It Came from the Garage!, page 25
That brought me round quick enough.
“How could they?” I asked, sharply. “They all happened years ago.”
Concern darkened Jack’s face. “I mean, they know you’ve been speeding. They’re going to catch you, lad. You have to stop.”
I stood up and stared into the empty fireplace.
“I can’t stop,” I muttered, and Tess laughed.
Jack sighed and stood up as well.
“That bike will be the death of you,” he said, wagging his finger. “I urge you. As a friend. Please, please stop with the early morning blasts. You’ve got everything anyone could ever want, Dave. Don’t chuck it all away because of an old bike.”
I turned to him, sharply. “Don’t you dare call her that. She’s shown me things you could never imagine. I’ve done things you could never imagine! Tess and I are in love! We are love!”
As I shouted these words at him, I bent and picked up the poker from the fireplace bucket. I felt the now familiar anger and strength come over me. The same feelings I’d had on so many occasions since meeting Tess. I turned towards my only friend and smashed him across the skull with the poker. I actually saw his head buckle under that blow. He was an old man, and the one blow was enough.
But that didn’t stop me.
I hit him again and again, as Tess urged me on. I could hear the want in her voice, could imagine the silky liquid gathering between her legs, and I belted the poker into Jack maniacally.
I reduced his skull to mush.
I turned, blood-spattered and grinning, towards Tess for my reward.
But she was gone.
I frowned. Where was she? Where was my naked, glistening prize?
As I stood there, I heard tyres crunching on my gravel driveway. I glanced outside and saw a police car pull up at the door. No doubt coppers coming to warn me about my speeding antics.
I looked at the battered corpse of Jack at my feet, the blood soaking into the inch-high pile of the carpet. I heard the doorbell ring, then saw a young policeman’s face peer through the window. I saw him register the first forewarnings of shock as he spied me with the blood-smeared poker in my hand and the battered corpse at my feet.
I dropped the poker and walked through to the garage.
Tess smiled wickedly at me.
“I did everything you wanted,” I whispered, shocked at her treachery. “Everything you asked. We went through time together, you and I. Why are you doing this to me now?” My eyes clouded in tears.
“It’s your own fault,” she said, coldly. “I am time. You are nothing. You should have kept to the bargain.”
“Bargain?” My voice was shaking.
“You’re no good to me now, Dave. You’ve blown it. You can’t ride me anymore. I need someone else now.”
“I…” I started to say, but she shook her head.
“You shouldn’t have killed Jack. Not in your own time. That’s not how it works.”
“You wanted me to!” I howled at her. “I felt it!”
She just smiled.
I dropped to my knees in front of her.
“I love you,” I whimpered, hollowly.
Tess didn’t answer.
There was a loud crash as the police kicked in the front door.
* * *
A young man sauntered past the Suzukis and the Triumphs and the BMWs. They were nice, but he was looking for something special. Something no one else had.
The salesman came across, looking bored. He brightened up considerably when the young man told him how much he had to spend.
“A Dot Com business, you say? Wow, that must have made you a mint! My name’s Tom, by the way. I’ll tell you what, if you want special, I’ve got special. Come, let’s have a look in the back.”
He led the young man to the rear of the showroom.
“Got her back just the other week,” Tom went on. “Apparently, the guy who used to own her is in prison or dead or something.”
He clicked on the light.
“What do you think of that?” he asked, proudly.
A grin crossed the young man’s face. By the way he smiled, it looked almost as though the bike were smiling back at him.
About The Author
Richard Ayre
Richard Ayre was born in Northumberland, Northern England, and now lives in Newcastle upon Tyne where he continues to write horror fiction. At an impressionable age he fell in love with new wave heavy metal and rock music, and at the same time read his first James Herbert novel. The combination of these two magnificent things led him to write Minstrel’s Bargain, a tale of music and horror.
Minstrel’s Bargain is the first novel in the Prophecy Books. Richard has also written Minstrel’s Renaissance and Minstrel’s Requiem, the second and third of that trilogy. He has also written Point of Contact, a sci-fi chiller, as well as the short story anthology, A Hatful of Shadows. When not writing, Richard can be found zooming around the Northumberland countryside on his motorcycle, Tracy (not Tess.)
The Highway Phantom
By: Michael Warriner
The following has been logged into evidence with missing person case 85-15772 of the Virginia State Police:
January 2, 1983
The Law Offices of Colin & Quinn
Criminal Defense Attorneys
Dear Mr. Jeffrey Slater:
From the Law Offices of Colin & Quinn, we want to wish all our clients a Happy New Year!
As you know, our firm continues to pursue all possible avenues within the law to appeal your criminal conviction. We are cognizant that you face the death penalty, and that your sentence is due to be carried out in a little over a month. You can rest assured that our firm will work diligently to reverse the judge’s decision, or at the very least commute it to life in prison.
(Continued on page two, over please.)
