Episode 215: The Woman on Route 87 – A Trucker’s Midnight Warning

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Some roads don’t just stretch
across states, they stretch

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between worlds.
Do you ever feel like

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something’s riding with you,
even when you’re alone?

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Like the darkness just outside
your window is watching, not

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passing by?
Welcome to Paranormal Night

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Shift, where your headlights may
light the way forward, but

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what’s behind you?
That’s another story entirely.

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I’m your host, Andy, and
tonight’s story takes us deep

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into the snowy mountain roads of
Pennsylvania, a place where the

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only thing more dangerous than
black ice is what might be

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standing in the middle of the
road.

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It comes from one of our
listeners, Tommy, a seasoned

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trucker with years behind the
wheel who thought he’d seen it

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all.
That is, until the night he met

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her.
Before we get into it, just a

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heads up, we’ve started sharing
exclusive stories with our

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e-mail subscribers.
Stories too strange, too

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personal or too intense to make
it on air.

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You won’t hear them anywhere
else.

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And if you haven’t already, head
to paranormalnightshift.com and

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grab your free copy of The Birth
of Dimensional Desperado, the

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first book in my time travelling
paranormal series.

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Book 2 already in the works, and
if you’re on the e-mail list or

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part of our Patreon, you’ll get
early access to behind the

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Scenes peaks and the first
chapters before the rest of the

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world.
All right, you ready?

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Because once the story starts,
there’s no turning back.

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This is Tommy’s story.
Let’s begin.

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You spend enough nights behind
the wheel and the road becomes

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part of you.
The hum of the tires, the whine

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of the turbo, the static from
the radio, the occasional

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chatter between guys trying to
stay awake.

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It’s a rhythm, a slow, steady
beat you come to rely on.

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I’ve been running water up and
down the mountains of the

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Pennsylvania oil fields since I
was 21, and there’s something

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about working a night shift that
changes the way you see things.

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The world gets quieter,
lonelier, stranger.

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Forksville is one of those blink
and you miss it places tucked up

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in the endless hills of
Pennsylvania.

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They call it a town, but it
barely qualifies.

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Just a handful of houses, a fire
hall, and that creeping sense

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that you’re a long way from
anywhere familiar.

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When you come down off Route 87
in the dead of winter, with

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nothing but your headlights and
the stars to light your way, the

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trees seem to close in around
you like they’re watching.

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That night was colder than
usual, one of those bitter,

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brittle January nights where
even the diesel doesn’t want to

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start.
I’d already been running loads

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for about 6 hours and the
silence was so thick it started

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playing tricks on my ears.
Every now and then I’d hear a

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pop or a groan from the tanker
or the trees cracking under the

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weight of the snow, but
otherwise nothing.

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Just me, the radio and the road.
I was on my way down the

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mountain off 87, just easing the
Jake brake on the descent,

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headlights stretching through
the falling snow.

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That’s when I saw it, just for a
second, A flash of white off to

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the right at the edge of the
woods.

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It looked like a dress.
I blinked, shook my head,

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figured it had to be a deer,
maybe an animal running through

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snow.
Light hits it weird sometimes,

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especially when you’ve been
staring into it all night.

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Your mind fills in gaps.
You learn not to trust the first

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thing you think you see.
Still, I slowed down just a bit,

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enough to scan the edge of the
trees.

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Nothing.
I kept going.

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I picked up another load at the
pad and headed back up the same

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stretch.
By now it was after 2:00 AM, and

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the road was even slicker.
Halfway up the mountain, just as

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I came around to bend with my
brights on, I saw her again.

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But this time there was no
mistaking it.

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She was standing in the road,
black hair long hanging straight

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and heavy, a white gown, no
coat, no shoes, just there with

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her back to me in the middle of
the lane, like she was waiting

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for something.
I locked the brakes.

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The truck groaned, ABS clicking,
trailer hissing as it fought to

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keep straight.
I managed to stop just a few

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feet short of her.
Heart in my throat.

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I grabbed my work bag, dugout,
my flashlight, my thermal, a

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blanket, anything I thought I
might need to help someone in

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trouble ’cause let’s be honest,
a woman alone, dressed like

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that, in weather like this, on a
road like that, it screamed

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emergency.
I jumped down from the cab,

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flashlight sweeping, gone, just
gone.

