"The scariest Halloween I recollect was in 1970. Back in the day when I owned a service station up to Veazie, Earl’s Gas and Grease. It was a good ol’ shop, one of those full service jobbies with gas pumps, a coke-cola machine, and a mechanic on duty. Anyway, that Halloween, just after dark, a kid named Steve from up the University, brought his car in to be fixed. She was a beauty—a 1958 white-over-red two-toned finned Plymouth Fury. Purred like a pampered house cat. Looked mint. But, according to young Steve, it had a few problems. ‘She sometimes switches on all by herself,’ he said. ‘It’s like she’s got a mind of her own.’

“Olie, my mechanic, cracked a smile, figurin’ the kid was pullin’ some kinda Halloween prank. But that boy was dead serious. ‘This may sound crazy,’ he said, ‘but one time, when my girlfriend Tabby was waiting for me at the Oronoka parking lot, the car doors locked—all by themselves.’

“Olie didn’t believe a word of it, but he told Steve he’d give the car a good goin’ over. So Steve left the Fury in Olie’s hands and took off in a town cab. Olie drove her into the bay and looked under the hood. He listened to the motor. He fiddled with the wires. He even rolled underneath to check the oil pan. But I’ll be darned, if he couldn’t find one blessed thing wrong with that car. So Olie did what any frustrated mechanic might do—he kicked one of the tires, hard as he could, with his steel-toed boot.

“Well sir, I’ll tell you what, that car didn’t much care for bein’ kicked. She made a terrible noise, like a wounded bull moose. Then there come a flash o’ sparks just ’fore the garage lights knocked out. But we weren’t in the dark for long, cause the Fury’s headlights flashed on bright enough to blind a man. Olie and I backed up against the garage wall, petrified. ’Bout that time, the Fury’s radio switched on and started in playin’ some ground shakin’, pulse poundin’ devil music. Olie and I just stood there, frozen in place, watchin’ that car rock, roll, and flop to the beat like a fish on dry land. Then that Fury stood up on her hind tires, roared, fell back on all fours and I swear I saw her grill form the shape of a smile. Once she got settled down, Olie took to his heels. He flew from out that garage like a man on fire, never to show hide nor hair ever again.

“Next day, the kid, Steve, come back to the station hopin’ to hear some good news. But when I told him we couldn’t find nothin’ wrong with his car, that boy gave a look like he was visitin’ the family dog up the pet cemetery. Just ’bout broke my heart. So I give him a little somethin’ to go on. ‘There is this one needful thing,’ I said. ‘Her tires are extremely sensitive.You might want t’ look into replacin’ ’em.’"