'That night I had a dream again, only in this one Christine was old - no, not just old; she was ancient, a terrible hulk of a car, something you'd expect to see in a Tarot pack: instead of the Hanged Man, the Death Car... The engine roared and hissed and jetted filthy blue oilsmoke.

It wasn't empty. Roland D Lebay was lolling behind the wheel, His eyes were open but they were glazed and dead. Each time the engine revved and Christine's rust-eaten body vibrated, he flopped like a rag doll. His peeling skull nodded back and forward'.

Christine, blood-red, fat and finned, was twenty. Her promise lay all in her past. Greedy and big, she was Arnie's obsession, a '58 Plymouth Fury. Broken down but not finished. There was still power in her - a frightening power that leaked like sump oil, staining and corrupting. A malign power that corroded the mind and turned ownership into Possession.  

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