I didn’t know payphones still rang until the one at a rest area in southern Oregon rang right as I walked past it. That’s how my rest stop horror story starts. A man’s voice on the other end said, “You’re the white Civic. Don’t go back to your car yet.” It sounds like a scary tale someone made up for a campfire. I wish it was.
This was October 2019. I was twenty-seven and driving from Portland to Sacramento for a job interview the next afternoon. I’d left late because of work, and by 11 p.m. I was somewhere south of Roseburg on I-5, in the rain.
Not a little rain. The kind of rain where your wipers can’t keep up and every truck that passes throws a wall of water over your windshield. I’d been white-knuckling it for an hour. When I saw the sign for a rest area, I pulled in to use the bathroom and calm down.
It was one of those old rest areas with a brick restroom building, a covered walkway, a few picnic tables, and a vending machine that hums. The car lot had maybe four cars in it. The truck lot on the other side had a line of semis with their running lights on.
I parked under a light, close to the building. I’m not stupid.
“Long Drive?” and a Rest Stop Horror Story
There was a man standing under the covered walkway when I got out of the car. Forties, I’d guess. Rain jacket, baseball cap, holding a cup of coffee from a thermos. He was just standing there, looking at the rain. People do that at rest stops.
He nodded at me and said, “Long drive?”
I said, “Yeah,” and kept walking.
He said, “Be careful out there. Roads are bad.” Friendly. A dad voice.
I used the bathroom, washed my hands, looked at my tired face in the scratched steel mirror, and walked back out.
The man wasn’t under the walkway anymore. I looked at the parking lot. There was a dark gray SUV parked next to my car now, in the spot on the driver’s side. It hadn’t been there when I went in. Its engine was running. Its windows were fogged.
I told myself it was just somebody who pulled in. That’s what parking lots are for.
The payphone was on the wall by the vending machine. I didn’t even notice it until it rang.
The Payphone Rang
It was so loud. That old metal bell. I actually jumped and put my hand over my chest. It rang three times while I stood there staring at it.
I don’t know why I picked it up. I think I thought it was a wrong number and I wanted it to stop. I think part of me thought it was funny.
A man’s voice said, “Ma’am, are you the white Civic?”
I said yes before I thought about it.
He said, “Don’t go back to your car yet. My name’s Curtis. I’m in the blue Peterbilt across the lot, third from the end. I called the number on the phone. Can you see my lights?”
I looked across the lot. One of the trucks flashed its headlights twice.
He said, “Guy in the gray SUV got out while you were inside. He was down on the ground by your back tire for about a minute. Then he got back in his truck. I already called the state police. They’re coming. Just stay inside, okay? Go back in the bathroom and lock the door.”
I said, “Okay.” My voice came out very small.
He said, “You’re doing fine. I’m watching him.”
I hung up and walked back into the women’s restroom and locked myself in the last stall, which is ridiculous, because the stall lock was a little sliding bolt, but it’s what I did. I stood on the toilet so my feet wouldn’t show under the door. I could hear the rain on the roof and the hand dryer clicking as it cooled down.
About five minutes later, the outer door to the restroom opened.
Footsteps on the tile. Slow. Wet shoes. They stopped near the sinks.
The man’s voice. The same dad voice. Calm.
“Ma’am? You okay in here? Your tire looks low. I can help you with it.”
I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. I held onto the top of the stall wall with both hands and I stared at the door.
He waited. Maybe ten seconds. Then he said, “Okay,” very softly, like he was disappointed, and the footsteps went back out.
What the Trooper Found
The state trooper got there about eight minutes after that. Curtis walked over from his truck to meet him. By then, the gray SUV was gone. Curtis said it left the second the trooper’s lights came off the highway. He’d gotten a partial plate.
The trooper looked at my car with a flashlight. My rear driver’s side tire was fine. But the valve cap was gone, and when he put his thumb on the valve stem, it hissed. Somebody had unscrewed the little valve core inside, just enough to let air out slowly.
He said if I’d left right away, the tire would have gone flat in maybe ten or fifteen miles. I’d have pulled over on the shoulder of I-5, alone, at midnight, in the pouring rain.
And then, he said, probably a nice man in a gray SUV would have pulled over behind me to help.
He fixed the valve for me with a tool from his trunk. He followed me to the next exit. Curtis gave me his number and told me to text him when I got to Sacramento, and I did, at 6 a.m., and he wrote back “Good. Get some sleep.”
The partial plate didn’t go anywhere. The trooper told me later the SUV was probably registered to someone else, or the plates were stolen. He said they’d had a couple of other reports along that stretch of I-5. Women traveling alone with slow leaks. One of them stopped on the shoulder and a man pulled up behind her. She drove away on the rim before he got to her window.
I got the job in Sacramento. I’ve driven I-5 a dozen times since then. I never stop at that rest area.
But I always check my tires before I leave any rest stop now. I walk all the way around the car. I touch every valve cap.
And once, outside Redding last year, I found one missing.
For more scary stories for a rainy night on the highway, read the trunk or treat horror story about the empty lot, the trucker scary stories about a voice on the CB, or a small town crime story about a diner on a Nebraska bus route.
Share your rest stop horror story
Have you ever pulled into a rest area at night and felt like someone was waiting for you? Tell us your rest stop horror story, or any scary stories in the rain from a highway you’ll never drive alone again, in the comments below.
How scary was it?
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