17 Dec The Blue Sedan
“The Blue Sedan”
Written by Andrew Scolari Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 8 minutes
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the hurt I caused. I’m sorry I lied to you Barbara about who I was. I’m sorry, Jack and Mary. Your dear old dad let you down. I know you thought your daddy was perfect and could do no wrong, but the truth is I did do wrong. To everyone else I hurt, I’m sorry. I wish I could take it all back, and make the hurt go away. I probably should start explaining myself.
You see, unlike what it says on my driver’s license, my name is not Robert Smith, It is actually Nathan Brown or as my old gang used to call me “8-Ball”. That’s right I was in a street gang. We were called the “Dark Lords” and we thought we were invincible. Where ever we went we wore our gang colors proudly and people both feared and respected us. There are some people out there who say that one doesn’t choose the “Thug Life” that the “Thug Life” chooses them. While that may be the case for most gang bangers, it was not the case for me. I consciously chose the thug life. While most of my friends were smart and avoided the gangs, by studying hard in school, excelling in sports, and working hard to pull themselves out of the hood, I fell headlong into the life of a gangsta when I was still in my teens. I dropped out of school, ran away from my home and family, and joined the Dark Lords. Now the Dark Lords were your standard street gang. No different than the Bloods, The Crips, or any other street gang. Our colors were purple and black. To see us coming down the street meant there was going to trouble one way or another, and the most sensible ones would clear out when they saw us.
Our leader was a guy who we all called “King Kong”. Sure enough, he lived up to his name. He was a giant of a man who was built like a pro wrestler, always wore dark shades and smoked grape flavored Swisher Sweets by the ton. He always commanded respect and you always had to call him by his full nickname. Not Kong or any other variant, but King Kong and King Kong only. One gang member made the mistake of just calling him Kong, and well let’s just say no one in the Dark Lords ever made that mistake ever again. We also had an official gang car. While most of the other gang members did have their own personal vehicles, to drive the official gang car was like a badge of honor. The car in question was a long black Cadillac Coupe Deville. It had spinning rims and dark tinted windows. One night, me and another gang member named “Roller” were cruising around the streets in the gang car just hanging out and looking for some trouble to cause. Little did we know that we would soon find it and that our lives would be forever changed.
We were driving along a deserted four-lane street when we saw a blue sedan stopped at a red light. Roller pulled up alongside the sedan and we looked over to see who was behind the wheel. It was a young white couple, probably 19 or 20 years old. They were just waiting for the light to change and listening to some college rock music on the radio, typical young white people music. I looked over at Roller and he looked back at me as if he knew what I was thinking and seemed to be encouraging me to do it. So I took out my Glock 43 semi-automatic, rolled down the window, stuck my gun out, and fired. The bullet shattered the window and hit the young man who was driving in the temple. The young man slumped to the wheel and hit the horn making a loud continuous BEEEEEEP. The sound of the car’s horn was joined by the screams of the man’s girlfriend, a pretty blonde chick who sat in the passenger seat. Without thinking I fired the gun with another “bang”. My bullet hit that girl right between the eyes, and with that, she stopped screaming. Just then the light turned green and we sped off into the night. We thought it was a lark, dropping two dumb white college kids who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, come the morning, Roller and I knew we messed up badly.
I woke up the following morning with Roller looking over me all worried and flustered. I was like “Hey what’s wrong?” Roller just shook his head and said “We fucked up bad last night, when we killed those people in that blue car last night!” I had almost forgotten last night. Roller continued, “It’s all over the news, we were spotted.” He then turned on the TV to the local news. I still remember the news report to this day. It went exactly like this:
“A violent gang-style shooting took place last night at the intersection of Broad Street and Willard Ave. The victims were Taylor Peters, age 21, and Melinda Fuller, age 20. Both were students at Grayson University here in the city. For those who don’t know Taylor is the son of incumbent mayor Mark Peters who is up for reelection this November. Traffic cameras picked up a large black Cadillac pulling up alongside Taylor’s sedan and the hand of an unseen individual is seen holding a gun and firing twice into the other car before receding back into the Cadillac before the vehicle speeds off”.
Man, I froze when I saw the footage. All the cops had to do was enhance the footage to get a look at the license plate and the days of the Dark Lords would be finished. As if the man on the news could read my mind he continued “The police are still reviewing the footage and Mayor Peters has called a press conference regarding the murder of his son and his son’s girlfriend. We go live now to city hall.” The camera then cut to the front of city hall where the mayor was saying stuff about how this will not stand, how no parent should outlive their child, and how it was time to take back the streets of the city from thugs and gangs, but I wasn’t listening to all of that. I was worried about what was going to happen to Roller and I.
“Has King Kong found out yet?” I asked.
“Not yet, he and most of the gang are still asleep, but they’ll find out soon, especially once the papers hit the streets.”
I was panicked by this point. “What are we going to do?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” said Roller. “I’ve got our things packed and swiped enough cash from the gang so we can get far away from here, plus I’ve contacted Weasel and he’ll help us out.”
