THE TRUCK INDISTRY IS FULL OF GHOSTS
I’ve been in trucking for over ten years. People see trucks on the highway, think it’s simple—goods move from point A to point B. But they don’t see the price behind the wheels. Time is money. Every delay costs. Every tired driver costs. And in this business, rest is a luxury you cannot afford.
It started slowly. An old friend whispered about a “way to never stop.” He didn’t call it magic. He didn’t call it spirits. He called them “helpers.” Invisible, tireless, obedient. At first, I laughed. But desperation talks louder than sense. Contracts were late, clients angry, trucks standing idle. I agreed to try it.
The first time I let a helper drive, I felt a chill creep down my spine. The cab felt alive, as if it were watching me. The delivery? Perfect. Early. No mistakes. Profit doubled. I couldn’t believe it. I told myself it was luck. But the trucks didn’t need luck—they ran themselves.
Drivers started noticing small things. Cold air in the cab when heaters were off. Shadows that didn’t match anything outside. One driver swore the steering corrected itself while he slept. Others laughed it off, blamed exhaustion. But some quit, claiming they “couldn’t handle it.” A few weeks later, they vanished. No notes, no warnings, no trace.
Then the accidents began—not with my trucks, which ran flawlessly—but everywhere else. Humans cannot compete with relentless, tireless drivers. The government blames fatigue. Insurance calls it human error. I know better. Some trucks flipped. Some drivers died. Some disappeared mid-journey. And some companies went bankrupt overnight.
A young driver I trusted, Themba, told me he saw something at the passenger seat—an invisible presence steering the truck while he slept. He quit immediately. Two weeks later, he was gone. Police had no leads. Family cried. I couldn’t sleep for nights after that. His disappearance was the first time I realized: the helpers don’t forgive mistakes, and they don’t stop watching.
The signs are subtle but deadly. Trucks shake without reason. GPS systems glitch. Tires wear down in strange patterns. Drivers talk to themselves at night, paranoid, seeing shadows that aren’t there. Some start whispering about voices in the cab, eyes in the mirrors, hands on the wheel when no one is there. The road remembers. The road punishes.
I’ve learned to keep my distance from human limits. My trucks never crash. Deliveries never miss deadlines. Profits soar. But the cost is not always money. I lie awake at night counting the missing, listening for whispers, watching the empty roads. Sometimes, I feel eyes on me, always. And I know one day, the helpers may demand more.
This is the truth no one tells you about South African roads. The high accident rate is not just fatigue, bad roads, or careless drivers. It’s pressure, greed, and forces humans cannot see. Money comes fast. Success comes faster. But the road always collects its toll—and sometimes, it’s not yours to pay.
I am telling this because someone needs to know. If you see a truck moving too perfectly, if a delivery arrives too early, if a driver disappears without a trace… remember: not all drivers are human. Some are the helpers, and some roads are haunted by the greed of men who refused to stop.
The helpers never tire. They don’t forgive mistakes. And if you cheat the natural limits of humans, you may vanish—like Themba, like others—without a trace. Money can buy speed, profit, efficiency—but the road will always remember. And the price… is human.
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