Chapter 3: The Late-Night Hitchhiker

The Late-Night Hitchhiker

My friend’s father, Uncle Li, had driven long-distance freight trucks for more than twenty years. The steering wheel of his truck had been worn shiny, and in the armrest compartment beside the passenger seat, there was always a thermos and half a pack of cigarettes. Veteran drivers who run night roads all understand this: the strange things you see on the road are more numerous than the bowls of instant noodles at service areas.

It happened in late autumn that year. Uncle Li and his driving partner were making a run to Inner Mongolia, and Uncle Li was taking the late-night shift.

At three in the morning, on the expressway, the fog looked like cotton wadding mixed with shards of ice. In the beams split open by the headlights, there were only the guardrails and the occasional road sign flashing past. His partner was asleep in the bunk behind him, snoring loudly. Uncle Li held a cigarette butt between his fingers, his knuckles pale from gripping the steering wheel for too long. The warm breath he exhaled left a thin layer of mist on the windshield.

At some point, he felt the passenger seat sink slightly.

Uncle Li swept his eyes over from the corner of his vision.

Sitting there was a man in a gray cloth shirt.

His hair was damp with a little moisture, and his face was buried in shadow. Only his eyes were visible, staring straight at the road ahead without even blinking.

Uncle Li’s heart gave a heavy jolt, and the cigarette butt in his hand fell onto the accelerator pedal. He did not lower his head to pick it up, nor did he dare turn and look closely.

After so many years driving night roads, he understood all too well.

He had not stopped the truck at all.

He had run into a ghost hitchhiker.

The temperature in the cab suddenly dropped, as if the air conditioning had been switched on. Even the hot water in the thermos seemed to cool faster than usual. Uncle Li gripped the steering wheel tightly. His throat moved, but he did not dare speak.

Veteran drivers all pass down the same warning: when you run into a hitchhiking ghost, do not ask, do not chat, and do not let him touch you. Just keep driving steadily and wait for him to leave on his own.

Uncle Li stared at the fog lights ahead. In his ears, there was only the roar of the engine and his partner’s snoring.

The man in the passenger seat was like a statue. No warm breath came from him when he breathed, and his body did not sway with the bumps in the road. He just sat there stiffly, his eyes never blinking.

Uncle Li did not know how long he drove like that. He smoked half the pack in the cigarette box, until the headlights shone onto the mouth of a tunnel ahead.

It was at the border between Inner Mongolia and Hebei. Hanging above the tunnel entrance was a sign that read Yinshan Tunnel. Wind poured in from the mountain hollow, shaking the truck body slightly.

When he drove out of the tunnel and swept his eyes toward the passenger seat again, the seat was already empty.

The lingering cold was still there, like a block of ice had just been placed there. Uncle Li let out a breath of relief, pulled into a service area, and drank several mouthfuls of hot water. Only then did he realize that sweat had soaked through the shirt on his back, leaving it damp.

Later, when his partner woke up, Uncle Li mentioned it casually.

“Someone was sitting in the passenger seat just now,” he said. “I didn’t stop the truck. He was probably just catching a ride.”

His partner held a cigarette in his mouth and laughed.

“That happens often around there,” he said. “There was a car accident near that tunnel years ago. Probably someone who never finished the journey.”

Uncle Li said nothing more. He only refilled his thermos with hot water.

He knew that among people who drove long-distance routes, who had not run into one or two hitchhikers like that?

Perhaps they were lost souls. Perhaps they were ghosts who had missed the first bus. They got into the truck without a sound and disappeared without a sound, like fog on the highway. When dawn came, they scattered.

From then on, one more thing appeared in the armrest compartment beside Uncle Li’s passenger seat: a peach-wood bracelet.

He said it was not because he was afraid.

It was only a token left for those still on the road.