He Betrayed Me—Now His Ghost Waits / Chapter 3: Betrayed on the Open Road
He Betrayed Me—Now His Ghost Waits

He Betrayed Me—Now His Ghost Waits

Author: Kathleen Chen

Chapter 3: Betrayed on the Open Road

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We both got married the same year. Started a small logistics business together. I thought we’d be brothers for life. Never thought he’d be the one to stab me in the back when I hit rock bottom.

Our wives became friends, our kids played together at family picnics. We signed the business papers in my garage, beers in hand, grinning like fools. I never saw the knife coming—not from him.

Maybe I was just cursed. By thirty, both my parents were gone. My wife was in the hospital with a serious illness. I was so busy taking care of my family, I left the company to Tommy. He used the chance to siphon off company funds, transfer everything, and left me drowning in debt.

Those were the darkest years. I spent every dime I had on hospital bills, trusting Tommy to keep things afloat. I never checked the books. When the bottom fell out, I was blindsided—betrayal tastes worse than poverty.

I was clueless until the company went bankrupt. Not once did I suspect Tommy.

The calls started coming—creditors, lawyers, angry clients. I tried to piece together what happened, but by the time I figured it out, Tommy was long gone, and I was left holding the bag. It felt like the world had tilted sideways.

After that, Tommy started his own logistics company. Strutted around like a big shot. As for me, even though I borrowed money for my wife’s surgery, I couldn’t save her. Her last wish was for me to stay away from Tommy.

I saw his face on billboards, heard his ads on the radio. Meanwhile, I sat by my wife’s hospital bed, holding her hand as the machines beeped. Her voice was weak, but her words cut deep: “Don’t let him hurt you again, Eddie. Promise me.”

I still had a son, a daughter, and my mother-in-law to look after. So I couldn’t get revenge on Tommy myself. But fate has a way of catching up. Within three years, Tommy died—right on the same stretch of highway he’d once led the way on. The very route I’d opened up with my truck in the end.

The news came on a rainy morning—a pileup on I-70, Tommy’s rig crushed under a jackknifed trailer. People whispered about karma, but I just felt empty. The highway doesn’t care about grudges, but sometimes it settles scores anyway.

For truckers, if you die in a wreck out on the road, there’s a tradition—you gotta go back to the crash site and call the spirit home before the burial. Only then can the ashes rest easy. My mentor died in a crash while leading the way, and I was the one who called him home. It’s an old road ritual.

It’s an old road ritual, part superstition, part respect. We’d gather at dawn, engines idling, someone would stand by the skid marks and call the name of the lost. Some folks brought a preacher, others just prayed. I did it for my mentor, voice trembling, wind whipping my words away. It felt right, like closing a circle.

But Tommy’s been dead over a year. His family’s already hired folks to try calling his spirit back—six times, no luck. The family ran out of options, so they came to me again.

They tried everything—hired preachers, psychics, even an old trucker from out west who claimed he could talk to ghosts. Nothing worked. Word got around that Tommy’s spirit was stuck, restless. Folks started avoiding that stretch of highway after dark.

"If it fails again, Tommy’ll be stuck wandering forever," Kevin said, voice low.

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