The 1981 Oldsmobile

“It just drove by again,” said Donovan Hunton, his voice laced with paranoia. He moved his head away from the tiny slit in the Venetian blinds and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “That’s the fourth time in an hour. Can’t you see? I'm not making this up!”

His wife, Alicia, stood at the bedroom door, her eyes brimming with tears, a dam about to burst. She took a deep breath as if to suppress her emotions, but her voice came out shrill and cracked. “I just don’t see it, honey. You’re really scaring me. Look at yourself.”

Donovan scratched the stubble on his face before glancing down to smooth the wrinkles in his undershirt. The white fabric had faded to a pale yellow around the neckline and underarms. Subtle brown coffee stains near the bottom hem matched the ones on the desk beside him, where dirty mugs were scattered around an overflowing ashtray.

“The children and I are leaving. We’re going to stay at my mom’s for a while,” Alicia said, the words wavering between anger and pity. She paused, her eyes drifting to the carpet as if to avoid a confrontation. “There’s someone here you should talk to. He’s a doctor.”

“I told you I don’t need some damn shrink,” Donovan yelled, yanking up the blind slat, bathing his eyes in silvery-blue moonlight. “We need the police—maybe even the FBI posted outside the house.”

Alicia sighed, her shoulders sinking as if the weight of her patience and spirit had finally worn her down, deflating like a punctured football. She left the room. Following a muffled conversation, a tall gentleman appeared in the doorway. His three-piece suit, wire-frame glasses, and neatly trimmed white beard exuded an intellectual sophistication.

“Good evening, Mr. Hunton,” he said, his voice measured, warm, and authoritative. “I’m Doctor Wiest, your wife asked me to speak with you.”

Donovan whipped his head toward the stranger, his face crinkled and contorted by suspicion. “What kind of car do you drive, Doctor?” The final word carried a sharp hint of skepticism.

“A Camry,” Dr. Wiest replied, unfazed. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a key fob with a Toyota logo. He held up the key in a show of good faith before slipping it back into his pocket. “Your wife mentioned you’ve noticed a specific car following you lately. Would you like to tell me about it?”

Donovan studied the doctor, looking him up and down before returning his attention to the window. “It’s a 1981 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme—light blue body, white top, and dragon decal on the back window. It’s coming for me.”

“Having to remain so vigilant sounds exhausting,” Dr. Wiest replied, moving slowly across the room before sitting on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean, it’s coming for you?”

Donovan huffed. He turned and leaned toward the doctor, revealing the twisted mess of red veins creeping across his eyes. Dark shadows pooled beneath his eyes, the deep purple evidence that he hadn’t slept in days. “It’s trying to run me down,” Donovan barked. “It’s come back to finish the job.”

Both men snapped their heads toward the window at the sound of car doors slamming. In the driveway, Alicia helped her son and daughter into the family SUV, their sluggish bodies covered in light jackets over flannel pajamas. Donovan showed no emotion as headlights sliced through the darkness and vanished down the street.

“Donovan, you mentioned that the Oldsmobile has returned to finish the job,” Dr. Wiest said, his voice slow and engaging. “Can you tell me about the first time you saw this vehicle?”

Donovan’s face scrunched up and his jaw clenched as if trying to hold back a torrent of pain. He crossed his arms and fidgeted in the chair until the silence became unbearable. “It was about 15 years ago, outside my college dorm. I was on my way to class, crossing the street, when this Oldsmobile sped around the corner—heading straight for me.”

“Did the car make contact with you?”

“No,” Donovan replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “I put my arms up and braced for impact, but nothing.” Donovan lowered his voice as he looked the doctor directly in the eyes. “There was a flash of white light and when I opened my eyes, the car was gone. There was nothing. I was standing alone in the middle of the street.”

“And how did you respond to that?”

“I never told anyone. But later that day, I met Alicia, and life unfolded into something beautiful. We got married and had kids—I even landed my dream job. It feels like everything good in my life started after seeing that Oldsmobile. And now, suddenly, it’s started showing up again, like it's stalking me. I can’t explain it, but it feels like this damn car is trying to take everything away from me.”

“It appears that you are dealing with a considerable amount of stress,” Dr. Wiest said. “I’d like to help you understand what’s going on.”

Donovan ignored the doctor's words, his face blank, one ear tilted toward the window. The distant rumble of an engine grew louder, building until it was close enough to shake the house. He hesitated, unsure whether he would reveal an SUV or an Oldsmobile when he raised the Venetian blinds.

Donovan tugged the lift cord, and the blinds whirred as the slats bunched at the top of the window. Under the moonlight, a silhouette loomed—spiny wings, a venomous tail, and a single red glowing eye glowing like an ember. The dragon decal on the back of the Oldsmobile stared back at him. The car had stopped in the street, and its driver’s door was partially open. “There it is!” Donovan yelled. “Doctor, tell me you’re seeing this.”

Dr. Wiest cast a dismissive glance and his eyes drifted up as if lost in thought. “Mr. Hunton, I think it would be in your best interest to come with me for further observation.” He turned toward the bedroom door. “Gentleman, if you would.” Two uniformed police officers stepped inside.

Donovan felt like a hunted animal, backed into a corner, as a surge of adrenaline flooded his system, heightening his fight or flight response. Three sets of eyes tracked his every move, and he quickly calculated that throwing the first punch wouldn’t end well.

Instead, he flung open the window and, with a strained grunt, propelled himself through the screen, landing in the shrubbery below. Barefoot and covered in earth, Donovan forced himself up and tiptoed across the cool, wet lawn toward the street, leaving a commotion of shouting behind him.

“Who are you?” Donovan yelled, stepping toward the Oldsmobile. Its tinted windows made it impossible to see inside. “Why are you trying to ruin my life?”

The engine roared, belching a thick cloud of white smoke from the exhaust pipe—like a dragon warning the hero to stay clear, or else. 

Donovan ignored the threat, his face red with rage and torment. He pushed through the smoke, seized the partially open driver’s door, and heaved it open with the last of his strength.

“This stops here…” Donovan paused, flabbergasted by the empty cabin. The seats, steering wheel, and dashboard were intact but shimmered unnaturally. He noticed a faint ripple, like the surface of a lake disturbed by a small stone.

Donovan reached toward the distortion, and as his fingers brushed the steering wheel, the surface fractured like a broken mirror, with cracks spidering out in every direction. He jumped back and nearly sprinted away, but the rupture spread around him, enclosing him. The car began to melt away as the ground beneath him trembled, fragments of his reality shattered like glass. Then, a white flash of light consumed his vision.

“Sir, can you hear me?”

Donovan’s vision refocused as the paramedic removed the penlight from his pupils. The world gradually took shape around him—sunshine, trees, and towering buildings.

“Where am I?” Donovan asked, his voice weak and trembling.

“You’re outside Wiest Tower,” the paramedic replied. “You’ve been in an accident, hit by a car.”

Donovan lifted his head and saw the dented hood of a light blue Oldsmobile, its white top and dragon decal unmistakable. “Where are my wife and kids?” he asked.

The paramedic's expression morphed into confusion. “Aren’t you a bit too young to have kids? Your ID says you’re 18 years old. I figured you were a college student here.”

The weight of those words pressed down on Donovan, shaking the foundation of everything he thought he knew. His mind raced, Did I just lose 15 years, or did I just wake up?