My name’s Marcus, and I’ve been a truck driver for nearly fifteen years. In that time, I’ve seen my fair share of weird things on the road. Empty highways in the dead of night, strange lights in the sky, small towns that give you the creeps for no good reason. But nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to what I stumbled upon about two months ago.
I was on a long haul through the backroads of Ohio, heading toward Cincinnati. It was late—probably close to 2 a.m.—and I was trying to make up for lost time after getting stuck in traffic earlier in the day. My GPS had taken me off the interstate, onto a narrow, winding road that cut through a forest. The kind of road where you don’t see another car for miles and you start wondering if you’re the only person left alive.
After driving for a while, my GPS started acting up—signal cutting in and out, the screen freezing, rerouting over and over. I’ve dealt with tech glitches before, so I didn’t think much of it at first. But then I saw something up ahead: lights, like the soft glow of streetlamps, piercing through the thick trees. I slowed down, and before I knew it, I was driving into a town I hadn’t seen on the map.
It was strange. This place felt like it had been plucked straight out of another time—like something from the 1950s. The streets were lined with old cars, the kind with big fins and chrome grilles. The houses looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades—perfectly kept, but worn with age, like the whole town had been frozen in time. Even the street signs were faded, their letters barely legible.
The thing is, though, the place was dead silent. No movement, no people. Just those old, faded buildings and that eerie, yellow glow from the streetlamps. I slowed down to a crawl, peering through my windshield at the deserted streets. I figured I’d stop for a bit, maybe stretch my legs, check my phone for a signal. So, I pulled over near what looked like a small diner.
That’s when I noticed the clocks.
There were clocks in almost every window. The diner, the pharmacy, the hardware store—all of them had clocks hanging on the walls, and they were all stopped at exactly the same time: 2:15. Not a second more, not a second less. It was like the whole town had just… stopped. Frozen at that exact moment.
I didn’t get out of the truck. Something about the stillness, the quiet, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. But it wasn’t until I checked my own watch that the real fear set in.
My watch had stopped too. 2:15, just like all the others.
I tried to brush it off, telling myself it was just a coincidence. Maybe the town had a power outage, and the clocks hadn’t been reset. But deep down, I knew something was wrong. The air felt heavy, thick with a kind of dread I’d never felt before.
I turned the truck around, ready to get the hell out of there. But as I drove back the way I came, the road didn’t take me out of town. It took me deeper into it. I swear, it was like the streets were rearranging themselves, twisting and turning, leading me in circles. No matter where I turned, I kept ending up on the same road, passing the same diner, the same pharmacy, the same damn clocks.
Panic set in. I floored the gas, my tires screeching as I tore through the streets. The buildings blurred past me, but no matter how fast I drove, I couldn’t escape. The town was a maze, pulling me back in every time I tried to leave.
And then, just as suddenly as I’d entered, the town was gone.
One second I was driving through those cursed streets, and the next I was on the highway again, the trees lining the road like nothing had happened. My watch was working again, ticking away like normal, and the GPS had rerouted me to the interstate. But the town—Belleville, I think it was called—it had vanished. Like it had never been there at all.
I didn’t sleep that night. Hell, I didn’t sleep for the next few days. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the town was still out there, waiting for me. I kept having dreams—nightmares, really—where I was back in those empty streets, the clocks ticking away, but this time, the town wasn’t deserted. This time, there were people.
Or at least, things that looked like people.
They stood in the windows, watching me, their faces pale and expressionless, their eyes wide and empty. They didn’t move, didn’t speak, but I knew they were waiting. Waiting for me to come back.
And the worst part? I think I will.
Ever since that night, I’ve been driving the same route, over and over, and every time I get near those woods, my GPS starts acting up. I’ve seen the lights again, just out of the corner of my eye. I know that if I go back, the town will be there, waiting for me. I don’t know what it is, or what it wants, but I can feel it pulling me back, like a thread tied to my soul, slowly tightening.
I’m writing this to warn anyone who might drive through those backroads near Belleville. If you see a town that shouldn’t be there, if the clocks are all stopped, if your watch starts ticking differently—don’t stop. Don’t slow down. Keep driving, and don’t look back.
Because if you do, you might not be able to leave.
And if I go back, I’m afraid I’ll never leave again.
