Chapter 1: Blood in the Vents

I run Victory Used Car Lot, the place folks come when they want a deal and aren’t afraid of a little history—wrecks, rumors, and all. Around here, honesty’s my only sales pitch. If the contract says how many accidents a car’s had, that’s exactly how many—no hidden surprises. If you’ve got the guts—and maybe a little luck—come see what kind of deal you can drive away with.

There's a little neon sign buzzing over my door that says 'No Surprises, Only Deals.' Folks in town know me as Carter Lane, the guy you go to if you want a car with some history, and a price to match. In a town where everyone knows your business before you do, one bad sale can haunt you longer than any ghost. If you want a cream puff, go to the Ford dealership up on the highway. But if you're hunting for a deal and you don't mind a little grit, you come to Victory Used Car Lot.

I’ve been in the used accident car trade for years, but I’ve never encountered anything as bizarre as what happened today.

To be fair, my line of work brings in some wild stories—cars people swear are haunted, or that the radio only plays gospel on Sundays. But nothing prepped me for what happened that muggy morning.

Early this morning, a woman dragged her boyfriend into my shop, making a huge scene. The moment she walked in, she confronted me, insisting that the used car I sold her boyfriend had a problem: whenever they turned on the AC, they saw blood spurting out of the air vents. But as soon as they looked again, the blood would vanish.

You’d be surprised what people see in cars with a rough past—stained upholstery, weird smells, even flickering check engine lights you swear are possessed. Blood spraying from the vents, though? That was a new one, even for me. Still, these two were clearly convinced they’d stumbled onto a Stephen King novel.

Now, I sell accident cars—having only one accident on a car is considered rare. People see all sorts of strange things in these cars. Blood spraying from the vents? That’s not even the weirdest story I’ve heard. These folks were really making a mountain out of a molehill.

I’ve heard old-timers swear a car still smelled like someone’s last cigarette, or teenagers claim the stereo turned itself to static at midnight. This—blood from the AC—barely cracked my top ten.

I glanced at the man—he looked familiar. Sure enough, he’d bought a car from me not long ago. I checked my records: his name was Derek Lane. He’d bought a 2020 BMW X1 for $8,200.

Derek had come in just a few weeks back, young face, pressed shirt, and the kind of nervous energy you see in a man about to get married. The sort who double-checks his credit score before he steps onto the lot. I remembered him well—he was the kind who wanted luxury on a fast-food budget.

I remembered he told me he was getting married, couldn’t afford a new car, but didn’t want to look cheap, so he came to me for a deal. I warned him: buying a second-hand accident car for a wedding isn’t exactly good luck. If money was tight, I could have found him a regular used car, just a bit pricier. But he insisted on this one.

I even offered him an older Camry, reliable as a church service, but he wanted the BMW badge—he said it mattered to his fiancée’s family. That’s love, I guess. Or pride. Hard to tell which.

I also told him the truth: the previous owner was a middle-aged man who, after drunk driving, speeding, and going the wrong way, crashed into a roadside concrete pillar. The accident was so severe that his body and head were separated—the head was smashed open, a truly gruesome sight.

I don’t sugarcoat things for my customers. I told Derek the story straight, and he nodded like he was buying a bag of chips instead of a haunted Beemer. I figured he had nerves of steel—or was just desperate.

Derek agreed to everything and signed the contract without hesitation. Since his girlfriend was there, I didn’t spell it out, just hinted, "Man, you know what you’re getting with this car."

I gave him that look over the paperwork, the kind you give when you’re trying to warn someone off, but his eyes were locked on the price tag, not the fine print.

Before Derek could say anything, his girlfriend snapped, "Your shop is shady! The cars you sell are cursed! My mom’s health is already bad—she’s in the hospital on an IV now. You have to take the car back and compensate us!"

She had that fire in her, the kind of woman who would take on the DMV if they gave her the wrong license plate. Her voice echoed across the showroom, right over the old vending machine rattling by the window.

Wow, they were trying to squeeze me for money. Logically, Derek knew what he bought. He should be explaining, not blaming me. Clearly, he hadn’t told her the truth.

I could practically see Derek shrinking into his shoes, eyes darting everywhere but her face. This was a man in over his head—and he knew it.

As the saying goes, it’s better to burn a bridge than ruin a marriage. I didn’t want to argue, so I pulled out the sales contract.

I slid the paperwork across the counter. You could see the weight of it hit her like a brick. In this business, you learn to keep receipts.

"Man, it’s all here in black and white—you agreed to all this, right? Once sold, no returns or exchanges."

There’s a little sign above my desk that says just that. I pointed to it, for good measure.

Derek looked nervous, nodding repeatedly. He tried to tug Aubrey away, quietly saying, "Aubrey, let’s just drop it. Your mom’s old, maybe she’s seeing things."

He was whispering like a kid caught sneaking out after curfew. I almost felt sorry for him—almost.

Aubrey shook him off and shot back, "My mom might hallucinate because she’s old, but you and I aren’t old—how could we both see the same thing? The problem is your car. You got scammed!"

You could tell Aubrey was the bulldog in the relationship. She crossed her arms, chin out, staring me down like a prosecutor.

Then she turned to me. Her hands were shaking, but her jaw was set. The whole room seemed to hold its breath. "How can you sleep at night selling cars like this? You know that’s messed up, right? My mom’s in the hospital because of you! If you don’t take the car back and make this right, I’ll make sure everyone in town knows what kind of place you run."

That kind of threat might work on a rookie, but around here, all it does is draw attention from the two old guys gossiping by the water cooler.

I pride myself on being reasonable. After all these years and hundreds of cars sold, I’ve never cheated anyone.

