Andrea
Cross, seven going on seventeen, sat comfortably on the steps of her front
porch when she noticed the headlights burning at the end of the street.
Hardly anyone ever drove round the
estate after nine these days. Her mother said it was because people hereabouts
had jobs which took them out of town and into the city in the early hours of
the morning while the rest of the estate slept. Her father said it was because
everyone around here were “old and past it” or “had one foot in the grave.”
So she sat and stared at the warm
jaundiced headlights flooding the southern edge of the street. They sat between
the soft arcs of the streetlights, the engine powering them a gentle purr.
She was surprised nobody had seen
it; especially Mrs Cosgrove. Mrs Cosgrove, Anne, was the head of the
neighbourhood watch committee. Mrs Cosgrove was usually the first person with
her face to the window whenever someone new came into the estate.
“Who do you think it is?” She asked
nobody in particular. The ginger tabby at her side, Mr. Jangles, meowed,
turned, and padded away.
Who
cares?, the meow said. I’m outta
here.
So, that said, Andrea voted to
discover the truth for herself.
She decided she would cross the
street outside number 12 and walk towards the post box gleaming beneath the
streetlamp that flashed and buzzed so very occasionally, and, then, if she was
lucky she’d get a better glimpse of the car and whomever was driving it.
She was halfway down the street when
she suddenly felt dizzy. Her stomach did a flip-flopped. Then it passed and she
was back to normal again. A second or two after that she was at the post box,
pretending to fumble for a letter out of her pocket; pretending to go through
the motions.
Even up close she couldn’t tell the
make or model of the car, and she supposed there was no point in trying.
Besides, she didn’t know enough about cars to contemplate guessing anyway.
It was low to the ground though,
that was the first thing that struck her. The hubs on each of the wheels and
the grill on the front were brilliantly polished chrome, the windows black to
match the colour of the car itself.
Suddenly, Andrea was frightened.
Horribly, terribly, frightened. Neither she nor the car belonged out here. She
couldn’t stay, she knew.
If only Mrs. Cosgrove had her face
pushed to the window right now, she’d know what to do.
Suddenly there was a sound so tiny
that at any other time of day it would have perhaps been unnoticeable. She
looked up again to see the driver’s window slowly lowering. A plume of smoke – cigarette smoke, she
reasoned – drifted up and out.
“Can I help you?” Andrea asked
softly. She felt her heart beating an unhealthy rhythm against her chest.
The inside of the car remained a
black, empty, void.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The driver didn’t answer but the
smoke continued to billow from the driver’s window. A moment later, from
between the curls of acrid smelling smoke, a bony, flesh tattered, hand
emerged. Then, still without a sound, the index finger of that same hand began
to curl and unfurl; beckoning her.
Andrea screamed, shattering the
still of the night, as the driver finally pushed his face into the light. It
was gaunt and ashen. His eyes were little more than darkly lit holes set into
deeply sunken sockets. And his smile, when it presented itself, was a tight,
chap-lipped, beam of blood and split flesh, behind which lay row upon row of
perfectly sharpened teeth.
“My, my, you are a pretty one,
aren’t you?” The drive said. “Yes, you’re the prettiest I’ve seen in months, in
fact. You’ll make a fine plaything. Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.” His smile
broadened, his lips split further. “Cross my heart.”
Andrea screamed and screamed and
screamed, and nobody, not even Mrs. Cosgrove, pushed a weary faces to the
window to see what all the fuss was about.
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