by R. L. Stine
“What was the address again?” Dad asked, slowing to pass three helmeted teenagers on bikes.
I pulled the ad from my pocket and read him the address again.
“It should be a few blocks from here,” Dad said, turning onto a block of square white-shingled houses. “Now, listen, Mitchell. I have to warn you. We’re just going to look at this car. I’m not going to whip out my checkbook and buy it on the spot. Do you understand?”
“But what if it’s great?” I demanded. “What if it’s totally perfect?”
“Listen to me,” Dad said, slowing the car, squinting at the numbers on the mailboxes. “Read my lips, Mitchell. We’re not buying today. We’re only looking.”
“But if it’s the most awesome car we’ve ever seen?” I insisted.
He didn’t reply.
He turned into a gravel driveway beside a small, square, white frame house. “This is it,” he murmured. “The car must be in the garage in back.” A garage, just a little smaller than the house, stood at the end of the driveway.
We made our way to the front stoop. The door was open. Dad knocked on the glass storm door.
I heard footsteps inside. A few seconds later, a tall, thin man wearing denim overalls and a red-and-black flannel shirt pushed open the storm door. He tilted his head and stared at us with tiny, round blue eyes.
He reminded me of an eagle or maybe a buzzard, with intense eyes, a broad forehead, and a long, crooked beak of a nose over a tiny O of a mouth. He kept those blue bird-eyes trained on us for the longest time.
Dad finally broke the silence. “Mr. Douglas? We called earlier. About the car?”
Mr. Douglas titled his head the other way. He nodded and cleared his throat. “It’s around back. In the garage.”
The aroma of frying bacon floated out from the house. I tried to see inside, but Mr. Douglas blocked the way. He stepped out onto the stoop and closed the storm door behind him.
“Nice morning,” he muttered, scratching his head of stringy brown hair as he stepped past us and started toward the garage.
“Yes. After all the rain,” Dad replied. “This is Mitchell. He spotted your ad in the paper and —”
Mr. Douglas stopped in the driveway and turned to me. “Mitchell? You like cars?”
I nodded. “Yes. I like sports cars and vintage cars. I build models,” I said.
He nodded. “Well … I think you’ll like this car a lot, Mitchell.”
We followed him along the driveway, our shoes crunching over the gravel. He stopped a few feet from the garage and began fumbling in his overalls pocket.
I let out a gasp and turned to Dad.
“The garage door,” I murmured. “Why is it covered with padlocks?”
“The padlocks?” Mr. Douglas narrowed his bird-eyes at me.
I could feel myself blushing. I didn’t mean for him to hear me.
“I have to keep the car locked up,” he said, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. “It’s a pretty bad neighborhood. One of my neighbors had a car stolen just last week.”
But so many padlocks? I thought. I counted six of them on the garage door.
It took him forever to find the right keys for the right locks and unlock them all. By the time he slid open the garage door, my heart was pounding with excitement.
As the door moved up, sunlight rolled over the car. The chrome bumper glowed like gold, reflecting the sun. The curved trunk shimmered, silvery in the spreading light.
“Wow!” I exclaimed.
Even from behind, the car was incredible!
“It has sports car designing,” Mr. Douglas said, watching my reaction. “But it seats four.”
“There are four in my family!” I declared.
The padlock keys jangled in Mr. Douglas’s hand. He slid them back into his overalls pocket. “As you can see, there isn’t a scratch on it,” he told Dad. “And it has less than ten thousand miles. It’s hardly been driven.”
“It’s incredible!” I exclaimed.
Dad frowned at me. “Easy, Mitchell,” he warned.
Dad and I circled the car. I ran my hand over the smooth fenders. The car was all blue with a white leather interior. It was built low to the ground and looked as if it was speeding at ninety miles per hour even standing still!
It reminded me a lot of an old Corvette. It had the same sleek design, except it had a backseat.
“Wow!” I exclaimed again, peering in at all the dials and controls.
Dad chuckled. “I think Mitchell approves,” he told Mr. Douglas.
