I’ve been driving lorries for twelve years now, mostly night shifts on the M6 between Manchester and Glasgow. I’m telling you this because I need you to understand—I’m not some kid who spooks easily. I’m forty-three, I’ve seen plenty of weird stuff on these roads, and I know the difference between tired eyes and something actually being wrong.
But what happened last Tuesday? I still can’t explain it.
It was about 3 AM when I pulled into that services near Carlisle. You know the type—half the lights broken, one cashier behind bulletproof glass, and maybe two other vehicles in the entire car park. I’d been on the road since eight the previous evening, and I was only stopping because regulations say I have to.
That’s when I saw him.
He was standing under one of the working streetlights, thumb out, wearing a dark coat that looked too thin for November. Young lad, maybe early twenties, with a rucksack at his feet. I normally don’t stop for hitchers—company policy and all that—but something about him seemed desperate. Lost, maybe.
I rolled down my window. “Where you headed?”
“North,” he said. His voice was soft, polite. “Anywhere north is fine.”
I should have known then. I mean, who doesn’t have a specific destination? But I was tired, and honestly, I didn’t fancy another four hours alone with just the radio.
“Hop in, mate. I’m going to Glasgow.”
I heard the passenger door open. Felt the lorry shift slightly as he climbed in. The door closed with that solid thunk that eighteen-wheelers make.
“Cheers,” he said, settling into the seat. “I really appreciate it.”
We pulled back onto the M6, and for the first hour or so, we actually had a decent chat. He told me he’d been visiting family down south, that his girlfriend was waiting for him in Edinburgh. Normal stuff. His name was Tom—or maybe Tim? I honestly can’t remember now, which bothers me more than it should.
“You do this run often?” he asked.
“Four times a week, usually. Been doing it for years.”
“Don’t you get lonely?”
I shrugged. “You get used to it. Besides, I’ve got podcasts, audiobooks. Keeps the mind busy.”
Looking back, I realize he never actually answered any personal questions. Every time I asked something specific—where exactly his girlfriend lived, what he did for work—he’d deflect, turn it back to me. But in the moment, I didn’t notice. I was just glad for the company.
About two hours in, something started feeling off.
The cab had gotten cold. Not just chilly—properly cold, like when the heating cuts out completely. I fiddled with the controls, but they were working fine, showing eighteen degrees. My breath wasn’t fogging or anything. But I felt it, this deep cold that seemed to come from the passenger seat.
“You feel that?” I asked.
“Feel what?”
“The temperature. It’s freezing.”
“Feels alright to me,” he said.
Maybe I was just paranoid. Maybe the heating was dodgy. I turned it up higher and tried to focus on the road.
That’s when I noticed he hadn’t moved. Not once. Not a scratch, not a shift in his seat, nothing. Everyone fidgets, you know? Especially on long drives. But Tom—Tim—whatever his name was, he sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, staring straight ahead.
“You alright there?” I asked.
“Fine. Just tired.”
“Want me to turn on some music?”
“No, thank you.”
The conversation died after that. I tried a few more times to start it up again, but he’d just give short answers, and the silences between felt heavier each time. I started counting down the miles to the next services. I didn’t want to seem rude, but something wasn’t right. My instincts were screaming at me to stop, to get him out of my cab.
We passed a sign: Services, 15 miles.
“I need to stop for fuel soon,” I said. “You can probably get a bus from there if you want to push on to Edinburgh.”
“That would be good.”
Twelve minutes later—I was watching the clock—I pulled into the services at Abington. The place was better lit than the last stop, and there were a few more vehicles around. I felt relief flood through me as I killed the engine.
“Right then,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
I glanced over at the passenger seat.
It was empty.
I felt my heart drop. The seatbelt was still fastened, hanging there like he’d just vanished. The seat itself was pristine—no impression, no warmth, nothing.
“What the—” I climbed out of the cab and walked around to the passenger side.
The door was locked. From the inside.
I unlocked it manually and pulled it open. The door was stiff, like it hadn’t been opened in a while. And there, across the handle, was a spider web—intact, delicate, definitely not something that could survive someone opening and closing the door twice.
My hands were shaking as I filled up with diesel. I kept looking around, expecting to see him walking away, some rational explanation. But the car park was nearly empty, and none of the few people around matched his description.
I went inside to pay. The cashier was a middle-aged woman who looked as tired as I felt.
“Did you see anyone get out of my lorry?” I asked her. “Young lad, dark coat?”
She shook her head. “Been watching the cameras. You’ve been the only one at that pump.”
“Could I… could I see?”
She turned the monitor toward me. I watched myself pull in, get out, walk around the cab, check the passenger door. The whole time, through the windscreen, you could see clear as day—the passenger seat was empty. Had been empty the entire time.
“You alright, love?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I paid and left. I didn’t tell her that’s exactly what I thought I’d done.
I drove the rest of the way to Glasgow in silence. No radio, no podcasts. Just me and the road and this growing certainty that I hadn’t been alone in that cab.
When I got to the depot, I checked the passenger seat properly. Nothing. No evidence anyone had ever been there. But the cab was still cold, and when I looked at the door frame, I noticed something that made my blood run cold.
There were fingerprints on the inside of the window.
Small, precise fingerprints. And they were frosted over, like they’d been made in ice.
I’ll never forget how real he seemed. The way he spoke, the way he answered my questions. I’ve driven that route three times since then, and I haven’t stopped at that first services again. To this day, I still check the passenger seat compulsively, expecting to see someone sitting there in the darkness.
Sometimes, late at night on empty stretches of the M6, I catch myself glancing over.
Just to make sure I’m really alone.
