The Red Sports Car (standard:Suspense, 902 words)
Author: kira pirofski	Added: Sep 07 2003	Views/Reads: 4241/2496	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A story of romance, murder, and revenge. Told from the perspective of a 1950 red sports car.

The Red Sports Car 

The car caught my eye in a heartbeat.  It was red with chrome fenders
and whitewall tires.  I could picture myself in the car, speeding down 
the freeway, radio blaring, wind blowing gently on my arm.  I had to 
buy it. 

“Fifty thousand, that is my final offer,” intoned the car salesman.  He
was snacking on a tuna sandwich and sipping a coffee as he wrote up the 
papers.  “Hercules” was mine.  I drove her home, and parked her in the 
garage. 

At around midnight, I heard a strange knocking in the garage. “Must just
be the old broom,” I mused.  Secretly, I was worried that there was 
something about the car that was not right.  It seemed that it had a 
mind of its own. 

Bright and early the next morning, I showered, and took the cover off of
“Hercules.”  I put my gear in the back seat.  I noticed a large red 
spot on the back carpet, but discounted it.  IT was a vintage car, 
circa 1950, and perhaps it was a stain that had been left by some 
unknown owner. 

“Santa Cruz” I whispered to “Hercules.”  Surprisingly, “Hercules”
started on her own.  She seemed to know the way to the beach.  I 
stepped on the brakes, but could not stop her.  She silently made her 
way through the redwoods and hills towards our destination. 

I shouted out the window, but the passer Byers would not stop and help
me.  I knew this car was possessed, and there was nothing I could do 
about it.  “Might as well see where this all ends up,” I thought in 
fear and resignation. 

Where did we end up?  On the top of a wooded hill overlooking a
precipitice.  A tall brick house loomed overhead.  Hercules screeched 
to a stop.  I stumbled out and looked around.  The house was abandoned. 
 Rose bushes grew in masses around the house, a broken mailbox rested 
crucifix style near the front stoop. 

The mailbox was full of old, tattered letters dated from 1950. 
“Curious,” I thought, that is the year Hercules was manufactured.  One 
of the letters was in fact a bill of sale for Hercules; she had been 
purchased for a mere 6,000 dollars.  The rest of the mail was addressed 
to a man named, “Mr. Jones.” 

My curiosity peaked, I ripped open the letter. “Dear Prescott, I
deposited the money in the Federal Bank of Cuba.  Our tickets for 
Havana have been purchased, and we will leave September 20, 1950 from 
San Francisco Bay.  I'll be waiting in a red polka dot dress and white 
hat.  You know what else has to be done. Be sure you leave the car 
spotless. Love, Else” 

My thoughts raced back to the stain in the back of Hercules. Had
something horrible happened in that house that explained the mysterious 
stain?  I ran into the house hoping for more clues.   I had no idea 
what I was in store for. 

The house was crammed with boxes of old newspapers dated September 1950.
 I took one in a trembling hand.  “Disappearance of Heiress Mandy Jones 
Baffles Police.”  I dug deeper and found a hand written note. 

“Dear Mr. Jones, I cleaned up the house and the car.  The stain in the
back cannot be removed.  I used every cleanser I knew of and it still 
won't go away.  I hid the rest of the cash under the rose bushes.   
Helga.” 

“Prescott must have murdered his wife and gone to Havana with Else” The
cash?  Was it still buried under the rose bushes? 

As I turned this thought over in my tired brain, I caught sight of
Hercules.  The front headlights were flashing on and off.   I heard the 
sound of a car coming up the hill.   The car stopped in front and an 
elderly gentleman with a white handlebar mustache got out. 

He was stooped over, and wore a stained white suit.  In his hand were a


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