Ghost in the Gearbox

There’s a phantom car in town, and I’ve had just about had it up to here with it. The sound of its engine revving somehow drills through seven dimensions, with nary a thought for mortal eardrums. And the thing has zero concern for road rules, carving through front yards, ovals and even waterways like it’s not a thing.

This is not an urban legend. I wish it was, because then I wouldn’t be questioning my sanity right now. It’s like, where did this come from, if not from local scuttlebutt? The answers can only be (a) from the realm of madness, or (b) from the land beyond, which apparently hosts machines nowadays – if the reality of this car is to be believed, that is.

It’s not the kind of thing you expect to come upon – not here in Brunswick. Tyre service after an indirect run-in with a demonic teenager and a nail? Not inconceivable. Panel repairs for a carelessly scraped door? It happens. But a car thrashing around the neighbourhood all on its own, seemingly without heed for the laws of 3D space? Now, that’s new. Maybe in New York City, or Berlin, but not here in Melbourne’s inner north… surely not.

And yet, I’m confronted with the reality of this unearthly thing. I can hear it right now, careering past my pineal gland en route to the darkest recesses of my psyche. Have the boys at the auto centre heard about it, perhaps from some of their customers? Maybe they have some insights into what it is, and where it came from – and maybe, just maybe, how to get rid of it.

With Halloween mere days away, this thing is going to enjoy a good deal of cover in plain sight. People will think it’s fun, how it makes the hairs on the back of their necks stand up as it rushes past. But deep in their soul, they’ll scream in untold terror.