Mr. Douglas swept a hand back through his stringy hair. His small mouth remained set in a tight O. He didn’t smile. His eyes stayed on the car.
Dad stepped out of the garage. “Is there anything wrong with it?” he asked Mr. Douglas. “Why do you want to sell it?”
“Wrong with it?” Mr. Douglas tilted his head, his eyes thoughtful. “No. Nothing wrong with it. I … I have no use for it. That’s all.”
He turned away. I saw his hands tremble for just a second. He quickly shoved them into his overalls pockets.
Dad squatted down and examined the tires. “Like new,” he murmured. He ran his hand over the silvery wheel cover.
“Want to take a test drive?” Mr. Douglas offered.
“Yes!” I cried.
Dad frowned at me again. He turned to Mr. Douglas. “Yes. Why don’t you show us how it drives.”
“Oh, no!” Mr. Douglas declared. He took a step back.
Why does he look frightened? I wondered.
He cleared his throat and began fumbling once again in his pockets. “No. I mean … uh … it would be better if you took the car out yourself.”
He pulled the car keys out and shoved them at my dad. I saw that his hand was shaking. “Okay? I … I’ll stay here. You give the car a try.”
Dad squinted at him. “You sure you don’t want to come along and show it off for us?”
Mr. Douglas pushed the keys into Dad’s hand. “No. I … have some things to do around here. Uh … I haven’t quite finished breakfast.”
“Oh. I’m really sorry,” Dad replied. “We didn’t mean to interrupt….”
“Take the car for a spin. Go ahead,” Mr. Douglas insisted. “Just back it straight out of the garage. I’ll wait here. When you return, we can talk about price. I … I know you’re going to want it. It’s a wonderful car.”
He turned and hurried to his house, taking long strides.
Dad and I watched him until he disappeared inside. “Weird,” I muttered.
I opened the passenger door and lowered myself onto the soft leather seat. “Mmmmmm. Feels so good.”
Dad slid behind the wheel. He adjusted his seat, then the mirror.
“Why does that man look so frightened?” I asked.
Dad shrugged. “Beats me.” He pulled the seat belt over his shoulder. “I don’t know what his problem is. But okay. Fine. We’ll check out the car without him. What could happen?”
He slid the key into the ignition and turned it.
The car started right up. The engine hummed.
Dad lowered his foot on the gas pedal. The hum became a steady roar.
“Sounds good,” Dad said. “Very clean.” He grabbed the gearshift in his right hand and eased it into reverse. The car rolled out of the garage and down the gravel driveway.
I could see Mr. Douglas watching us from his front window. He gazed out at us with his hands in his pockets, standing still as a statue.
Dad shifted into drive, and we drove off. He turned at the corner, sped up, slowed down again, testing the brakes, then made a sharp right turn.
“It handles wonderfully,” he commented. “This car practically drives itself.”
“Let’s buy it!” I cried.
“Whoa. Slow down.” Dad laughed. “A car is a very important purchase, Mitchell,” he scolded. “You don’t just buy the first car you look at. Besides, I’m sure we can’t afford this car. Mr. Douglas probably wants twenty or thirty thou
sand dollars for it.”
“But the ad in the newspaper said —” I started.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Dad replied. “This is a real luxury car, Mitchell. You know cars better than I do. You know a car like this is way beyond our budget.”
I ran my hand over the smooth seat. “It sure is awesome,” I muttered.
Dad turned on the radio. Music surrounded us from four speakers. He tested the turn signal, then the lights, then the heater and air conditioner.
“Everything is perfect,” he said, turning back onto Wilbourne. “Wonder why Mr. Douglas wants to sell such a terrific car.”
“Wonder why he wouldn’t come with us,” I added.
Dad eased the car up the gravel driveway. He stopped at the side of the house and turned off the engine.
“Just ask about the price,” I urged. “It doesn’t hurt to ask — right?”
Dad sighed. “I guess. But don’t get your hopes up, Mitchell. This car is way beyond what I can afford.”