Now, Weasel was our local “fixer”. If you needed something like fake documents or to get rid of something fast with no questions asked, Weasel was the one to see. So we went to see Weasel and he provided us with new identities and other necessities so we could get out. Roller and I then made our way to the train station and got on different trains. Roller went north and I went west. I traveled all day and didn’t reach my new home, in Greenville till nightfall. I soon started my new life, under the name Robert Smith. As far as I was concerned, Nathan “8-Ball” Brown was dead and buried, and Robert Smith had taken over.
I soon got a job at a local tool factory. It was hard work but I made good money. I soon met Barbara and eventually got married. I bought a house in a quiet neighborhood and became the father of two wonderful kids. I hope someday that they get over the fact that their dad wasn’t the friendly man who grew up with his grandparents that I told them I was. As for the Dark Lords, the last I heard of them was that they had all been arrested or killed and King Kong was now behind bars in a maximum-security prison somewhere. I never thought my past would come back to haunt me but it did, literally. It was a typical Saturday for me. I had finished mowing the lawn and decided to go to my favorite cigar lounge, have a smoke or two, a few beers, chat with some of the guys while watching the game on TV. I was driving in my car when I lost control of it and swerved into a tree. I was ok, but my car was totaled. I knew that I’d have to get a new one and that I couldn’t just have my wife drop me off and pick me up from work all the time. A few days later I took off work to look for a good used car to replace the one I crashed. You see while I made good money working in that factory, it wasn’t that good, and I couldn’t spring for something brand new. So I went to the used car lot and started looking around. It was then I noticed something that almost made my heart stop.
There between a red Honda Accord and a silver Ford F-150 was a blue sedan. Not just any blue sedan, but one that looked just like the one that couple was driving when I killed them years ago. I should have just ignored it and kept looking, but like a fool, I figured it was all a coincidence. There had to be about a few hundred thousand cars just like it in the country and maybe a few thousand in my state alone. It couldn’t be that same blue sedan that two people were murdered in. So as if under a spell I bought it. As I was driving home, I decided to turn on the radio. I set it to a station and was listening to a rap song when all of a sudden the radio station changed and a very familiar song came on. I knew that tune immediately. It was that same college rock song that those people were listening to! I shivered when I heard those same lyrics.
Just another coincidence, I thought, I must have gone over a bump in the road and the radio must have switched over.
So I turned the radio station back and didn’t have any trouble. A few days later it happened again. That same song cut in over what I was listening to on the way to work. It happened several times, sporadically, over time. Each time that song would come on, it would be at the same point in the song. I eventually stopped listening to the radio because every time I heard that song, it just kept reminding me of what I did.
However, things continued to get worse. Things on the car would start acting up. The horn would beep loud and long, the headlights would flash on and off and the windshield wipers would start going. Sometimes I’d be in the car and sometimes it would be in the driveway of my house or in a parking lot just by itself. I took it to half a dozen different mechanics to have them look at it, and they all said they couldn’t anything wrong with it. It was after I was driving it back from the last mechanic when I happened to look in the rearview mirror and saw Taylor and Melinda, the two people I killed years before sitting in the back seat. I saw their bullet wounds oozing blood and their skin was pale and they were staring at me with angry eyes. When I looked back I saw no one there, but I knew what was going on. I had bought the same blue sedan that Taylor Peters and his girlfriend Melinda were in when I killed them. However, I wasn’t about to let my new life be ruined by a couple of ghosts. After all, I had a good thing going for the past eleven years. So I took it back to the dealer and exchanged it for another car.
I drove home in my new ride feeling like a large weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I kissed Barbara like I never kissed her before and hugged my kids like I had never hugged them before, and that night I slept like a baby. Later that Sunday afternoon there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, there were two police officers standing at the doorstep. “Mr. Robert Smith?” one of them asked. “Yes, that’s me,” I said. Another one spoke up. “Mr. Smith, do you realize you have a stolen car in your possession?” I gulped “A stolen car?” I asked.
“Yes,” said one of the officers, “a blue sedan that you had bought from Donnelly’s Used Cars a few months back and had exchanged yesterday was reported stolen by Mr. Donnelly this morning.”
The other officer then said, “We just found it parked in front of your house. Care to explain?”
I looked past the officers and my heart dropped to my feet. There, parked by the curb, was that blue sedan. I fell to my knees crying. I knew I was defeated so I told the policemen who a really was and confessed to the murders in front of my wife and kids and the cops took me to the station where I’m writing this.
The police from the city are coming to take me back with them tomorrow, but I don’t think they’ll be bringing me back alive. I’ve made myself a rope from the bedsheets, and soon it will all be over. Again I’m sorry to everyone, to Barbara, to Jack to Mary, to the Peters and Fuller families, and all their friends.
I’m sorry, and goodbye.
🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
Written by Andrew Scolari Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/A🔔 More stories from author: Andrew Scolari
Publisher's Notes: N/A Author's Notes: N/AMore Stories from Author Andrew Scolari:
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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).