This isn't supposed to be a ghost story. This is supposed to be an epic tale of road-tripping adventure. But when you buy a fifty-year-old car from some wrecking yard off a suspect guy wearing frayed cut-off overalls for a carton of beer you stole out of the fridge on his porch when he was off printing the paper-work, well, maybe we all got screwed in that deal.

You see, when you road-trip, the Law of the Highway is you cannot, under any circumstance, use a normal car – a bland old blah car. You might as well be driving to work, and no-one gives a shit about that. You need a classic, head-turning car that stands out on the road and let's everyone know you have a Mission, a Purpose, you are Going Places. I bought one of those cars.

I bought a 1967 4-Door Pillarless Chevrolet Sports Sedan Impala. And didn't it give me hell.

Every old car sounds haunted. There are funny noises at strange times, shuddering and flickering and strange, musty stenches that smell like nothing on this earth has ever produced before. So yeah, the occasional deep clanking noise off-set by that tinny rattle from the air vents didn't really bother me. Sunlight puncturing through pin-prick rust-holes and swirling through the interior like a galaxy, yep, no big deal. The radio that shuttled back and forth between stations like an express train, okay.

The ghost guy that flickered in a shaft of sunlight, now that was definitely not a standard feature.

I didn't panic.

I didn't tug the wheel.

I didn't swerve wildly.

I didn't even swear.

I took one look at the see-through biker boots propped up on the dash beside me, and I bailed.

I literally bailed.

I yanked opened the door of the Impala and just got the hell out.

Unfortunately, the car was still moving at that point. In fact, it was on the road when I made my escape. I launched out of the bench seat and bounced and scraped along the tarmac. By the time I got to the embankment by the roadside, I'd slowed to a gentle roll.

Already this road-trip wasn't going as well as I'd envisioned.

I peeked my head up from over the top of the ditch. The Impala trundled along the shoulder of the road, forging ahead with or without a driver. Yanking a shard of glass out of my arm, I debated abandoning it, leaving it to a life of roaming the open roads, but dammit – that was first (semi, quasi) legitimately purchased car. That Vardo and me were supposed to go wanderlusting together (okay, so the ghost made three, but I could swing company to my advantage on long drives).

The girl who just ejected herself from her own car stood up, brushed the thistledown from her Victoria Bitters Beer T-shirt and pulled her trucker's cap lower over her scowl. Then I jogged back to the car, still forging ahead in first gear. I approached it with the same level of caution I reserve for wild animals and cop cars.

It's exhaust rumbled innocently, grey-black smoke puffing merrily out of the tail-pipe like a warm fire from a chimney.

Let's add 'oil leak' to the growing list of things that were wrong with this car. The ghost still topped my list of priorities.

I came up alongside the Impala. Rust splattered it's once-black flanks like dried blood stains.

I cuckoo-d my head in and out of the driver's window, risking a quick glimpse of the ghost.

Nada.

I dropped to the ground and checked under the chassis.

Seemed okay.

I tugged the driver's door and it creaked open like a coffin lid in a horror movie. That bit I ignored.

I slid back into the driver's seat and the leather gave a soft hiss that I pretended sounded of ambiguous intent; it certainly wasn't a hiss of evil. I rested my hands on the loose steering wheel, my many rings clinking on the vinyl as my hands shook.

Then I dug under the seat and pulled out a can of beer I'd swiped (re-swiped) from the car-wrecker's fridge. I popped it open with a sulphuric hiss as I planned my next move. When my hands were as steady as my pulse, I decided I was ready to go.

I flicked the indicator and re-joined the traffic on the road. But first I said, quietly but clearly,

"Piss off." And, in case there was any doubt who I addressed, I added, "ghost."

It probably didn't work, but it was worth a try, right?

At least I had decided on my first official destination.

First stop: get thee to an Exorcist.