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No footprints, no shadow in the
trees, nothing but the howl of

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wind over fresh snow.
I stood there in the quiet,

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heart pounding, breath fogging
out in front of me like smoke.

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Every hair on my arms was
standing straight up.

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I could feel it, that wrongness,
that electric gut, deep buzz

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that tells you you’re not alone
even when you can’t see anyone.

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I got back in the truck, locked
the doors behind me out of

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instinct, and called over the
radio.

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Breaker breaker.
Anyone running near Forksville,

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keep your eyes peeled.
There’s might be a woman

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wandering the Rd.
White dress, dark hair.

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She was just on the road, gone
now.

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Just be careful.
Radio silence, and not even a

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joke or a sarcastic reply, which
was rare.

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That silence was worse than
anything.

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As I started moving again, a
cold shiver crept down my spine.

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Not from the weather, from
something else.

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The kind of cold that gets
inside you.

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The kind that doesn’t leave when
you turn the heater up.

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That’s when I glanced at the
passenger seat, and I froze.

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There, clear as day in the
reflection of the window, was

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the woman, her face not looking
out, looking in at me.

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I whipped around, seat empty.
Nothing there but her

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reflection.
I still saw it for a heartbeat

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longer than I should have.
That’s when I panicked.

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I slammed the accelerator,
trying to get off that stretch

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as fast as I could.
The back end of the truck began

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to sway.
And then black ice.

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The wheels lost traction, the
entire truck jackknifed, and I

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felt my stomach flip as the
trailer pulled me toward the

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outside lane, toward the
guardrail, toward the drop.

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I was done for.
No rail in the world was going

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to stop a fully loaded water
truck from tumbling off that

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mountain.
But somehow I didn’t go over.

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The driver’s side duly caught
something just enough grip to

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pull me out of the skid.
The steer tires locked.

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The truck lurch tipped up for a
second onto one side and slammed

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back down with a bone jarring
thud.

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I skidded to a dead stop inches
from the guardrail, and that was

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it.
I climbed out, legs shaking,

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hands still numb with
adrenaline.

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I set cones, dropped flares,
called dispatch.

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I didn’t tell them everything,
just said I hit black ice, used

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my stop work authority and
needed a ride home.

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They didn’t press.
Maybe they knew better, maybe I

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wasn’t the first.
I sat on the snow packed

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shoulder of that mountain for
what felt like an hour, just

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staring at the road, the woods,
the darkness.

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I never saw her again that
night.

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But I’ve talked to others, guys
who run the same roads I do, and

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some of them, they’ve seen her
too.

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Sometimes standing by the trees,
sometimes standing in the road,

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sometimes not until she’s
already in the truck.

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I’ve seen a lot out here in the
oil field, stuff I can’t

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explain, stuff I’ve stopped
trying to explain.

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But that night, that was the one
that stuck with me.

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Because whatever she was,
whoever she was, I don’t think

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she meant to hurt me.
I think she meant to warn me.

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It may be just maybe, she saved
my life.

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Some roads are more than just a
stretch of asphalt, their

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pathways through places where
time frays and something other

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waits just beyond the
headlights.

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Tommy’s story reminds us that
even the most seasoned drivers

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used to long nights and silent
miles, aren’t immune to the

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unexplained.
Sometimes what we see out there

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is real, and sometimes what
saves us is the very thing.

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Tommy, thank you for sharing a
moment that shook you and

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reminded all of us that
sometimes what’s out there in

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the dark might just be watching
it back if you’re listening and

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feeling that chill up your
spine.

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Yeah, same here.
Now, before you go, remember

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we’ve got stories you’ll only
find in the e-mail list, the

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kind I can’t share on air.
If you’re the kind of night

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shifter who craves more of the
unknown, the unspoken, the

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stories too strange for
spotify.gograbyourspot@paranormalnightshift.com.

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Plus my time travel series
Dimensional Desperado is heating

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up.
Book 2 is on the way, and if

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you’re on the e-mail list or
Patreon, you’ll get a sneak peek

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before it drops.
If this story gave you chills,

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let us know.
Subscribe on Spotify, drop a

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comment on YouTube, or just send
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Your feedback keeps this shift
going strong.

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And hey, if you’ve got a story,
you know where to find me.

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And until next time, keep one
eye on the road and the other on

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the rearview.
Goodnight, time travelers.