It’s my reputation on the line. This town’s small—word travels faster than a text.

Suppressing my irritation, I looked at Derek. "Man, what do you want to do about this?"

I kept my tone even, trying not to let my frustration show. No need to add fuel to the fire.

Derek was clearly a pushover, stammering without getting a word out.

He fidgeted with the car keys, his face flushed. It was like watching a middle-schooler get chewed out by the principal.

Aubrey glared at him. "Can’t believe you’re so useless! Got scammed and don’t even speak up. Spent $8,200 on something cursed. I bet someone died in it!"

I smiled—she hit the nail on the head.

I almost tipped my hat to her—if I wore one. People always underestimate just how sharp some customers can be.

To save face for my customers, my shop’s name is as proper as can be: Victory Used Car Lot. If regular customers come in, I usually send them next door.

My waiting area’s got plastic plants and coffee from Costco, but my deals are real. The plastic plants drooped in their pots, and the stale scent of burnt coffee mixed with the sugary tang of powdered donuts. If you’re looking for a minivan for soccer practice, this isn’t your place.

I asked, "What exactly do you want?"

I leaned on the counter, pen in hand. This was a crossroads moment.

Aubrey snorted, eyes full of contempt. "Simple. Return the car and pay triple compensation. The car cost $8,200, so you owe us $24,600."

You gotta admire the guts. If she’d been born a few decades earlier, she could’ve run a car lot herself.

I nodded, not arguing.

Sometimes, it’s easier to let people talk. Let them believe they’re on top for a minute.

Aubrey was delighted. "Good, pay up and I won’t bother you again."

She reached out her hand, expecting the cash right then and there, as if I kept twenty-four grand in the register.

Seeing Derek still silent, I knew he was hopeless. I invited Aubrey to sit and asked, "Aubrey, do you know how much a new BMW X1 costs?"

Her eyes darted to the shiny car brochure on the table, probably thinking of all those luxury commercials on TV.

She hesitated, then answered quickly, "At least $35,000 or $45,000, right?"

"Exactly. This is a 2020 model, less than 6,000 miles on it. Do you really think you could get it for $8,200 under normal circumstances?"

I let the numbers hang in the air. Even a Craigslist hustler knows a deal that’s too good to be true has a catch.

Aubrey was stunned. "What are you saying?"

The realization crept across her face. For a second, she looked like she’d bitten into a lemon.

Derek saw things turning bad and cut in, "No return, I accept it. Let’s go."

He sounded like a man at a tax audit—just wanting to get out of the room as quickly as possible.

Aubrey shoved him aside, still confused. "Go where? Explain yourself!"

She was relentless, heels clicking on the linoleum.

I’d given him a chance, but Derek wouldn’t take it. I wasn’t going to take the blame for him.

At some point, you have to let the truth land where it may.

I said, "Normally, this car would cost at least $25,000. Why did you get it for $8,200? Because it’s an accident car—the previous owner died in a major crash. I’ve explained it a hundred times, but some folks only hear what they want. It’s also in the contract. Check for yourself."

I slid the contract across the table. The fine print was bolded—no way to miss it unless you wanted to.

Aubrey’s face changed dramatically. She grabbed the contract, read it carefully, and then exploded. Without a word, she slapped Derek.

Her hands were shaking, but her jaw was set. The whole room seemed to hold its breath. Then the slap echoed across the room, sharp and sudden. I almost flinched.

"Derek, you actually bought a car someone died in and tried to trick me? You made my mom sick enough to be hospitalized. I’m not finished with you!"

She was trembling, voice rising, eyes glassy with anger. You could see the betrayal written all over her face.

Still not satisfied, she slapped him twice more.

The second and third hits came fast, Derek stumbling back, trying to shield himself.

Derek looked aggrieved, covering his face. "Aubrey, I had no choice. Your family wants a $30,000 engagement ring and a house in the city. My family really can’t afford a car."

I’d seen desperate men before, but something about Derek’s voice—cracked and raw—made me want to look away.

Aubrey got even angrier. "So you admit it! Now you regret it? Well, I’m calling off the wedding. We’re done! What a joke!"

She spun on her heel and stormed out, her purse swinging wildly. I watched as she disappeared into the parking lot, slamming the door behind her.

She stormed out. Derek squatted on the floor, looking miserable.

For a long moment, he just stayed there, shoulders shaking. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.

After a while, he looked up at me. "Boss, I really had no choice. I wanted a better car, but my family just doesn’t have the money. Her family is a bottomless pit. She even wants me to help her brother with a down payment."

He wiped his nose on his sleeve, voice low. Sometimes, life corners you so tight, there’s no way out but through.

A grown man in his thirties, crying like a kid.

In this business, I’ve seen all kinds of heartbreak, but that still got to me. My voice softened a bit.

I sympathized, but business is business. I couldn’t break the rules.

Rules are rules—if you make an exception for one, the whole dam breaks. I gave him a small, understanding nod.

I patted Derek on the shoulder and told him to let it go. He nodded, apologized for the trouble, and left.

I watched him go, his steps heavy, the door swinging slowly shut behind him. Sometimes, selling cars isn’t the hardest part—it’s watching what happens after.

But what I didn’t expect was that later that night, I got a call from Old Joe at the local funeral home. He said there was a 2020 BMW X1—someone had just died in it. Did I want to buy it?

Old Joe’s voice crackled through my phone, heavy with late-night weariness. I knew right away it was about Derek. Some nights, the world just circles back on itself.

I watched them leave, the BMW’s taillights flickering in the morning haze. I thought that was the end of it. I should’ve known better.