Since I had recently graduated from high school, money was hard to come by, so I borrowed $250 from Mom and Dad. As soon as I started to work, I would begin to pay off the dept in weekly installments.
Any seventeen-year-old will agree that a "new" car had to be spotless, so Dad and I proceeded to wash and wax my purchase. While buffing the door on the passenger side, we noticed three holes that had been plugged with some sort of patch and repainted. These holes looked like bullet holes, but we didn't care-the car ran pretty well and looked great.
While we were riding around the block on one of our first outings in the car, the vehicle's passenger door flew open. We didn't think much of it and took the car to the garage for repair. The mechanic couldn't find anything wrong with it so he didn't charge us.
The following week, my sister and I were riding around when the same thing happened. As soon as we arrived home, I told Dad. He checked the door catch over again but still could find nothing wrong.
The third time it happened, we were driving about forty miles per hour, next to a cemetery. Still we didn't give it much thought.
The fourth time the door flew open, we were also going about forty, this time next to a different cemetery. It was now becoming clear that something strange was going on.
We decided to have the oil changed, so we took the car to our local garage. While the car was up on the lift we noticed that some wires had been fastened to the underside of the car to hold up some of the pipes. This car had been in some sort of mishap. Our bargain was turning into a real mystery! The mechanics secured the wires and added new clamps to the exhaust system. The oil change completed, we went for a spin.
This time we were going fifty miles per hour when the passenger door flew open. Have you ever tried to push a door open at that speed? Pretty difficult. At that point we decided that the car was haunted. Someone was most likely killed in it in a shootout. We made the decision to trade it in.
Meanwhile Dad tied the passenger door shut with a heavy rope, winding it around the seat and through the door handle. He was following me home when just in front of the church near the center of town, the door flew open, rope and all. There is a cemetery behind the church.
That was our last encounter with our ghost, because the car was sold an hour later for $650 (another bargain). We never heard any more about the 1952 Ford, and I never saw it again. Perhaps the ghost had had its last ride.
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