The Car is Evil (more or less)

This story is about my first car. I've heard all sorts of stories about beloved first cars; cars that people had their first romantic experience in, the car that they lovingly tended until something better came along. This story is not any of that — it’s far more sinister (and it’s typical of me to get embroiled in such a thing!)

In 1987, I was working for a training company, Retail Assessor (City & Guilds Qualifications) and based in-house with 16–18 year old students, but soon my job required me to visit companies to teach this new training course with its accompanying certificate. It was tough turning up to appointments on a bus when everyone around me had a car, and eventually, when having to visit the HQ of several top retail names such as Primark and B&Q, the bus was not going to cut it. I had to learn to drive.

So I did, and now was the time to choose my first car. Colleagues suggested a small car for cheaper running, others suggested a large car for prestige and for taking passengers, in the end I found a medium sized car that had done minimal mileage (I mean minimal) and was still with its first owner. I couldn't believe my luck (nor could my workmates) it was a steal at £300.

Off I went, workmate in tow (to make sure I wasn't about to be ripped-off) and I bought the car after it was given the all clear. In fact, the man couldn't wait to sell it to me. It wasn't until a little while later, when I drove it back to the training centre, when someone remarked on the number plate.

Not the actual car or number plate (obviously)

Everyone went quiet — and then the jokes arrived — much hilarity — and I settled into my new existence; a trainer who drives a pretty decent car. This was the height of luxury for me and soon I was snubbed by my ‘bus-friends’ who I waved and honked at as I drove by every morning (in the same traffic queue). I enjoyed not having to hang around in the rain. It’s also how my trouser size grew exponentially with not as much exercise (it’s where the rot set in - I tell everyone this).
Until one day, at the Asda Store at the Brighton Marina. You may know it? It has a severe U-turn to get back onto the A259. On this occasion, for some unknown reason, I drove without turning the wheel enough and seemed to head straight for the wall opposite. And then something even stranger happened…

A man. A man speaking. But I was on my own in the car. He said to me: “Brace yourself”. So I did. I hit the wall and stoved the whole of the front of the car in. I had mild whiplash that’s all, but my car was a right-off. To top it all off, as I emerged from the poor, sick car, what was coming around the corner but the bus I used to catch home, with all my bus-buddies on it — gawping at my demise. I even thought I saw a glimpse of a smile but I can’t be sure.

Then the Police turned up. A motorcycle cop. Someone must have phoned. It all seemed slow and certain. I was devastated, apart from anything, I couldn't afford a new car and wasn't sure what would happen with my insurance. Then I got hit with another whammy. The motorcycle cop took off his helmet and asked me if I was injured. Seeing I wasn't he then turned to me, sighed and said: I’m going to have to book you for dangerous driving.
Shit! Wasn't expecting that. I stood glumly waiting for his next announcement; a beheading in the morning? He asked me if I was a new driver, which of course I was — one week only. He moved to the front of the car to take the registration and then, to my surprise…

He saw the number plate and immediately reversed his decision. He stuttered, scratched his head and seemed perturbed. I’m sorry, he said, these cars should have all been taken off the road. In view of this, we’ll forget the whole thing. I’ll get someone to tow away the wreckage, you’ll have to pay for that of course. Of course I would — but that’s a lot better than having points on my licence, or worse, being had for dangerous driving. So that was my excursion with my evil 666 car and the start of my wondering about the voice that saved me from further injury.

More about that another time, because his voice would appear again.

(There wasn't a tag for spooky/scary, so hopefully others will share their spooky stories with the spooky tag).