice in my ear. I thought about what I’d want if it were my own family stranded out here. My hand hovered over the lock, my breath stuck somewhere between my ribs. Finally, I hit the unlock. Sometimes you just have to roll the dice.

They scrambled into the cab—dad first, voice quivering, wife and kids pressed together in the back like a human shield. I could see a Titans bumper sticker on their duffel, a little cross swinging from the rearview of their abandoned car, and the daughter’s hoodie said “Vanderbilt.”

He stammered, shaking so bad I thought he might drop right through the floor. His wife and kids gripped each other like the seat could save them.

I gave him a grin and smacked the dash. “Don’t worry, man. This truck’s built like a tank—nobody’s pushing us around tonight.” But I kept one eye glued to the side mirror, just in case.

Suddenly, the radio fizzed to life, a newsman’s voice slicing through the static: “—fatal accident, red sports car, black sedan—”

My blood iced over as the report rolled on, describing a crash on this very stretch of road—a red sports car and a black sedan tangled up, just like the family’s.

The announcer’s voice was sharp: the driver of the red sports car died at the scene.

The heater’s hum was the only thing left in the cab. Natalie murmured to her kids in the back, her voice shaking as she stroked their hair. The silence pressed in from all sides.

I snapped the radio off so fast the knob stung my fingers, cutting the report dead.

A thick silence swallowed us. You could hear every shaky breath, every heartbeat. My hand hovered on the knob longer than it needed to—just making sure.

The man in the passenger seat looked like he’d seen a ghost. His face was ashen, hands quaking against his knees, eyes fixed on the black windshield. With no streetlights for miles, only the high beams carved out a path ahead.

He croaked, “How can it be such a coincidence? The one chasing us just now was also a red sports car.”

His voice was all jagged edges, desperate for something solid. He squeezed his wife’s hand so tight her knuckles turned white.

The kids in the back huddled up, faces drawn, eyes darting between the windows and their parents. The boy—maybe fifteen—looked suddenly so much younger, knees pulled to his chest, foot tapping the floor.

I fished out a battered pack of Marlboros and held one out. “That was a news segment about an old crash—three years ago. Just a review, not tonight.” He took the cigarette with shaking fingers, mouth twitching in something like a thank you. Sometimes you have to lie to keep hope alive.

He let out a sigh, the relief so sharp it almost hurt. He took a drag, lighter’s flame flickering in his haunted eyes. “Man, what’s your name?”

“Derek. Just Derek. This is my wife, Natalie.” I jerked my thumb toward the back, giving a quick smile in the mirror. Natalie gave a tired wave, her arm wrapped around her daughter, her eyes wary but grateful.

“I’m Marcus. Marcus Long.” He tried to sound steady, but his name came out brittle. I nodded to Natalie in the mirror; she clutched her daughter close and managed a worried smile.

Natalie’s smile was more a shadow than anything, but she tried to put on a brave front for the kids. She tucked a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear, squeezing her hand gently.

“We really have to thank you, Derek,” Marcus sighed, the gratitude thick in his throat. “We were just picking up our daughter, planning to go home together. Who could have guessed we’d run into something like this?”

He shook his head, voice still shaking. “I keep thinking, if you hadn’t come by—” He stopped, letting the words fade into the night.

Natalie tried to lighten the mood with a nervous laugh. “We’ll have to light a few extra candles this Sunday. I swear I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.”

“Is your daughter in college?” I glanced at the girl in Natalie’s arms, noting the Vanderbilt hoodie. She looked like she belonged in a campus coffee shop, not shivering in a truck at midnight.

Natalie’s fingers drew little circles on her daughter’s shoulder, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Yeah, she’s in college.”

“It’s not a holiday right now. Why is she coming home?” I tried to sound casual, but something about this family’s tension put me on edge. Small talk was all that stood between us and the shadows outside.

Natalie’s face froze for a second, but before she could answer, the son started coughing—rough, dry, and ragged, like gravel in his chest. I shot a worried glance back.

His cough was harsh, his breath rattling. He tried to muffle it, turning away from his mom and sister, shoulders shaking.

Marcus didn’t even look back. “Caleb, hang in there. Don’t make weird noises.” His voice was sharp, fear leaking through the cracks.

Caleb shrank back, biting his lip, his eyes darting to his father before falling silent.

“Hey, come on now. If the kid’s sick, let him cough,” I said, trying to break the tension.

Marcus just forced a tight smile and turned away, staring out into the dark.

Suddenly, an engine roared in the distance, loud and getting closer. The sound sliced through the night. Everyone in the truck stiffened; Natalie’s hand froze in midair.

Marcus tensed, peering out the window, voice trembling. “It’s that red sports car again! It’s following us!”

His hand jumped to the door handle, knuckles white, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill. He looked at me, panic flooding his face.

Headlights exploded in the rearview—blood-red and bone-white, engine screaming. The roar swallowed every other sound.

I locked my hands on the wheel, the mountain road winding like a snake beneath us, drop-off yawning to the right. Every muscle in my arms tensed as I fought to keep the truck steady.

Natalie yanked her kids close, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered, but her voice was thin as paper. Marcus squeezed his temples, trying to block out the terror.

The sports car was right on our tail, headlights glaring, engine howling through the cab. My heart hammered, adrenaline burning away any hint of sleep.

The driver’s face was twisted in the headlights—halfway out the windshield, mouth gaping in a silent howl, hair wild in the wind. He looked more animal than man, eyes wide and feral.

I wondered for a split second if this was some drunk daredevil, a local racer, or something worse. The mountain draws all kinds—but this felt wrong.

I held my lane, fighting the urge to brake or swerve. I wasn’t about to let some maniac run us off the road.

The trees crowded close, the drop-off looming on the other side. I focused on the double yellow, the old asphalt’s rumble steady under the tires.

The horn blared—a shrill, desperate wail, the kind that haunts your dreams. Over the wind, I could almost make out words, but they were lost in the chaos.

The sports car driver swerved and weaved, tires scraping gravel, lurching toward the center line like he had nothing left to lose.

I gritted my teeth and refused to budge. Let him honk—he wasn’t getting past me.

Each engine roar was sharper than the last, like death itself was swinging a scythe overhead. The air crackled with fear.

Marcus shrank down in his seat, muttering prayers and curses, sweat dripping onto the dash.

A curve loomed ahead. “Hold tight. I’ve got this,” I said, voice steady as I could make it.

I took the bend hard, swinging the truck across the road, tires squealing. The red blur behind us slammed on the brakes, headlights jerking wildly.

The screech of rubber ripped through the night. For a second, I thought he’d spin out and tumble over the edge.

The headlights danced, then steadied. The car wobbled, barely hanging on.

And then—silence. The red beast dropped back, swallowed by the dark. Only my heartbeat and the heater’s hum remained.

But when I blinked, she was gone—and the road ahead suddenly felt a lot longer.