posted on Mar, 23 2015 @ 10:46 AM
In the winter of 2004 a wild blizzard all but shut down the province of Nova Scotia. Michael* was caught in the storm, attempting to truck a load of
goods to a large grocery store in New Brunswick. It was slow going, and the big rig was rolling along at 50 kilometres an hour at the best of times.
Michael played a guessing game with himself, trying to figure out where the pavement stopped and started, relying on his hundreds of hours driving the
102 back and forth, just barely able to see the dull grey of the guard rail at the edge of the highway. The trailer rocked wildly in the gale force
winds, threatening to send the rig off the road at any moment.
A call from Michaels’ wife was enough to snap him back to his senses, call times be damned, and he agreed to pull over and weather the storm in the
cab of his truck. He told himself he’d drive the last ten minutes to the toll at the Cobequid Pass, and pull over in the lanes there. As he
approached, he could see a few dozen vehicles were stuck already. The pull over lanes were full, and Michael brought the truck to a stop on the
highway. He surveyed his surroundings, but could only see the tail lights of other motorists, everything else was a haze of whiteness, snow and
exhaust as far as he could see.
After talking for a while and checking in with the office, Michael settled in for what experience told him could be hours of waiting, first for the
snow to stop, and then for the roads to be cleared of a foot or more of powder. He listened to the chatter of the CB for a while, it seemed a hundred
other truck drivers were in the same position as him. He pulled out his small DVD player and watched old western movies to pass the hours, the wind
and snow howling in the background, rocking the cab. He soon drifted off to sleep.
Michael awoke with a start when his stranded neighbour slammed closed a door. He decided to get up and survey the storm. Maybe people were moving. It
was dark now, and the snow was still howling, piling up around the smaller cars. The scene was a dead expanse of snow, tail lights now hardly visible
under a layer of white. Michael sat himself in the drivers’ seat and switched on the radio to catch a weather report. He’d be here for hours yet.
Fifteen minutes passed, and then thirty, and Michael was entranced by the storm.
Far ahead in the line of cars he noticed a shadow in the headlights. A dark shape drifted around to the drivers’ window, peered in for a few
seconds, and then moved along. Michael felt comforted, and thought it was nice of the toll operators, or maybe the police to check on weary, stranded
motorists. Things could go bad quickly for anyone who wasn’t prepared, or ran out of gas. The dark shape came closer down the line of cars,
peering in on passengers who Michael figured were mostly asleep. Michael could see the shape was tapping on some windows before moving down the line.
It was coming closer now, and Michael was paying close attention; he had more food in the truck than he needed and he was willing to lend a hand if
anyone was in need. Each vehicle was passed by, no windows rolled down, no communication, just a look in the window, or a few taps maybe to awaken a
The figure was only two cars ahead of Michaels big rig now, and it was funny, he had thought, that the blackness of the person still had no real shape
to be seen. He supposed that anyone weathering this blizzard would have to be dressed in some bulky layers. One car ahead now, and she shape rapped
on the window and peered in through the glass.
Michael sat up straighter in the drivers’ seat, ready to invite the watcher in for a drink. He noticed the shape was gliding towards the cab of his
truck. He slipped on a pair gloves, ready to open the door. He waited for the rap on the cab, but none came. He peered out the window and that’s
when it appeared to him. There at the window of his truck, which was easily 8 feet off the ground, was a black shapeless figure peering in on him. It
seemed to look straight through him. Michael could barely make out a face, but its eyes were undeniably bright. The hairs on Michaels’ neck and
forearms stood on end, and a chill ran down his spine. In an instant, the figure had moved on.
Startled, Michael opened the trucks door against the wind, and squinted hard against the snow, looking down the line of cars. He could see the black
shape two cars behind him, peering in, rapping on windows. He threw on his coat and walked quickly toward it, trudging through knee deep snow. He
peered in through the windows of the vehicles he passed, the drivers were asleep, except for one, whose pale horrified stare had chilled Michaels’
bones more than the storm. When he broke the gaze of the man in the car he looked ahead toward the black shape, still gliding through the snow.
Something told him he would never catch it.
When he climbed back into the cab of his truck, he turned on the CB, sending out a call to the other stranded drivers to look for the figure. He only
received one reply. A voice squawked over the airwaves, “You can’t catch Death, Mike. He only catches you.”
Michael is convinced that’s exactly what he saw that night; the lonely spectre of Death, checking in on stranded motorists, searching for souls who
may have perished in the storm.
When he was able to leave the next afternoon, stranded on the Pass for close to 20 hours, he swore to himself that if ever he was stranded in a storm
again, he would be the one to check in on any others, allowing Death to scavenge elsewhere.