The Iron Choker

When I bought the old Plymouth from a closing-down dealer in the town of Blackwood, I thought I was getting a bargain. The price was right, and the car had that classic, boxy look that made me feel like I was driving a piece of history. It smelled of old leather and stale cigarettes, but I didn’t mind. I hung a small, heavy iron cross from the rearview mirror, a family heirloom from my grandmother, and set about making it my own.

A few weeks passed, and I began to notice odd things. The first time, I found the cross on the passenger seat. I laughed it off, assuming I’d hit a pothole and it had bounced off. But the leather string was intact, and the cross was too heavy to simply fall. I shrugged and hung it back up.

Months went by, and the incidents became more frequent. Once, I found the cross on the floor mat, as if it had been placed there deliberately. Another time, it was wrapped around the gearshift. Each time, the string was unharmed, and the cross looked untouched. I started to wonder if I was losing my mind. The car was always locked, the windows rolled up. No one had access to it but me.

One evening, after a long drive home, I parked in my garage and shut off the engine. As I reached for the keys, I caught a glimpse of the mirror. The cross was not just hanging; it was tightly wound around the mirror’s arm, multiple times, as if someone had taken the leather thong and wrapped it with force. There was no way it could have twisted like that from normal driving. A cold knot tightened in my stomach.

I tried to rationalize it. The previous owner, a man I’d met briefly, had been a Buddhist, but he’d been polite and unassuming. I even joked to a friend that he must have been pranking me from beyond the grave. But deep down, I knew it was something else.

A year later, I moved to a new city, leaving that car behind and buying a newer model. But the phenomenon followed me. I hung the same cross in the new car, and within weeks, I found it on the floor again. Then, one morning, I found it wrapped around the mirror in that same impossible way. I decided to set up a camera in the garage, but I kept putting it off, telling myself it was just a coincidence.

That summer, I went on a trip with my twin brother, Darren. We drove up to a remote cabin in the mountains, a place we’d known since childhood. On the second night, as we sat by the fire, I confessed about the cross. Darren, ever the skeptic, laughed and said, ‘You’re probably just sleep-driving or something.’ But his smile faded when I showed him the scratches that had appeared on the inside of the windshield, thin lines that looked like something had been dragged across the glass.

We went to bed early, but I couldn’t sleep. The cabin was quiet, save for the wind. At around 3 a.m., I heard a faint scraping sound coming from the direction of the car, which was parked just outside. I crept to the window and peered out. The moon was bright enough to see the shape of the vehicle, but I couldn’t make out any movement. Then, I noticed the car’s interior light flicker on, casting a pale glow. The cross, which I’d left hanging, began to swing, slowly at first, then more violently, until it thrashed against the windshield with a dull thud.

Darren woke up and came to stand beside me. ‘What the hell?’ he whispered.

We both watched as the cross lifted straight up, as if an invisible hand had grabbed it, and then it dropped to the dashboard, clattering. The light went out. The silence that followed was deafening.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, we went out to the car. The cross was lying in the driver’s seat, the leather cord frayed as if it had been sawed. On the seat beside it, there was a small, neat pile of ashes, and a faint smell of burning incense. I picked up the cross, and for the first time, I noticed that the iron was cold, even though the sun was already warm. I looked at Darren, and he was pale.

We packed up and left, but on the way home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following us, something patient and persistent. I never found out what it was, but I stopped driving at night. I keep the cross in my pocket now, not hanging from any mirror. I don’t know if it’s protection or a mark, but I know it’s watching. And whatever it is that wants it, hasn’t given up yet.