Chapter 5: The Night the Dead Called My Name

That night, I had a dream. In it, I was driving the big rig down the interstate, nerves shot. The sky outside was pitch black, wild woods on both sides, voices hollering in the distance, but I couldn’t make out the words.

The hum of the tires was hypnotic, the headlights slicing through darkness. My heart thudded, palms slick on the wheel. The voices rose and fell, echoing off the trees, just out of reach. I tried to focus on the road, but the fear crawled up my spine.

It felt like someone was sitting in the passenger seat. I didn’t look—I just knew, somehow, who it was. And also didn’t. I just kept driving, tense.

The seat creaked, the air thick with the scent of diesel and old coffee. I felt eyes on me, a presence heavy as a thundercloud. I gripped the wheel tighter, refusing to glance over. Some things are better left unseen.

After a while, my head cleared a little. Maybe the anxiety was because a kid had gone missing back home.

The worry sharpened, turning the dream into a memory. I pictured the missing kid—news clipping on the fridge, parents’ faces drawn and hollow. The sense of dread was familiar, a knot I couldn’t untangle.

At some point, the truck rolled into a small town. It felt both familiar and strange. It wasn’t my hometown, but I could tell it wasn’t far.

The main street was empty, storefronts dark. The place had the bones of home—old brick buildings, a faded mural on the feed store—but I knew every crack in my real hometown, and this wasn’t it. Still, something about it tugged at me.

Our town used to be dirt poor. When I was a kid, every family lived in cramped little houses, everyone sleeping on fold-out couches. But the houses here all had wide porches and big yards, shingled roofs. Still, they all looked pitch black, like nobody’d lived there in years.

The lawns were overgrown, swings creaking in the wind. Porch lights flickered, casting long shadows. It was the kind of place you’d pass through on the way to somewhere else, the memory of better times clinging to every mailbox.

The road ended, and I had to stop. A weird-shaped house blocked the truck—octagonal, white siding, black shingles, but no front door I could see.

The headlights caught the angles, making the house look like a stop sign for lost souls. I killed the engine, the silence ringing in my ears. The place felt wrong, like a puzzle with a missing piece.

I jumped out, headlights lighting up the house. Suddenly, I saw a kid behind a glass window. He saw me too, started pounding on the glass, shouting.

His face was pale, eyes wide with fear. The sound was muffled, but urgent. I felt a surge of panic, legs moving before my mind caught up.

I could just barely hear him calling for help: "Eddie, Eddie—help me!"

The words echoed, twisting in my chest. I knew that voice—high and desperate, the way Tommy used to sound when we were kids and he got lost at the fair. My heart hammered, the urge to help overwhelming.

—It was Tommy. No doubt about it.

Recognition hit like a punch. The years fell away, and suddenly I was ten again, running through backyards, searching for my friend. The fear was real, sharp as broken glass.

In the dream, I wasn’t a grown man in my thirties anymore, but a kid again. I ran toward the house, panicked, but suddenly there was a banging sound behind me.

My legs felt weak, sneakers slapping the pavement. The world spun, and I heard the sharp, insistent pounding—someone else trying to get my attention. I turned, breathless.

I spun around. Someone was in the passenger seat of my rig, pounding on the windshield. The headlights flickered, and I saw clearly who it was—it was my wife.

Her face glowed in the dash lights, eyes fierce and urgent. She pressed her palm to the glass, mouthing words I couldn’t quite hear. My heart twisted, grief and longing crashing over me.

"Eddie, stay away from Tommy!" Her voice cut through the dream, sharp as a warning bell.

I froze, torn between the past and the present, between guilt and survival. Her words echoed, and I woke up gasping, the memory of her touch lingering in the dark.

But the road wasn’t done with me yet.