6. Chapter 6
6
Bella
T he gear stick grinds as I shove it into second, and the whole car shudders like it’s about to give up on life.
“Come on, Betsy,” I mutter, patting the cracked dashboard. “You’ve got one job. Don’t make me regret not buying a bus pass.”
The GPS on my phone chirps from its precarious spot wedged between two air vents. “In 2 hours, arrive at Shadow Hill.”
“Two hours?” I snort, glancing at the speedometer that stubbornly refuses to climb past 45. “At this rate, I’ll get there just in time for retirement.”
I tap the brakes to avoid a pothole big enough to swallow my front bumper. The car jerks forward like it’s trying to eject me, and I grip the wheel tighter. Dad’s voice comes back to me from when I was 16, sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, watching him handle the gear shift with an ease I’m still trying to fake. “It’s all about finesse, Bella. Don’t force it.”
“Yeah, well,” I grumble, shifting into third, “finesse doesn’t come standard on a 2005 Dodge Neon, Dad.”
I hit play on my phone’s music app, and the car speakers wheeze out the first notes of my favorite playlist. At least I’ve got something going for me. If Sandra’s going to make me drive to the middle of nowhere to photograph a haunted mansion, I might as well have a decent soundtrack.
A semi roars past me, honking loud enough to rattle my teeth. The wind from its wake shoves Betsy to the side, and I swear the whole car lets out a pitiful groan.
“Okay, okay, I get it!” I yell at the truck’s disappearing taillights. “I’m a turtle, you’re a Formula 1 car. Thanks for the reminder.”
The speedometer wavers at 50 for a moment, like it’s mocking me, before settling back down to a humble 48. I sigh and glance at the fuel gauge, which is hovering dangerously close to E.
“Great. Just great.” I turn the music down and let my head thunk back against the headrest. “Shadow Hill better be worth it, Sandra. Because this is my birthday, and if I end up stranded on the side of the road, you’re getting haunted, not the mansion.”
My mind drifts to Julian as I pass a billboard advertising some diner with “the best pancakes in town.” He’s probably elbow-deep in coffee grounds right now, trying to look busy while worrying about college loans he shouldn’t even have to think about yet. Mike and Peggy burned through most of our inheritance faster than a kid burns through Halloween candy, and now Julian’s stuck wondering if he’ll even make it to college.
“Sorry, Jules,” I murmur, gripping the wheel tighter. “I’m trying. I really am.”
The road stretches out in front of me, lined with trees that look more skeletal than scenic. The GPS recalculates, cheerfully announcing, “1 hour and 45 minutes remaining.”
“Oh, sure. If I’m suddenly driving a spaceship,” I snap at it.
The heater wheezes out another puff of lukewarm air, and I crank it up; not that it’ll help much. My toes are still freezing from standing outside the house earlier. It’s like this car was designed specifically to test my patience.
Another truck zips past, honking unnecessarily as if I don’t already know how slow I’m going.
“What’s the rush? Are you late to deliver disappointment somewhere?” I mutter, flipping the wipers on as a light drizzle starts. The windshield squeaks in protest, the blades leaving behind streaks that blur my vision even more.
“Perfect,” I sigh. “Rain. Because nothing screams safe like bad visibility and a car that doesn’t believe in anti-lock brakes.”
But work is work. I need to sell houses—haunted or not—if I’m going to make enough to keep fighting Mike and Peggy. The thought of their smug faces makes my grip tighten again.
“No pressure, Betsy,” I say, patting the dashboard once more. “Just get me to Shadow Hill in one piece, and I promise to get you an oil change. Maybe even clean out the fast-food wrappers in the backseat.”
Betsy shudders again, as if to say, I’ll think about it.
Twenty minutes later, the gas light blinks on with an annoying little ding . I glance at the gauge, which has dipped below empty, as if it’s decided to stage its own funeral.
“Seriously?” I groan, flicking the GPS screen. It recalibrates for the hundredth time, now flashing an arrival time of “2 hours and 15 minutes . ”
“Oh, sure,” I mutter. “We’re adding time now? Great. At this rate, I’ll get there just in time to take a nice sunset photo of the haunted mansion before I die of old age. ”
The drizzle outside has slowed, but the windshield wipers are still leaving streaks like an abstract art project. A car whizzes past, spraying water onto my already streaky window.
“Perfect! Thanks for that, stranger. I really needed the assist.”
As I turn into the gas station, the brakes screech like I’m trying to reenact a bad action movie. Betsy protests with a groan when I park near the pump, the rain having reduced itself to a fine mist that clings to everything.
I sigh, yanking the driver’s side door open. “It gets me where I need to go. Usually.”
Before stepping out, my eyes catch on the black box Elena gave me yesterday, half-hidden under a pile of reusable grocery bags in the backseat. The neon-green monstrosity inside makes me snort.
If I ever need a blunt object for self-defense…
The joint she’d added as a “backup” present is still tucked away in the glove compartment.
“Well, at least I’m prepared for some kind of emergency,” I mutter, stepping out into the damp air.
