The Lurching Figure on Route 9

In the autumn of 2004, I was driving back from a late shift at the paper mill with my coworker, Dale. We were on Route 9, a lonely stretch that cuts through the pine barrens of southern Maine. It was past midnight on a Tuesday, and the road was empty except for the occasional deer. The radio had gone static, and the only sound was the hum of the truck’s engine and the rhythmic thump of the wipers clearing a light drizzle.

About twenty miles out of town, Dale squinted through the windshield and pointed. ‘You see that?’ he asked. I looked ahead, and there, on the left shoulder, was a figure. It was tall, unnaturally tall, and it seemed to be struggling with each step, lurching forward like its legs were weighted down. ‘They must be walking to the all-night diner,’ I said, trying to sound casual, though a knot tightened in my stomach.

As we got closer, the figure grew taller, as if it were stretching upward with each of our approaching yards. Its proportions were off: a long black coat, too short in the sleeves, revealing pale wrists, and pants that stopped well above the ankles, showing grayish skin. A wide-brimmed black hat shadowed its head. I slowed down, unable to stop staring. Dale’s grip on the door handle turned his knuckles white.

When we were nearly alongside, the creature turned its head toward us. Its face was a smooth, featureless plane, like a mannequin’s head. The skin had a bluish tinge, like a body pulled from cold water. Its arms swung in a disjointed rhythm, and I noticed its fingers were too long, ending in sharp, dark nails. I heard Dale gasp, and my own breath caught in my throat. I floored the accelerator, and the truck lunged forward, leaving the apparition behind in the mirror.

For a mile, neither of us spoke. Then Dale whispered, ‘That wasn’t human.’ I said nothing, my eyes fixed on the road ahead, my hands shaking on the wheel. We passed the diner, but we didn’t stop. The rest of the drive was silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. When I finally dropped Dale off, he looked at me with hollow eyes and said, ‘Don’t ever speak of this.’

I tried to put it out of my mind, but a week later, I saw it again. This time, it was standing on the roadside near my house, its featureless face turned in my direction. I drove past, and it didn’t move, but I felt its gaze follow me. The next morning, I found muddy, bare footprints leading from the road to my front porch, and stopping there. No prints leaving. I didn’t tell Dale, but he stopped coming to work. When I called, his wife said he’d gone to stay with family upstate.

I’ve since moved away, but still, on foggy nights, I catch glimpses of that lurching silhouette in my peripheral vision. And sometimes, when I look at my reflection in a darkened window, I swear I see a featureless face staring back, its skin tinged blue, growing taller with each passing second.