I always walk toward him slowly. Maybe if I am quiet enough he won’t know I’m coming and the paralysing fear that envelops me will dissipate. My hands start to tremble and I drop my keys.

​

            What is wrong with you? Just get in.

​

            But I can’t just get in. He relishes mocking me, this sneering presence that whispers disapproval and contempt. It seems no matter what I do he is never satisfied. And I’m the only one who can feel him.

​

            You’re going to be late.

​

So, I take a deep breath as I pick up my keys. I unlock the beast and fumble with the door handle feeling the hatred deepen as my sweaty palms desecrate the shiny surface. The door swings wide and nearly strikes me in the face. Typical. I would like to think he hasn’t always despised me but he reassures me that he has. I don’t know how he reads my thoughts and my futile attempts to block it out have only increased his hatred.

​

            Get in, you insipid wretch.

​

His rage permeates the air. The ashen upholstery reminds me of a coffin. The lights in the dash are slanted and amber and the sinister light is visible on my face in the rear view mirror. When I catch a glimpse of myself I look gaunt and lifeless, just the way he likes it.

​

            What are you waiting for? We have somewhere to be.

​

I swallow hard and turn the key. He enjoys torturing me so the engine fires up immediately. As I clutch the gear shift, I feel it pulsating under my fingers reminding me who is really in control. I never turn the radio on because he just shuts it off. The noise bothers him. I try to distract myself by singing songs in my head but the ridicule is unbearable.

​

            Finally. This little song and dance only delays the inevitable.

​

The truth is I have no control over the speed or the direction we travel. He enjoys the embarrassment I feel being passed by other drivers who scorn me for being in their way. I’d heard stories of people who are friends with ghosts, so in the beginning, I tried to talk to it thinking we could be friends. It would be nice to have someone on my side so I wouldn’t feel so alone. I also naively believed if I shared my innermost thoughts and fears he would begin to trust me. He has no desire to be my friend and now he knows perfectly well what terrifies me. 

​

            Going slower than everyone is more dangerous than speeding.

​

My hands are numb from holding the steering wheel so tightly. My pale skin looks transparent. My hands look like they belong to a corpse. Dead. He sneers. My anxiety level rises as we approach the bridge. We cross this bridge every day. Every day the vehicle shudders. Every day he drives close enough to the edge so I can see the expanse below me. Every day he whispers,

 

This could be the day.

           

I think to myself, “bridges don’t collapse. That only happens in the movies.” The relief of that statement is fleeting; the harder I fight him, the more I feel him controlling me. I have thought about selling the car but he assures me that I’ll never be rid of him. As I struggle to see through the delirious fog of terror, I feel a terrible shudder.

​

I try to calm myself down, but it’s impossible. My skin prickles and my breathing is shallow. I know the bridge is only a few miles long but it feels like I will never see the end of it. I feel the shudder again. What could he possibly want from me? What is the purpose of this daily routine?

​

Finally over the bridge, I relax my grip on the steering wheel. I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror and gasp. I could swear I saw something – no, someone - in the back seat. I try to pull over but he won’t let me. His presence is always looming but I have never seen him before. There is something different about today.

​

Trying not panic, I see the image flicker again in the rear view mirror and I have to remind myself to breathe. The vehicle lurches forward and I’m approaching the bridge again. I have the distinct impression that someone is breathing very close to me; I can feel the frigid breath on my neck. My teeth start chattering and my whole body tenses as I feel the bridge heave beneath me.

​

My eyes are watering but I can clearly see over the side of the bridge. There is no water, just a gaping hole. There are ragged rocks and one lone tree clinging to life.

​

You and that tree have a lot in common.

​

I never look over the side but it seems more inviting than looking at whatever is sitting in the back seat. Maybe I can find something to focus on that will help me forget.

​

The sun is shining, but the wind is blowing, hard. There are no clouds anywhere. I can see in the distance that the trees aren’t moving. Still. I hear a terrible groaning all around me; like the noise a building makes when it’s demolished. I close my eyes and the tears trickle down my cheek.

​

I try to reassure myself that this is a dream and I’m going to wake up. I pinch myself. Hard. My arm is red and tender. At least there is some color left in my skin. I can tell he is excited. The presence in the back seat is becoming clearer. The figure is translucent but it is definitely a man. His hair is black and scraggly and he has a thick, gnarled beard. There are shadowy circles where his eyes should be. His nose is missing. He is laughing but I can’t hear the sound.

​

I have asked him, “why me” many times but today I demand an answer. The car accelerates and begins to swerve from one side of the bridge to the other. I am screaming. Crying. Begging.

​

            “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

​

I feel his anger envelop me. His sinister face is right next to mine. He forces me to look into the black pools of oblivion as I feel the ground giving way beneath me. My stomach drops as I ride the malicious roller coaster and his eyes sear into my soul.

 

I want you to suffer.

​

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

​

“Ooh. I really like the colour of this one. Can I take it for a drive?”

​

“This is an excellent choice. It’s one of our top sellers.”

​

“I know. I see them on the freeway all the time. But, this colour stands out so hopefully I won’t look like all the other cars on the road.”

​

I hate looking like everyone else. A car should have personality.

​

 “Did you hear about the girl who died when the bridge collapsed last week? Wasn’t she driving one of these?”

​

“Yes. She actually bought it from this dealership. She called us a bunch of times asking if we had sold her a used car. I don’t know what would make her think that. It’s a tragic story.”

​

“Absolutely.”

​

“If you’re ready for a test drive I’ll run inside and get the keys.”

​

“Do you mind if I sit in the car?”

​

“Not at all. I’ll be right back.”

​

I take another lap around the car before I settle into the front seat. As I adjust the rear view mirror I catch a flicker of something in the back seat. I use the vanity mirror to check my lipstick and I catch another flash. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. I fumble around my purse for my sunglasses. I feel at home.

​

“Here are the keys. You ready to take her for a spin?”

​

“Her? No. This car is definitely a boy. Buckle up!”

​

As I put the car into gear, I see the flash again. An unusual chill runs through me as I attempt to open the sun roof and my hands involuntarily return to the wheel.

​

            I don’t like it open.