I pushed open the car door, climbed out, and nearly bumped into Mr. Douglas. “Oh. Sorry,” I murmured.
He gazed at me with those pale blue bird-eyes but didn’t say anything. He pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped his forehead.
Why is he sweating? I wondered. It’s cold out today. I can see my breath.
“You’re back,” he said finally, studying Dad.
Why does he appear so relieved to see us? I asked myself. Didn’t he think we were coming back?
“Nice car,” Dad said, patting the shiny blue roof. “Handles really well.”
Mr. Douglas nodded. “You liked it? Good family car, right? Does your wife drive?”
“Yes,” Dad replied. “I think she —”
“I can drive in four years!” I interrupted. “If I take drivers’ ed. in school. I already know how. Dad let me take the wheel once when we were out in the desert in Arizona.”
I expected Mr. Douglas to smile at that. But to my surprise, his chin quivered, and I saw tears form in his eyes.
He turned away and blew his nose into the handkerchief. “Must be getting a cold,” he muttered.
“Well, I like the car,” Dad said, scratching his thick, dark hair. “But we’re looking for something a little less —”
“I’ll give you a really good price,” Mr. Douglas interrupted. He narrowed his eyes at the car and set his jaw in a cold scowl. “I really have to get rid of it.”
His expression sent a chill down my spine.
Dad backed away from the car, shaking his head. “I don’t think —”
“Would five thousand be too much?” Mr. Douglas asked.
Dad swallowed hard. “Five thousand? You mean as a down payment?”
“No. Five thousand total,” Mr. Douglas replied. “It’s a used car. Even though it’s in perfect shape, I know I can’t get full price for it. I’ll sell it to you for five thousand.”
“Dad —” I whispered, tugging his sleeve. “Do it!”
I wanted to cheer at the top of my lungs, pump my fists over my head, leap into the air.
Somehow I managed to stay on the ground.
“Well …” Dad rubbed his chin as if he was thinking it over. But I could see his eyes flashing excitedly. I knew he was going to say yes!
“Are you sure there isn’t anything wrong with it, Mr. Douglas?” he asked.
“Wrong with it?” Mr. Douglas tilted his head thoughtfully. “No. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong with it at all.”
But then his eyes clouded over. And his face darkened, as if a shadow had fallen over it. “But if you buy it,” he said softly, “I have to ask you to do one thing.”
“One thing?” Dad asked. “What is it?”
Mr. Douglas lowered his eyes to the car. “You have to drive it away immediately,” he said. “You have to take it away today.”
Dad and I exchanged glances.
This is one weird dude, I thought. I could see that Dad agreed.
“I have the registration and the bill of sale,” Mr. Douglas said, nodding toward his house. “It’s all ready. If you have your checkbook, I could bring it out and sign the car over to you.”
“Uh … well …” Dad hesitated. He stared hard at me, then at the car. “Okay, Mr. Douglas. It’s a deal.”
“Yaaaaay!” I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I let out a long cheer and jumped for joy.
Dad started to follow Mr. Douglas to the house, but the man waved Dad back. “I’ll bring it out. No need to come inside.” He disappeared into the house. The storm door slammed behind him.
“What a strange man,” Dad murmured. “Why doesn’t he want us to come inside?”
I was so excited, I felt about to burst. “Dad! It’s ours! The car is ours! It — it’s so totally awesome!”
I couldn’t stay on the ground. I had to do something before I exploded!
I raised both hands above my head — and did a double cartwheel across the grass. But I misjudged the second cartwheel — pushed off a little too hard — and landed flat on my back.
“Ow!” I started laughing. I couldn’t stop. I just sprawled on my back in the grass and laughed.
Dad laughed, too. “I’m excited,” he confessed. “But I don’t think I’ll try any cartwheels.”
He raced over and pulled me to my feet. “I think we made a really good deal, Mitchell,” he said, grinning happily. “A really good deal.”
