Chapter 4: Bad Vibes and Good Dogs

I invited the girl inside. She seemed a bit shy, sitting primly and looking embarrassed. In all my years, I’d never met such a bashful customer. Judging by her looks, she seemed like a student.

She tugged at the sleeves of her hoodie, cheeks pink, eyes fixed on her shoes. I offered her a bottled water from the mini-fridge.

I took the initiative. "Are you a college student?"

She nodded quietly. "Yes, I’m at Lakeview University. Boss, I want to buy a car someone died in."

I figured as much—Lakeview’s just across the river. Lots of students come in looking for a deal, thinking they can outsmart the system.

"Just got your license? Looking for a cheap practice car?"

I get a lot of students like her. They usually don’t keep the car long—within half a year, they sell it back at a discount, and I make a couple grand each time.

She played with the cap of her water, eyes flickering. After a moment, she nodded. "Boss, do you have a car with a lot of deaths? The more the better."

Her request hung in the air, unsettling. I tried not to show my surprise. Some kids treat death like an urban legend.

Typical student logic—thinking more deaths means a cheaper price. That’s true, but the more deaths, the heavier the bad vibes, and the more likely you’ll see strange things. With her sensitive nature, she’s even more likely to encounter something weird.

I clicked through my inventory, pausing on the cars with the longest lists of prior owners. Sometimes, the past sticks to metal more than paint.

I pulled up my computer and picked a car. "How about this? A 2017 Mazda. In heavy fog on the interstate, it was hit by a semi. The driver, passenger, and two coworkers all died on the spot."

I spun the monitor toward her. The listing had a photo—crumpled hood, airbag deployed, a story written in bent steel.

She glanced at the car, then shook her head. "I heard that car was stuck in traffic. Do you have something better? Preferably a big brand."

She knew her stuff, for sure. Either she’d been browsing the forums, or she had a friend on the inside.

The best haunted car I had was the BMW X1, but Marcus had just bought it. Honestly, I’d rather sell to this girl than someone like him.

I shrugged. "Wish I could help. The best I had went just last week. But leave me your number, add me on Instagram, and I’ll let you know if anything comes in that fits the bill."

Regretfully, I said, "A few days ago, I had a BMW that would’ve been perfect, but it’s sold. How about you leave your number? Add me on Instagram, and I’ll let you know when something suitable comes in."

She agreed and added me on Instagram. Her username was Dora—cute, but her profile photo was pitch black, giving off a gloomy vibe.

I walked her out, then checked her posts. They used to be all about daily life—eating, shopping, sometimes with a handsome guy. But over the past month, everything had turned dark-themed. Maybe it’s just a trend among college students these days.

After dealing with Dora, it was already 5 p.m. I remembered Shadow was still at the pet shop getting a bath, so I hurried over in my pickup truck.

The sun was setting, orange light spilling across the street. I rolled down the window, feeling the fall breeze. My stomach rumbled—hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but Shadow came first.

Shadow is a stray I picked up four years ago. No pedigree, just a regular mutt—all black and very smart. Whenever I put Shadow in an accident car, he can sense if something’s wrong. Once, he barked at the exhaust pipe, and sure enough, we found pieces of the deceased inside.

Locals joke that Shadow’s half bloodhound, half medium. I just call him the best business partner I ever had.

Normally, I only sell cars that have passed Shadow’s test.

If he won’t get in, neither will I. Simple as that.

The air inside the pet shop was thick with wet dog and lavender shampoo. Shadow’s tail thumped against the linoleum, a steady, comforting beat. When I got to the pet shop, Shadow was spotless. He saw me, wagged his tail, and ran over, drooling all over my hands. I patted his head, thinking I’d give him an extra treat, when suddenly my phone rang. It was the police station.

I wiped my hands on my jeans, heart skipping. Cops only call when something’s gone real sideways.

"Is this Carter Lane? There’s been a traffic accident on Maplewood Road involving a car bought from your lot. Please come to the station to assist with our investigation."

The sun had set. The last streaks of gold faded as I stared at the screen. My hand tightened on Shadow’s leash. Trouble never knocks—it just barges right in. In this line of work, you never know if the past is chasing you—or waiting just around the next corner.