Steven Kings Christine the Classic Cruiser:

The old man shuffled out of the garage, a grimace etched on his weathered face. Dust motes danced in the sliver of sunlight filtering through the grime-coated window. There, shrouded in shadows, sat Christine’s younger, less menacing cousin – a cherry red Schwinn with chrome fenders gleaming like evil eyes.

Arnie, the old man, had bought it at a flea market for a song. The seller, a nervous fellow with twitchy eyes, practically begged him to take it. Arnie, a lifelong Stephen King fan with a penchant for forgotten treasures, couldn’t resist.

He spent weeks restoring the bike, a strange unease gnawing at him the whole time. The chrome gleamed too brightly, and the Black paint seemed to deepen in the afternoon sun. He swore he heard the faint whirring of an engine when the wind picked up.

One evening, Arnie left Christine outside a diner. As he emerged, a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The cherry red paint seemed almost black, the chrome reflecting an unnatural orange glow from the streetlights. A low growl, nearly inaudible, emanated from the bike.

He dismissed it as an overactive imagination, but a seed of doubt had been planted. The next day, the local bully’s new bike inexplicably lay crumpled in a ditch – a single, gleaming chrome Schwinn fender glinting in the morning sun.

Arnie knew then. Christine’s younger cousin might not have the telekinetic fury of its namesake, but it harbored a darkness nonetheless. He wasn’t sure if it was the bike itself or the stories he filled his head with, but Arnie decided one thing for certain: he was selling Christine’s little red cousin. Fast.