Please allow me to properly introduce myself, Mr. Slater. For now, you can refer to me as Sam Adams. I took the liberty of copying your attorney’s letterhead to ensure this message would pass for an attorney-client privileged communication, and therefore, would not be opened and read by prison security officers.
I understand you must receive numerous letters from so-called “fans.” Being the legend known as the “Highway Phantom” comes with its requisite degree of infamy. Please do not mistake me for this, as I’ve developed a true admiration for what you’ve accomplished. The trail of death you’ve left along Interstate 81 can only be described as the artful expression of a calculated mind. Before your capture, I followed your career raptly, hoping one day to speak with the rebel who couldn’t be caught. I followed press conferences, missing persons cases, gossip columns, anything that would give me the opportunity to see the world through your eyes.
One day, it hit me. Everywhere I looked, there was only the one-sided hypocrisy of emotional attachment the media tried to spin as normal. Their unrelenting goal to smear your brilliant mind and sublime thoughts as abhorrent could only be described as criminal. They just can’t understand how strangulation allows you to feel the threshold of life and death the moment one makes that transition; or how the fifteen “projects” you placed around the Shenandoah National Park showed your respect for oblivion returning us to nature. I understand what you see. I appreciate your work, and relate to it wholeheartedly.
Another reason I’m writing is to inform you I bought a car. The car, I believe, you used to find and scatter your projects. I purchased it at a police auction a couple of months back and hoped you could confirm if it once belonged to you. It’s a 1971 Buick Riviera painted as black as the night, with a black vinyl interior and pearl inserts in the bucket seats. A crack runs down the middle of the radio tuner case, splitting it in half, right under the clock. I know this is a long shot, but could this beast be the Highway Phantom’s mythical companion?
I hope you will respond back. Should you choose to do so, please send your reply to the address on the envelope. Never mind that it appears to go to your attorney’s offices, your message will in fact be rerouted to a P.O. box I can access.
I wish you resolute peace before death tries to claim its greatest prize.
Regards,
Sam Adams, Esq.
* * *
January 12, 1983
Buckingham Correctional Center
Prisoner 1224
Dear Mr. Samuel Adams,
Your compliments are but fireworks to the blind. Sure, they sound good, but they are void of any true meaning. It’s clear you mistake me for some cheap prostitute who will accept anything thrown in their direction. Allow me to educate you otherwise.
If you’ve guessed anything correctly, it’s that the amount of “fan” mail I get would put Santa Claus to shame. Having toiled through endless empty praise from bacteria longing to be viruses, I can say without a doubt, that your words are nothing more than self-serving attempts to get me to verify the authenticity of your new car. Your accounts of my actions are so generic and vague; while your descriptions of the 1971 Riviera reveal where your true intents lie.
I can imagine someone at a pedestal calling for bids on your “boat-tail” Buick and spinning an epic on how it once obeyed only me, slicing through the mist of the midnight air as I hunted my next prey. Oh, how I can imagine your eyes widening as you glimpse an opportunity to touch even the smallest understanding of what eludes you. I have no desire to verify whether or not you have my old steed from Hell.
Continue to wonder if you have something of value. It makes no difference to me. A disrespectful brownnoser isn’t worth what little time I have left.
Jeffery Slater
* * *
January 16, 1983
Dear Mr. Slater:
I’d like to ask your forgiveness if my previous letter offended you. I had hoped to gain your favor; and to cause offense was the furthest thing from my mind.
It is true, some of the actions you’ve taken part in are difficult to empathize with. You’ve chosen to keep the motivations of your late-night activities a personal matter, and I can see how my guessing as to your motives can be seen as disrespectful. For this, I apologize.
Indeed, I did purchase the vehicle at a police auction, but no one insinuated it might previously have been yours. I didn’t even want to attend the auction, but my girlfriend insisted we go. But when I first laid eyes upon the car, it was love at first sight. The image still burns in my mind how the surface reflected the faces of those attending the auction as clear as a painting on a black canvas. The chrome outlines showed off its sharp edges… and that boat-tail rear! I could picture the car like a knife, slicing through the midnight air. I had to have it. Shortly before penning my first letter to you, a neighbor showed me a picture of your old car, and I have to admit, the likeness is remarkable.
I’ve been hard at work, trying to bring the engine back to life. I’m getting close to hearing it roar once more. My girlfriend thinks it’s foolish, but there’s something about this car that gets me out of bed every morning to work on it. I understand you don’t wish to confirm or deny whether it’s yours, and I respect that. I apologize once again for the offense I’ve caused, and want to thank you for taking the time to write me back regardless.
Regards,
Sam Adams, Esq.
* * *
January 20, 1983
Dear Mr. Adams,
I accept your apology. Writing me again, however misguided, shows more depth to you than your previous letter. I’m elated to hear the car is a passion project for you. How you’ve described your captivation would make a lonely man envious. Like love at first sight, indeed.