As I unscrew the gas cap, a gust of wind whips my hair into my face, plastering it against my cheek. The pump clicks to life, and I glance at the convenience store’s grimy windows. My stomach growls loud enough to make me cringe. It’s only been 30 minutes since I left, but apparently, my body thinks I’ve been trekking through the desert for days.
I duck into the store, grabbing the first edible thing I see—a protein bar that probably tastes like cardboard and a lukewarm bottle of water. At the counter, I fumble with my wallet, dropping a handful of quarters onto the sticky floor.
“Rough day?” the cashier asks, deadpan, not even looking up from his phone.
“You have no idea,” I reply, scooping up the coins and trying not to touch anything sticky.
Back in the car, the GPS chirps again. “In 2 hours and 20 minutes, arrive at Shadow Hill.”
I blink. “How did we add five minutes? I was standing still!”
The protein bar tastes exactly as bad as I imagined, and I toss the wrapper onto the passenger seat. My eyes drift to the glove compartment. For a second, I consider pulling out the joint, but no. Showing up to a listing smelling like weed probably won’t impress Sandra—or ghosts.
The rain picks up again as I merge back onto the highway, and my tires hit a pothole the size of a small crater.
“Of course,” I groan, gripping the wheel. “Why wouldn’t California roads try to eat me alive?”
The heater sputters again, this time blowing air so hot it feels like I’ve accidentally triggered an oven. I fiddle with the dials, but nothing changes.
“Cool, Betsy. Fry me alive, why don’t you? I’ll just add that to the growing list of reasons why this day is terrible.”
Another honk blasts behind me, and I glance in the rearview mirror to see a truck riding my bumper like I’m his sworn enemy. I ease into the right lane, muttering, “Go ahead, speed demon. Have fun being late to your midlife crisis meeting.”
The truck roars past, splashing more water onto my windshield. I flip the wipers back on, but they only smear the mess around.
My stomach growls again, and I groan. With the way this drive is going, I might have to find some questionable roadside motel to crash in just to avoid having a breakdown in the middle of nowhere.
The GPS chirps cheerfully again. “Recalculating… arrival time: 2 hours and 30 minutes.”
I grasp the wheel and scream into the empty car.
The smell hits me first. It’s faint at first, like something burning, but within minutes, it’s unmistakable—a mix of hot rubber and something vaguely metallic.
“Betsy,” I mutter, cranking down the window just enough to let the damp, rainy air in. “Please don’t catch fire. I really don’t want to explain to Sandra that I didn’t make it because my car self-combusted. ”
The smell gets worse, like an old gym sock was thrown onto the engine for good measure. I pull over to the side of the road, the car sputtering dramatically as if it knows it’s on strike.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” I say, turning off the engine. Rain beats against the windshield like Mother Nature’s personal drumline, and I let out a long sigh, staring at the near-empty road ahead. The GPS mocks me from its spot on the dash, flashing “30 minutes remaining.”
“You said that two hours ago, ” I snap at it, as though the GPS can hear my rage.
I glance at the clock. Four hours and forty-five minutes since I left the house. Four hours and forty-five minutes of bad roads, terrible rain, and Betsy acting like she’s auditioning for a role in “Final Destination.”
I give the dashboard a stern look. “Listen, Betsy. I know we’ve been through a lot today, but I really need you to pull it together. Just this once. No more breakdowns, no more tantrums. Just get me there, and I’ll… I don’t know, get you detailed or something. I’ll even clean the fries out from under the seats.”
The car is silent, but I swear it’s judging me.
Ten minutes pass. The rain doesn’t let up, and I’m stuck sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting for the smell to fade or the courage to try the ignition again. I drum my fingers on the wheel.
“Betsy, you know I love you, but this is not the time to get dramatic. If you had a union, I’d let you strike, but you don’t. So, let’s go.”
Another five minutes, and I try the engine. It growls, sputters, and finally turns over with a noise so terrifying it makes me jump.
“Jesus Christ, Betsy! Are you trying to kill me? ”
The smell is still there but less intense, so I grit my teeth and pull back onto the road. The rain is coming down harder now, making the wipers work overtime. They squeak and smear uselessly across the glass, which just feels like a final insult at this point.
The road is quieter now, almost eerily so. The occasional car that zips past doesn’t bother honking anymore, probably because I’m the only idiot still crawling along in this weather.
“Just you and me now, Betsy,” I mutter. “Thelma and Louise. Except I don’t have Louise. Or cliffs. Hopefully.”
The minutes tick by. The rain starts to ease, but my nerves don’t. Just as I’m about to give up hope entirely, a sign appears in the distance.
Shadow Hill – 1 Mile
My entire body slumps in relief. “Oh, thank God. Hallelujah!” I cry, throwing my hands in the air for a moment before gripping the wheel again. “We did it, Betsy! Against all odds, we—”
I turn the corner and freeze.
A steep, winding hill stretches out before me, its incline so sharp it might as well be a wall. The road twists and disappears into the fog, taunting me with its sheer audacity.
I stare at it for a moment, completely dumbfounded.
“Well, fuck this,” I mutter, leaning back against the seat and glaring at the hill like it personally insulted me.
Betsy lets out a low groan as if she agrees.