“Uh,Dad? I think they’re gaining.”
“Yeah,”he said, sounding thoughtful. “I see that.”
Momlooked back. “I guess that guy at the gas station was right about people aroundhere opening it up along this road.”
Isabelpeered at the speedometer: still just over 55. She glanced back at theheadlights; they were bigger now, and visibly farther apart: the car was stillgaining. Okay, she thought, feeling the thump of her forgotten booksliding to the floor at her feet, that whole ghost car thing? Alittle more scary than cool. “You don’t think it’s—”
“Itwas just a story,” said Mom, though that Isabel hadn’t even needed to completethe question told her it had been on Mom’s mind, too. Another speed limit signflashed through their headlights—Isabel hadn’t been looking for them for awhile—this one reading 55.
“Well,that kind of explains it,” Dad said, and Isabel felt the car accelerate.
“Whatare you doing?” said Mom.
“Thismust be one of the straightaways that guy mentioned. The limit here’sfifty-five, and if the locals tend to step on the gas a little, then I really amdriving like a pokey tourist. I’m not going to go crazy, but we’re what, twentyminutes from Gallway? I can pick it up and try not to annoy anyone. Besides,the quicker we get there, the quicker we eat, right?”
“Ifyou say so,” said Mom.
“I’mnot all that hungry,” said Isabel, then thought, I’m being silly. Dad’sright: there’s no such thing as ghosts.
Right?
Thespeedometer settled on 60 for a minute, but the car behind still gained. Theneedle crept higher, hovering just shy of 65. The headlights drew closer.Isabel could make out their shape: bright rectangles set to either side of awide grill.
“Oh,no.” Mom was hunkered down a little, staring into her side-view mirror. “Isthat a cop?” A chill ran down Isabel’s spine as in her mind’s ear she heardslow, deep words: lots of people mistake him for a statie on patrol at first.“It’s just a story,” Mom said again, but Isabel couldn’t tell who she wastrying to convince: her daughter or herself.
Thecar was near them now, as close as regular highway traffic, and though theheadlights were startlingly bright and high—shining right over the Camry’strunk—Isabel could see straight back through the windshield. What she saw madeher feel a little far away, like the time the dentist had used laughing gas onher. “It’s not a cop.”
“Ican’t see through those lights.” Dad angrily flipped the rearview mirror tonight mode as the car drew even closer, tailgating them. “Who is it, can yousee? Some jackass kids?”
“Ican’t tell,” said Mom.
“It’snot kids,” said Isabel, and speaking the words still felt odd, like hollowsounds from a hollow girl. “It’s an old man.”
Evenas she said it the car’s driver glared at her, hair floating wild about hishead, a match for his thick eyebrows. She thought it may have all been white,at least as pale as his skin, but everything was tinted a weird green in theglow from his dashboard lights—everything but his eyes, sunk so deep in theirsockets the light didn’t touch them, black pits of shadow in his bright, bonyface. Isabel met his gaze for a moment—or, what passed for his gaze—then lookedup front in time to catch Mom and Dad exchanging a glance.
“Okay,look,” said Mom. “This is just too weird. Slow down and let him pass.”
“Idon’t know if I can.” Dad looked from the rearview to his side mirror and back,trying to get a better look at the big car. “He’s so close, I think if I touchthe brakes he’ll be in the backseat with Isa.”
Isabeltried to remember what Tall Paul had said, to recall everything he hadsaid about—“It’s Old Charlie.” She expected Mom to say It’s just a story.Wanted her to say it. Needed to hear the words.
“It’llbe fine,” Mom said. “Everything’ll be fine.” She tapped Dad’s shoulder, pattinghim lightly. “Erik, slow down.”
“I’lltry.”
Thecar shifted slightly as Dad took his foot off the gas, but he hadn’t actuallystepped on the brake before a loud brassy horn blasted the hollow feeling rightout of Isabel’s chest and jammed fear in its place. Her scream was short, butpiercing.
“Jesus!”The Camry leapt forward as Dad stomped on the gas again.
Thelast thing Tall Paul had said about Old Charlie popped into Isabel’s head, andthat chill that had been climbing about on her spine moved into her stomach: thenext thing they know, there’s Old Charlie, trying to get ’em off the road.
“Slowdown,” Mom shouted. “Slow down, let him pass!”
“Ican’t slo—whoa!”
Isabelfell hard against the door as tires squealed and the Camry slewed into a turn.
“Hangon!” Dad swung the wheel the other way, tires shrieking louder as Isabel wasthrown away from the door, her lap belt the only thing keeping her from rollingacross the seat. The straightaway had ended and they’d entered one of TallPaul’s turny bits at speed. The Bane Chronicles rolled over thelow center hump, bouncing to the other side of the car as Isabel struggled tosit upright. The characters in her books faced danger all the time, and italways seemed more exciting than scary, but it was very different in the realworld: in the real world, it was just terrifying. Trees blurred through theheadlights and the horn came again as Dad let up on the gas. “What is he,crazy?” Dad said, fighting the wheel through another turn. “He’s right on me!”
“He’strying to get us off the road,” Isabel shouted. Mom looked back at her butdidn’t argue this time.
“It’sstraightening out ahead,” said Dad, and Mom reached to pat his shoulder again.
“Lethim pass!”
Nowthat she wasn’t being thrown about the backseat, Isabel craned her neck to lookback at Old Charlie. He’d followed them out of the turn so close she couldn’tsee the bottom half of his headlights, and through the lessened glare he lookedeven more hunched and angry, brows drawn down over the pits of his eyes in asharp, bushy V. He jerked the wheel to his left and the boxy car followed suit,and with a terrific roar of thrashing pistons he pulled alongside them. Thehorrible
