The Hollow Wagon

The summer of ’68 in the quiet Connecticut suburb of Millbrook was a time of endless possibility, especially for a group of seventeen-year-olds with access to their fathers’ cars and a thirst for adventure. I was part of that group: there was me, Danny, with my dad’s ’65 Ford Galaxie 500, a boat of a car that could swallow six of us without complaint. Then there was Mike, whose dad owned a pristine ’67 Chevy Impala, so shiny it hurt to look at in direct sunlight. Paul’s father had a practical but sturdy ’66 Rambler American, and finally, there was Steve, who claimed his dad’s ’68 Plymouth Fury was ‘the devil’s ride’ because it always seemed to have a mind of its own. That particular Thursday night, it was my turn to be the designated driver, and I had just gotten my hands on the keys to the Galaxie, a gleaming turquoise beast with a white vinyl top and a backseat as wide as a playground. The plan was simple: after midnight, we’d slip out of our houses, meet at the old cul-de-sac behind the Wilson’s farm, and push the Galaxie down the gravel road until we were a safe distance away before firing up the engine. My dad was a heavy sleeper, and the car was parked on a slight incline, so the ritual had never failed us. We were braced for a night of cruising along the winding country roads, stopping at the A&W for root beer floats, and maybe racing each other if the roads were clear. But as we pushed the Galaxie that night, a strange thing happened. The car, which always resisted at first, almost glided forward the moment we touched it, as if it were eager to leave. We looked at each other, but shrugged it off. We started the engine, a deep rumble that sounded a bit louder than usual, and headed out. The evening air was humid, thick with the scent of cut grass and honeysuckle. We drove for an hour, laughing, recounting the time Paul’s Rambler had died in the middle of the vet’s parking lot, and how Mike had to swear off cars after that. But soon, the conversation dwindled, and a restlessness settled over us. ‘What about that old cemetery at the end of Cedar Hollow Road?’ Steve suggested, a hint of mischief in his voice. ‘I heard it’s creepy as hell. My cousin said he saw a light flickering there last week.’ Cedar Hollow Road was a dead end, a narrow, winding path that led to an abandoned burial ground, overgrown and forgotten. It was our kind of dare. We’d all heard stories: a woman in white, a ghostly preacher, but we’d never been brave enough to check it out. This was the night. We drove the Galaxie down the empty road, the headlights cutting through the darkness, the trees forming a canopy overhead. The further we went, the more the air inside the car seemed to chill. I fumbled with the heater, but it was already summer, and the heat was the last thing we needed. Finally, the road opened into a clearing, and there it was: the cemetery. It was more a cluster of broken headstones and rusted iron fences, many markers leaning or toppled entirely. The whole place was swampy, with patches of dead grass and a thick, earthy smell that was almost sweet, like rotting flowers. We parked the Galaxie at the edge, its headlights casting long, distorted shadows across the tombstones. We got out, and for a moment, we just stood there, a collective unease settling over us. The silence was absolute, not even crickets. ‘Let’s see how close we get,’ Paul said, a bravado that barely concealed his own doubt. We started walking through the cemetery, careful not to step on any graves. The moonlight was dim, filtered through the overcast sky, so we relied on the car’s headlights to guide us. As we moved deeper, the headlights seemed to dim, as if the car were losing power. We called out to each other, our voices sounding hollow. And then, we heard it: a low, mournful hum, like a distant engine running, but it was coming from the direction of the car. We turned and ran back, our hearts pounding. When we reached the Galaxie, it was running, the engine idling smoothly, but the headlights were off. The doors were locked. We all looked at each other, a silent question forming. I pulled out my keys, but as I approached the driver’s side, I saw something that made my blood run cold. On the roof, right above the back seat, there was a deep indentation, as if something heavy had been sitting there, pressing down. And the car was rocking ever so slightly, as if someone were moving inside. ‘Who’s in there?’ Mike whispered, his voice cracking. We peered through the windows, but the interior was dark, impossible to see anything. But then, in the faint glow of the dashboard lights, we saw a shape. It was a figure, hunched over, sitting in the middle of the back seat. It wasn’t human. It was larger, with long, spindly arms that seemed to extend beyond the windows, and its head was too big, tilted at an unnatural angle. We stumbled back, but it was as if the car were a magnet, drawing us toward it. The engine revved, and the headlights flickered on, blinding us. In that instant, we saw the thing clearly: it had no face, just a smooth, pale expanse where features should be. And it was smiling, a thin, lipless slit that stretched too wide. ‘Get in,’ I thought I heard it say, but the voice sounded like gravel grinding, ‘We have a long ride ahead.’ The door unlocked with a click. We were frozen in terror. One by one, without our consent, our bodies moved toward the car, our feet shuffling as if we were puppets. Mike reached the passenger door first and opened it. He climbed in, his movements jerky, and sat in the front seat. Then Paul, then Steve. I was last. As I got behind the wheel, I saw the roof indentation had disappeared, but in the rearview mirror, I could see the back seat was empty. The car purred, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, squeezing. ‘Drive,’ the voice whispered from right next to my ear, but no one was there. I put the car in drive and, as if guided by an unseen force, I drove out of the cemetery and into the night. We didn’t go home. We went deeper into the countryside, past farms and cornfields, the roads getting narrower and darker. The radio clicked on by itself, playing a low, ominous hum. The gas gauge dropped quickly, even though we’d had a full tank. The thing in the backseat, invisible now, seemed to feed on our fear. We tried to speak, but our voices were gone. Hours passed, or maybe minutes; time had no meaning. Finally, the car came to a stop in front of a rickety old house, forgotten and dilapidated. The headlights illuminated the porch, where a rocking chair swayed by itself. ‘This is where you leave me,’ the voice said, with amusement. ‘But I’ll be needing the car.’ Before we could react, the door beside me flew open, and I was thrown out. I landed hard on the grass, and I heard the other doors open, and my friends landed beside me. The Galaxie’s engine roared, and it backed up, turned, and drove off down the road, the taillights disappearing into the darkness. We were left there, in front of a house that felt ancient and malevolent. We didn’t know how we got back to Millbrook that night. We walked for what felt like hours, and I remember seeing the sun rise as we stumbled onto Main Street. We were different, changed. We spoke little, and when we did, it was in hushed tones. The strange thing is, my dad’s car was back in the driveway that morning, parked perfectly, as if we’d never taken it. But it was different. The turquoise paint was faded, the interior smelled of decay, and there was a permanent dent in the roof, just above the back seat. And whenever I looked at it, I felt a cold shiver down my spine. We never spoke about that night, but we all knew. The car was never the same. It had a life of its own, a hollow, hungry presence. And sometimes, at night, I’d hear the engine start in the driveway, even though no one was there. A year later, my dad sold the car to a collector, and I was relieved. But I can still see it, driving down the road, a dark silhouette behind the wheel, always heading toward that dead end, looking for the next group of kids to take for a ride.