* * *
At dinner that night, I smeared spaghetti sauce all over my face and spilled my juice. I couldn’t help it. I was so excited about the car, I couldn’t control myself.
“Dad, can we take a long drive after dinner?” I asked.
“Wipe your face,” Mom replied. “Are you eating that spaghetti or wearing it?”
“Can we?” I repeated, swiping the napkin over my cheeks and chin.
“Mitchell, we took a long ride this afternoon,” Dad said. “I have things I have to work on tonight. I know you love it, but we can’t spend our whole life in that car.”
“Mitchell wants to live in the car!” Todd exclaimed. Then he laughed his head off as if he’d made a really terrific joke.
“Maybe I do want to live in the car!” I shot back, leaning across the table at him. “So what?”
Todd grinned. “Where would you go to the bathroom?”
Dad laughed.
“That’s not funny,” Mom snapped. “Todd, we’re at the dinner table, remember?”
“How about a short ride,” I suggested. “Just down the hill to town and back?”
“No. You have homework,” Mom replied sternly. “School tomorrow — remember?”
I tore off half a roll and shoved it into my mouth.
“We’re all very excited about the new car,” Mom said, passing the spaghetti bowl to Dad. “But, remember, we’re going to have the car for a long, long time. And there will be plenty of time to ride in it.”
“How about if I just sit in it?” I cried. “I just want to sit behind the wheel and maybe play the radio and try the headlights. Okay?”
“Not okay,” Mom said, shaking her head. “Homework. No car. No more.”
I knew better than to argue. When Mom starts talking in very short sentences, she means business.
The others kept talking as we finished dinner, but I didn’t hear them. I kept thinking about the new car. About its silvery-blue exterior. The soft leather seats. The gentle, steady hum of its engine …
Later, I tried to do some homework. But I kept jumping up and going to my bedroom window, leaning out to peer down at the car. Dad had parked it in the driveway, and I could see it clearly since my room faces the front.
A streetlight sent a rectangle of yellow light over the car, making the chrome bumpers sparkle and the sleek blue body glow softly like moonlight.
I couldn’t resist.
I had to go sit in the car.
I crept out into the hallway. I made sure Todd wasn’t around. The little snitch woul
d tell Mom and Dad.
I could hear music and gunfire and explosions from his room down the hall. I guessed he was in there playing video games.
I made my way silently down the stairs, leaning hard against the wall to keep the wooden steps from creaking. I could hear Mom talking on the phone from the den.
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Where was Dad?
“Ow!” I heard his angry cry from the back hall. I twisted around until I glimpsed him, on his knees on the floor, tools spread around.
He had an electrical cord raised in one hand. I guessed it was the cord he’d been working on before.
I heard a loud crackling sound. “Ow!” Dad cried out again. He dropped the cord and shook his hand furiously.
The cord definitely was not fixed.
Holding my breath, I turned and tiptoed to the front door. A few seconds later, I was outside. My sweatshirt fluttered in a strong, cold wind. A pale sliver of a moon faded behind wisps of black clouds.
I shivered. Too late to go back for a coat. I’ll be warm inside the car.
I jogged along the walk to the driveway. The car shimmered in the light from the streetlamp.
I stepped around to the driver’s side and grabbed the chrome handle.
“Go ahead,” a voice whispered. “Climb in.”
“Huh? Who said that?” I called out in a choked whisper.
I spun around. “Who’s there? Todd?”
No. No one behind me. No one in the driveway.
I hurried around to the passenger side. No one hiding on the other side of the car.
As I made my way back to the driver’s door, I heard the whispered voice again: “Come in. Let’s go.”
I hesitated with my hand on the door handle. I lowered my head and peered into the front seat.
“Is someone in there?”
No one.
Just my imagination, I thought.
I pulled open the door. It slid open so easily, I barely had to tug it. The ceiling light came on, making the creamy white seats glow.
I lowered myself behind the wheel and quickly pulled the door closed. I didn’t want the ceiling light on. I didn’t want anyone to see me from the house.
