Every time the truck stops, whoever is standing nearest its back doors begins to slow. Words drag. Faces sag. Then they fall flat and sink into the asphalt, and they keep sinking.
The cargo is a warm grey stone the size of a fist, heavy enough to bend the light around it, resting on a stack of steel plates it is slowly falling through. The man paid to haul it has one rule: never stop longer than it takes to fuel. A voice on a sealed radio picks every stop.
Along Interstate 80, people have learned to live with it. Drivers move their rigs when this one pulls in. A tow truck waits at the pumps before anyone calls. Children chalk outlines on the asphalt and take turns lying inside them.
The driver is sixty-one, fired for falling asleep at the wheel, with nobody left to miss him. Behind the voice on the radio, something knocks, slow and heavy, far below. He has heard that sound once before, lying on a farmhouse lawn in Nebraska.
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This story is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only. The events, characters, and organizations portrayed are entirely fictional, and any references to governmental bodies, entities, or individuals are not intended to represent reality. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real-life events or organizations is purely coincidental.
#scifi #scifihorror #creepypasta
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