Parked at the edge of the lot, just beneath the flickering streetlamp that had been sputtering for years, the black car sat in silence. Every morning when I left for work, and every night when I returned, it waited. It never moved. At least, not when anyone was watching.
It was a relic of another era—sleek and curved in a way that modern vehicles never dared to be,the black car long hood and chrome trim glinting ominously in the amber glow of failing streetlights. The body was pristine. Not a scratch, not a dent, not even a fingerprint ever marked its glossy black surface. I never saw anyone enter or leave it. I never saw a window cracked, or heard the creak of its doors. And yet, somehow, it never gathered dust.
At first, I thought it belonged to someone who lived in the building. Maybe some reclusive collector or night shift worker. But when I asked around, no one claimed it. In fact, no one had really noticed it at all—at least, not with the same certainty I had. "There’s always a car or two out there," they’d say. “Probably some guy’s weekend project.” But no one could say when it first appeared. Not exactly.
My curiosity turned to unease when I began to notice other things. A crow that perched on its roof, never flying away even in the harshest winds. The way the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees when I walked past it. The odd hum I heard late one night—low, electrical, almost like static—and the faint smell of ozone that hung in the air like the aftermath of a lightning strike.
Once, I approached it. I told myself I was just being paranoid, that it was just a car—probably abandoned. But when I was within arm’s reach, something deep and primal inside me screamed to stop. My hand hovered near the driver’s side door, and I swore I could feel the car breathing, like some great animal lying in wait. The chrome handle was ice cold despite the summer heat. I didn’t touch it.
After that night, the dreams started. Dreams of endless highways beneath starless skies. Of black asphalt that twisted and bent like something alive. Of being behind the wheel, hands gripping leather stained with time, and the speedometer climbing past limits no car should reach. There was never an end in those dreams—just the sensation of falling forward at impossible speeds, like being pulled toward something ancient and hungry.
People began to disappear.
First, it was the kid who always skateboarded near the lot. Then it was old Mr. Davison, who used to walk his dog every morning. Then, slowly, others—each one last seen near the edge of the lot. The police came, of course. They inspected the area, canvassed the neighborhood. But no one ever thought to question the black car. It was just there, part of the background.
One night, I decided to record it. I set up a small camera in my apartment window, angled perfectly to catch anything that might happen. I let it run through the night. In the morning, the camera was gone. Not just broken or moved—gone, completely. As if it had never existed. My window was still locked from the inside.
Then, last week, I saw it blink.
Just for a moment—quick, almost imperceptible—but I saw the two headlights flash softly like the eyes of a living thing caught in the dark. I haven’t gone near it since. I keep my curtains drawn. I don’t walk near that part of the lot. But I feel it watching.
Waiting.
Because the black car isn’t just a vehicle. It’s a witness. A predator. A memory of something that doesn't belong in this world—or maybe a remnant of one we’ve forgotten. It doesn't need fuel. It doesn't need a driver.