Tell me, did you fall in love with your girlfriend the same way? What did your eyes see when you first discovered beauty in her? She may not understand the car the way you do, but something must have drawn you two together. Please describe it for me, and I’ll tell you if the car you possess was once mine.
Respectfully yours,
Jeffery Slater
* * *
January 24, 1983
Dear Mr. Slater:
Considering how we got off on the wrong foot, I reckon your price to be more than fair.
I met my girlfriend at my last job. She worked in the computer services department. I’d pass through her workspace every morning on the way to my cubicle. She has the brightest fiery red hair you’ve even seen. Each time she’d turn her head, her hair would follow in waves and encircle her freckled face.
Here’s how we got together. At first, she never paid me much attention when we crossed each other in the break room or in the hallways. I was too shy to approach her directly, so I’d phone in for technical support and hope she’d be the one who’d come by my cubicle. Eventually, she caught on to my “false alarms,” but by then I felt ready to ask her out on a date. To my great surprise, she said, “Yes.”
She’s everything to me. I love making her happy. What keeps us together is my drive to make her smile.
How’s that for an answer?
Regards,
Sam Adams, Esq.
* * *
January 28, 1983
Dear Mr. Adams,
The passion with which you describe her drives me toward envy. How lucky she is to have found someone who holds her in such high esteem. Does she think the same of you?
What I mean to ask is, how often is she doing things to make you smile? When you first met, you said she didn’t pay any attention to you, but why? Clearly you had a great deal to offer. You sound supportive to her needs and ready to show her attention the second she needs it. Has she returned this attentiveness in equal measure?
From the previous descriptions you gave of the car, it sounds like it could be mine, but to know for sure, I’ll have to see it. Please send me a photo of the car’s exterior. Also, send a photo of the dashboard showing the cracked radio tuner and clock. I should be able to tell you for sure if it’s mine just from those two.
Sincerely,
Jeffery Slater
The Highway Phantom
* * *
January 31, 1983
Dear Mr. Slater:
Since it’s just you and me, I don’t mind admitting my relationship with my girlfriend is one-sided from time to time. I neglected to mention in my previous letter that she only started warming up to me when I helped her at the office with tasks she didn’t want to do. After a while, I bartered a date out of her. Some days, the fear of losing her impels me to try harder to please her, and even with my best efforts, I seem to accomplish this less and less.
She is my first and only love, outside the growing relationship with the Riviera of course. I think she’s been upset about it lately. I’m now doing less for her as more time is spent restoring the car. Which, by the way, is looking new once again. Turned the ignition the other day and heard her speak for the first time. Her triumphant roar could out-thunder the trumpets of heralding angels. She lives again. The dashboard clock, though, that’s another story. For the life of me, I just can’t get it to work.
Enclosed are the photos you requested.
Regards,
Sam Adams, Esq.
* * *
February 3, 1983
Dear Mr. Adams,
Congratulations to you for bringing my old steed back to life. With the pictures you’ve sent, I can confirm the vehicle in your possession once belonged to me.
I remember when I first laid eyes on her, the car, I mean. Though it wouldn’t be a stretch of the imagination to believe, I actually bought it to impress a girl. Unlike the technologically-savvy redhead you’ve taken care of, mine was a mechanic with hair as black as the grease under her fingernails. And yet, no matter how filthy she would get, she always smelled of lavender, which I found all the more alluring.
Her uniqueness attracted me. I’m not accustomed to seeing women in garages, nor with the knowledge she possessed of engines; and despite these, she managed to retain a certain femininity I’ve never encountered before. I bought a unique car to attract a unique woman.
The ‘71 Riviera was a luxury model. Each time I rolled up to her garage, we’d chat about its engine and unique shape in the back. Then, one day, I offered her a ride, and she didn’t hesitate to accept.
Like you, I did everything I could for her. She wasn’t my first love, but my first in another way. As time passed, however, I realized she would only see me if I brought the car along.
I remember our last night together; and can see it all as though it were happening presently. It was raining, but not storming. The only light around came from my headlights. We drove through Shenandoah and parked by a hiking trail, listening to the radio. I can hear the song even now. I don’t remember its name, but it was French and had something to do with not having any regrets. How perfect the song turned out to be, upon reflection.
We joked a little and shared a kiss in the darkness of my majestic vehicle… and as I parted ways with her soft lips, I professed my love for her. She laughed. I didn’t know how to respond. Once she finished laughing, she asked if she could drive the car. In those few seconds, I felt beyond broken. No matter what I did, it would never be good enough for her. She would never be satisfied. I gave her everything and asked only for her love in return. I understood then what true helplessness felt like.
I asked her to kiss me, if she wanted a turn at driving. She hopped on my lap and shoved her tongue down my throat. All this passion, just to get behind the wheel of the car. I ran one hand up her torso until it reached her neck and clasped her throat. This excited her. I applied more pressure and slowly removed her from my lips.
