The car had been parked outside her house for as long as she could remember and as far as she knew it had no owner. It was an old Austin Allegro that was held together by rust, luck and a moss-coated blanket with the initials X.Q. embroidered in every corner.
In all her years at that house she'd never once seen anybody come to claim it, clamp it or do anything more than give it a curious glance when walking by. She often wondered if she could pull it into her driveway and set about fixing it herself. It'd be a nice little project at best and something to sell to one of those "scrap for cash" places at worst.
So she pushed it onto her property, thinking nothing of it and planning all the things she could do to spruce it up a little. She never even thought to do much more than remove the blanket entirely and pick the locks on the doors.
If she'd only checked the glove compartment. She would have seen an interior made of cold flesh rather than plush fabric, one that warmed to her touch as its pistons started up for the first time in over thirty years and the tyres twitched impatiently.
She was startled when it suddenly started up later that evening, flooding the living room with painfully bright headlights as the bonnet slammed shut. She went out to check what had happened, thinking it was a tripped fuse somewhere.
If she had come out a few minutes earlier she would have caught sight of the bonnet clamping down on a crow. She also missed it eat a cat a few days later and a few more about a week or so later and a curious child a month later.
She didn't notice how organic the engine's purring was, how the resistance behind the wheel wasn't down to a lack of oil but an eagerness to get out and hunt. She didn't even notice that the rust on the grill was a little too red, too fresh to be actual rust.
Five months later she took it out to meet a friend a few cities over and was never seen again. A retired mechanic moved into a house that had an old Austin Allegro parked out front, held together by rust, luck and a moss-coated blanket with the initials X.I.Q. embroidered in every corner.
In all her years at that house she'd never once seen anybody come to claim it, clamp it or do anything more than give it a curious glance when walking by. She often wondered if she could pull it into her driveway and set about fixing it herself. It'd be a nice little project at best and something to sell to one of those "scrap for cash" places at worst.
So she pushed it onto her property, thinking nothing of it and planning all the things she could do to spruce it up a little. She never even thought to do much more than remove the blanket entirely and pick the locks on the doors.
If she'd only checked the glove compartment. She would have seen an interior made of cold flesh rather than plush fabric, one that warmed to her touch as its pistons started up for the first time in over thirty years and the tyres twitched impatiently.
She was startled when it suddenly started up later that evening, flooding the living room with painfully bright headlights as the bonnet slammed shut. She went out to check what had happened, thinking it was a tripped fuse somewhere.
If she had come out a few minutes earlier she would have caught sight of the bonnet clamping down on a crow. She also missed it eat a cat a few days later and a few more about a week or so later and a curious child a month later.
She didn't notice how organic the engine's purring was, how the resistance behind the wheel wasn't down to a lack of oil but an eagerness to get out and hunt. She didn't even notice that the rust on the grill was a little too red, too fresh to be actual rust.
Five months later she took it out to meet a friend a few cities over and was never seen again. A retired mechanic moved into a house that had an old Austin Allegro parked out front, held together by rust, luck and a moss-coated blanket with the initials X.I.Q. embroidered in every corner.
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