Writer’s Block

Cars possessed by supernatural forces only exist in horror novels… right?

Ilove driving. It’s not only my bread and butter, it’s my cake too. It must be a “man thing” as Doreen says, because I just love to climb behind the wheel of my rig and set off down the highway. I don’t like 0°F days like this, though, when the wind is whipping snow across the highway in harsh blades. I’ll never forget this gloomy windswept day as long as I live.

When I climbed into my rig this morning in Oakville, Ont., and headed north on Hwy 400, I was frozen through from clambering all over the trailer, chaining down the cars I was carrying. I was due to take the lower deck of new models to a dealership in North Bay, then continue on to Sault Ste. Marie with the rest. On this day, driving took all of my concentration, not because of the weather itself— you get used to that—but because of the amateur road jockeys who should have stayed home. There were kids in sporty cars, thinking it was exciting to speed on icy roads, nervous housewives out for groceries and complacent old gents peering through the steering wheels of luxury vehicles too big for them. It was a day when driving should be left to the professionals.

I tuned in a local country and western station for a while. Then along a straight stretch, I craved a little silence. For one thing, I needed to think about the argument Doreen and I had this morning. A silly thing, really, but a symptom of bigger problems.

Then in the silence I noticed something— a sound that wasn’t part of my rig’s usual noises. You get used to those little eccentricities, but this was something different. I drove on, listening, trying to identify it. Near Barrie, I pulled off for a coffee and an apple fritter. In the snowy silence, I did a walk- around, looking for anything unusual.

I found it. The little yellow Mustang directly behind the cab was puffing out exhaust fumes.

Uh oh, I thought. I must have a stowaway. It happens sometimes. A guy, down on his luck, wants to travel cheap so he slips into one of the cars when no one is watching. The cars aren’t locked. The keys are even in the ignitions. After all, they’re not going anywhere.

I figured someone was inside and had turned on the ignition to get warm for a while. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep.

Putting my coffee down carefully, I slowly and very gently climbed up so that I could peer through the Mustang’s back window. There was no one in the back seat. I climbed down, then up again beside the window on the passenger side. I fully ex-

DOROTHY TURCOTTE is a native of Hamilton, where she graduated from Mcmaster University with a B.A. in English. While raising her family, she began freelance writing and, following a move to Grimsby, Ont., she discovered a latent interest in history. In 1985, the Grimsby Historical Society published her first book, Greetings From Grimsby Park; ten more books followed. Dorothy was honoured to receive the 2011 Lieutenant Governor’s Ontario Heritage Award for lifetime achievement in heritage conservation. A proud mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, Dorothy currently makes her home in Vineland, Ont.

pected to see someone asleep in the front seat. Not a soul was there.

Scratching my head, I climbed around to the driver’s side, opened the door, reached in and put my hand on the ignition switch. The key was in the “on” position. I turned it off and shut the door.

As I drove off, I wondered if I could have left the car running after I’d driven it onto the truck back at the yard. No way, I decided. I’ve never done that in all my years on the road. Besides, I’d have noticed the exhaust condensing in the frigid air. I puzzled over this as I drove north, then I got to thinking of Doreen again. Near Huntsville, I heard that sound again.

Oh no, I thought wearily. I pulled off the road and braved the biting wind and snow to visit the Mustang again. Sure enough, the key was in the “on” position. I shut it off.

Back on the road, I shoved a Willie Nelson CD into the slot. If that car started again, I didn’t want to hear it. It was comforting to have Willie’s company.

Thinking about Doreen again reminded me of a book she told me about. She reads a lot of spooky stuff by that guy Stephen King. He wrote a book called Christine about an old car, a Plymouth Fury I think, that was possessed by a demon and caused all sorts of grief to the teenager who bought it cheap. Wait till I tell Doreen about this, I thought. Then I realized that she would have me thinking all sorts of spooky things. Come to think of it, I already was doing that.

Thinking about the book and that weird Mustang behind me made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Some kid is going to buy this car, I thought. Or some nice middle-aged lady who has always wanted to own a yellow car. Can it read my mind? I wondered. If it really is possessed by something, then it can!

I couldn’t wait to get to North Bay to drop off those cars. It was dark by then and visibility was poor. There was hardly any traffic on the road. To be honest, I was scared. I’m a big guy and I think I’m tough, but I know there are some things bigger than me.

When I reached the dealership, it was after 6 p.m. Wouldn’t you know it, I thought. The place was dark and deserted. I had to unload those cars and park them on the lot. Throughout my career in trucking, I’d unloaded alone after dark dozens of times without a thought, but I dreaded the chore tonight.

The first three cars came off easily. I parked them in front of the showroom lights. The last to come off was the Mustang. It was running again. It took a few minutes for me to get up the courage to open the door and climb into the driver’s seat. When I put the car in reverse and started to ease her backwards, she stalled. Now I was convinced this car was possessed. I felt a stab of sheer terror. I tried every trick I knew, but that Mustang would not start for me. It’s a brand-new car, I told myself. There’s no reason why it should start itself, then refuse to start when I needed it to. It’s playing games with me.

“Start, damn you, start!” I finally yelled, giving the gas pedal a vicious thump with my boot. It started. I backed that car off there faster than I ever backed off a trailer before. I parked her with the other vehicles in front of the lighted showroom. Then I lifted the hood and ripped out the battery cables. The dealer would no doubt lodge a complaint about that, but I didn’t care.

“Start yourself now!” I yelled into the darkness, and sprinted for my truck.

The highway was deserted as I turned off the lot. I felt safe in the cab of my rig. Triumphantly, I glanced back at the Mustang in the semi-darkness. My eyes widened in horror. The Mustang’s headlights were on. As I gunned onto the highway, they blinked at me— three times. As I travelled west in the growing gloom, I kept an eye on the road behind me, watching for headlights. Fortunately, there were very few, none of them “it.” Now, however, every time I’m on the road after dark, I watch for that yellow Mustang. What will I do if it gets a paint job? n