"After fifty years you'd think someone would have scrapped the
thing," Jerry grumbled and filled his lungs with cigarette smoke. "The
stories are bad enough…”
“I think it’s magical.”
Jerry grunted but was secretly amused
at his eight year old niece. The old black truck had resided on Twelfth Street
for years but the legends surrounding it had never attracted him. He threw his
cigarette to the ground and went inside the antique store.
Little Lucy stared at the car for a long time.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”
One headlight burned bright and disappeared. Lucy wasn’t surprised.