roll on 18 wheeler


I’ve watched “Christmas Shoes” one too many times because I was totally thinking this afternoon that Alabama’s hit song, “Roll On (18 wheeler)” should be a Christmas story.

Can’t you just see Daddy having to make one last Christmas run on December 22 so they’ll have enough money for gifts that year? He plans to get home on Christmas Eve, just in time for Christmas. But, oh sh*t, instead of Daddy calling on the 24th, it’s the highway patrol. 

Momma and the three kids spend all Christmas Eve reminiscing about Daddy until they finally fall asleep. Then Momma has one of those cloudy flashbacks, like they do on the Hallmark channel) about their romantic times and prays for Daddy to make it home.

Cut to Christmas morning as the heavy snow gives way to a sunny morning. Then, the phone rings. It’s Daddy making that call home as Momma and the 3 kids sit around the tree not wanting to open gifts but trying to keep it together. For Daddy, of course.

This is what happens when you watch “Christmas Shoes.” That movie will poison you. 


Yes I have always had an appreciative nature towards these massive yet majestic mechanical beasts of industry.  Though I’ve never driven one, I think it’s be a power trip!

Creepypasta #559: They Beckon

Story length: Super long

The 18-wheeler rolled through the midnight terrain at a constant speed of 75 miles per hour. The trucker hadn’t given his name. The hitch-hiker with his mop of tangled blond hair, his ragged camouflage backpack, and his unchecked wanderlust wouldn’t have remembered it anyway.

It was a lonely stretch of interstate somewhere on the map between one coast and the other. It didn’t matter if it was Minnesota or Texas, Florida or Idaho, it all looked the same in the dark. The stars were a scattering of illuminated pin pricks on a blanket of impenetrable cosmic blackness. The vegetation along the road looked like an undulating mass of living shadows.

“Thanks again,” said the hitch-hiker.

The trucker nodded. “You’re welcome again. Glad to have some company.”

“I bet this job can get boring sometimes, huh?”

The trucker shrugged. “You get used to it.”

Then the engine whined and the wheels sputtered. The cab vibrated and the trucker whispered an irritated curse.

“I’m not a mechanic, but that doesn’t sound good,” said the hitch-hiker. He straightened up and scanned the highway for other vehicles. They were alone.

The trucker grimaced, clutching the gear shift and fighting back against the massive grunting engine. The semi decelerated. “Well, we might be walking if I can’t figure this out.”

The trucker pulled onto the shoulder then switched on the hazard lights as the semi eventually rolled to a stop.

“Well, the truck stop is only about five miles back,” stated the hitch-hiker.

“Listen to me,” said the trucker.

The hitch-hiker studied the trucker’s face. He saw large blood-shot eyes and quivering lips. A maddening fear had rushed up from somewhere deep within the trucker’s soul and the hitch-hiker suddenly wished he had declined the invitation for a lift at that truck stop isolated by miles of lonely highway.

The trucker took a deep breath before saying, “If you see people outside ignore them. They’ll try to get you to come with them. I’ve seen this before on isolated patches of road late at night. I can get the truck going again if you give me time.”

“Is this a joke?” asked the hitch-hiker. “Because if it is it’s not funny.”

The trucker shook his head. “Their eye’s beckon. Do you know what that means? Beckon. To summon, to invite. They’ll want to take you away.”

“Man, this is some weird stuff,” said the hitch-hiker. He went for the door, but the trucker reached out his hand to stop him.

The hitch-hiker recoiled from the trucker’s grasp as if assailed by something cold and unnatural.

“Look! They’re here,” said the trucker.

The hitch-hiker looked into the night. A figure appeared. Then another and another. In the glow of the headlights he saw a mob of somber faced travelers who seemed to stare back at the hitch-hiker as if astonished by his very existence. Men and women, young and old, casually swarmed the shoulder of the highway. And they did beckon.

One of them, a man in his 30s wearing dirty clothes, held a small suitcase in one hand and with other waved for the hitch-hiker to join their ghastly horde. Then the others waved and nodded and called out in silent cries for the hitch-hiker.

The sound of the ignition kicking up shattered the silent spectacle. The trucker turned the key, but it wouldn’t turn over. Instead the engine sputtered and whined. The trucker cursed under his breath.

“Who the hell are these people?” asked the hitch-hiker.

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