The Second Crossing

June 1, 2026

by Abner

I have always trusted my eyes. As a surveyor, my livelihood depends on precise measurements and unerring observations. So when I saw the white pickup truck with the dented tailgate and the faded ‘Hanson & Sons Plumbing’ decal on its side, I didn’t think twice. It was parked in front of my neighbor’s house, just as it had been every day for the past week while they had their driveway repaved. I nodded to the driver, a man I didn’t recognize, and continued my morning bike ride along the river path.

I pedaled for about ten minutes, enjoying the crisp autumn air and the sound of leaves crunching under my tires. The path curved around a small lake, and as I approached the wooden bridge that crossed the narrowest part, I saw the same white truck approaching from the opposite direction. It was moving slowly, almost hesitantly, and for a moment I thought it might be turning around. But then it continued straight, crossing the bridge just ahead of me. I could see the driver clearly: he was wearing a red flannel shirt and a baseball cap, and he had a thick beard. He didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead.

My heart skipped a beat. I had just seen that truck parked in front of the Hansons’ house, and now it was here, on the other side of the lake. There was no road connecting the two places except the one I had just come from, and he would have had to pass me to get here. But he hadn’t. I had been alone on the path for the last five minutes.

I stopped my bike and turned around, half expecting to see the truck driving away. But it was gone. The bridge was empty, and the only sound was the wind in the reeds. I told myself I was being foolish. Maybe the truck had been parked somewhere else, and I had mistaken it. Maybe it was a different truck with the same decal. But deep down, I knew what I had seen.

I got back on my bike and rode home, my mind racing. I tried to rationalize it: I was tired from lack of sleep, I had been staring at the sun, perhaps I had a momentary lapse. But the image of that truck, the same dent on the tailgate, the same decal, the same driver, was burned into my memory.

That evening, I decided to walk over to the Hansons’ house to see if the truck was still there. The driveway was empty, but the new pavement was finished. Mrs. Hanson came out to greet me, and I asked about the new truck. She looked at me strangely. ‘We don’t have a truck,’ she said. ‘We’ve been using our sedan all week. And we didn’t have anyone over today.’

I thanked her and walked home, my hands trembling. I have never believed in ghosts or the supernatural, but this was something else. It was as if the world had briefly blinked, showing me a moment from a different path, a different timeline. Or perhaps my mind had finally snapped. I have started keeping a journal of these occurrences, hoping to find some pattern, some explanation. But so far, the only pattern is that they happen on sunny days, and always when I am alone. I am starting to dread the sunshine.

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