“I mean, we can always do a little negotiating,” the dealer muttered, mistaking my delay for hesitation.
I tapped the accelerator lightly, and the engine responded with a sharp, eager growl.
There was a faint squeak somewhere under the hood as the revs climbed, not loud enough to suggest real trouble, but definitely not perfect either. A loose belt, maybe; something that hadn’t been tightened properly, the kind of small flaw that knocks a few hundred off a used car price if you push hard enough.
So the twenty grand wasn’t quite as firm as the dealer suggested.
I slid the shifter into first gear and slowly eased off the clutch.
The Mustang rolled forward out of the dealership lot with the lazy confidence of a predator stretching after a nap.
The street outside was mostly empty; the dealership was out of the way, not exactly prime real estate—no wonder the Mustang hadn’t moved all year.
I surveyed the road. A few pickup trucks trundled towards the highway, and a delivery van passed in the opposite lane.
There was plenty of space, and I wasn’t planning anything too reckless.
I really wasn’t.
I intended to take it easy. Feel the handling. Maybe pushthe engine a little just to see how it responds. Nothing dramatic.
But the Mustang had other plans.
The moment we reached the road, the engine revved higher than my foot demanded. The car surged forward eagerly, like it had been waiting years for someone to let it run.
“Easy,” I murmured, easing off the gas.
The car ignored me.
The steering wheel tugged slightly in my hands, then more firmly. The nose of the Mustang pulled toward the highway entrance, not where I was steering, and a cold trickle of panic slid down my spine.
I corrected the wheel.
The car corrected itself. Its tires drifted toward the on-ramp like they were following a magnet buried under the asphalt.
“Okay, that’s—”
Something was very wrong. The wheel resisted my pull again, heavy and stubborn. I tried guiding us toward a quiet industrial side street instead, but the car dragged itself back toward the on-ramp. Before I could properly process what was happening, the black ’92 Fox Body Mustang was already climbing onto the highway.
Second gear.
The engine roared with delight.
Third.
The acceleration shoved me deeper into the seat.
Fourth.
The speedometer needle began sweeping across the dial faster than comfort allowed.
“—Don’t be afraid–.” The radio lit up and spat out a few lines of music before switching stations, dull statichumming.
I turned to the dealer, who was wide-eyed, holding onto the grab-handle for dear life. It obviously hadn’t been his voice.
“—Come on, baby,—” The radio sang over a new channel, but the same song;Don’t Fear The Reaper.A cheesy ‘Christine’ rip-off, but it worked. I felt the hairs rise along the back of my neck, and in the rearview mirror, something shifted.
At first, I thought it was just sunlight reflecting off a car behind us, but the highway was empty.
