Nightrider
When dark thoughts ride shotgun: a 1960s ghost story
About 30 miles west of Bismarck, North Dakota, just past the town of New Salem, a fuel service station held a dark secret.
Antonio Brothers Fueling, owned by 2nd generation Italian Americans, both veterans of Normandy, prided themselves on providing the speediest highest quality fuel services west of Chicago.
Built at the same time as the interstate 94 freeway and with gas being only 28 cents a gallon in 1964, Antonio’s was thriving. It attracted many other rest-stop services around it and became a common destination for Speedsters and Oldsmobile men alike.
Despite its success, there was still that dark secret.
Sometimes at night, a vehicle would leave Antonio’s with an additional passenger aboard.
Always the same passenger.
If it could be called that.
Because the passenger didn’t assume a normal form.
At least not to adults.
A few could see it though.
Content warnings: violence, PTSD, implied suicide
“There’s a man in the car with us,” said Sara-Lou, as the Wilmingtons pulled onto the expressway in their Ford Station Wagon.
Helena looked at the rearview mirror to see Sara-Lou staring into an empty space to her right.
But that’s not what Sara-Lou saw.
Sitting in front of her was a man wearing a mechanic’s coat.
The man looked like a greaser, except he was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and circles under his eyes. It looked like he had not slept well for days.
A packet of cigarettes sat unsmoked in his front pocket, right next to a patch over the left breast with the nametag “STEREO” embroidered in red cursive lettering.
But perhaps the most unsettling thing about this figure “Stereo” was the expression it held.
There was an intensity in its gaze that spoke of malcontent and intention to harm, combined with the slightest expression of curvature forming the hint of a smile that didn’t quite match the eyes.
“I’m scared something bad is going to happen while he’s here.”
Stereo leaned in towards Helena Wilmington, its eyes never breaking contact with Sara-Lou’s frightened expression.
My girl Sara-Lou always got in trouble in school for making up stories. Always saw things.
Helena’s pupils dilated slightly as Stereo whispered the words.
When she spoke, it was more sharply this time “Sara-Lou! Be quiet missy. We need to focus on the road to get you home by a good time”
Vincent Wilmington also looked concerned, “You need a cigarette or something, Sweetheart?” He passed back a smoke and a matchbook.
Sara-Lou took both, hands shaking and lit the cigarette as she continued to watch Stereo uneasily.
Stereo leaned to the left, just enough to get next to Vincent’s ear while driving and whispered again.
Helena doesn’t respect you, and now she’s taking things out on my girl, Sara-Lou. Shes probably annoyed you gave her a smoke.
“That’s enough out of you, Helena,” growled Vincent, “I know how to drive, dammit.” His hands gripped the wheel.
Helena looked hurt for a moment, but after another whisper from Stereo, her gaze hardened again.
Eyes narrowed and dilated, she responded back sharply,
“So now you’re a tough man, Vince. Well, you weren’t acting quite so tough back at Rudy’s while Dolores was taking your order.”
Vincent turned red.
Rudy’s Cafe served fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and had gotten a new jukebox. The music hadn’t been enough to distract Vincent’s gaze down Dolores’ bust as she knelt beside their table to write.
She knows, said Stereo matter-of-factly, she knows all about Dolores and your games of backseat bingo with her on the weekends.
“You shut your mouth, Helena!” snapped Vincent, pupils dilated, locking eyes with her.
Stereo leaned back, that hint of a not-smile remained on its cheeks.
I must be living for a broken heart, no matter what you’re doing. Love just ain’t right.
Sara-Lou continued to watch the thing that looked like a man worriedly over the smoke and haze of Vincent and Helena’s escalating shouting match.
No more than fifteen seconds later amongst the chaos, Vincent lost control of the Ford through an overcorrection, careening into a head on collision with a passing semi-truck.
The car flipped and convulsed, throwing its passengers into a violent half circle through the winter night.
Easy Pickens, whispered Stereo.
Stereo innately understood what it could whisper into others’ minds. Wounds floated around its victims on the roads at night, like small red pulsing inkblots. Each one was an open invitation to suggestion.
It was the beginning of spring as a lonely truck delivery driver named Eddy headed east towards Bismarck.
You know you’re gonna jump, Stereo whispered into Eddy’s ear.
Tears formed in Eddy’s eyes. She had looked at him with such disappointment.
He could hear what Stereo said but believed the thoughts were his own. The driver tried to shake off these feelings as he had many times before, turning up the music on the truck’s radio.
But this act of resistance seemed to only amplify the hurt.
Stereo looked at Eddy lazily as the music played.
Don’t you know you’re going to jump?
Jump in the river, you know you’re gonna die.
You said you loved her, all the time you were faking.
You didn’t tell her about those guys, you were making with.
“I’m sorry Mary-Anne,” Eddy whispered quietly, and he pulled the truck off to the side of the road.
Stereo watched with satisfaction as Eddy quietly got out, headlights still on, and stepped off the edge of the recently constructed Grant Marsh Bridge, plunging 30 feet into icy waters below.
On a warm summer’s evening, college sweethearts were quarreling.
“Come right back, I’ll show you my love is strong!” called Johnny as Daisy-Lee stormed out of his pickup.
Stereo gave instructions in first person, in Johnny’s own voice:
I’ve always told you we must never pause… I’ve loved you from the very start,
Alone, why must I be alone.
I’ve spent so many hours with you. How can I be alone?
Johnny’s eyes lowered, pupils dilated.
Don’t let her leave you ever, Stereo flatly instructed.
Johnny reached under his chair for the revolver he knew his dad kept there.
“Daisy-Lee, you better get back here.”
Stereo watched as Johnny got out of the car, chasing after the girl into the nearby forest.
Two gunshots rang out into the night from the nearby wood, causing crows to fly away from the trees.
There were about 30 seconds between each.
Johnny did not return to the pickup.
Stereo only knew the dark of night. It didn’t know what daytime looked like.
All it knew was that its words became thoughts, and that it felt good to hurt. To push in the knife just far enough so that the rest of the bleeding could occur naturally and do the job on its own.
Some wounds fester and never heal.
To Stereo, those were Easy Pickens.
Frank DeLaney didn’t talk about the war very often, if ever. He had been in the Marine Corps and taken part in actions in Okinawa and Tarawa 20 years before. These days between the stress of work, he found himself in and out of the bar.
As his Oldsmobile tire struck a sharp rock, Frank swore and stumbled out into the dark fall night to grab the spare from the trunk.
Stereo watched from the passenger seat, window rolled down.
The world depended on you, Frank.
10 hours away from Japanese homeland.
Going to cut her down.
Frank paused.
Hit the dirt Sergeant DeLaney, enemy has you zeroed in.
Frank dove into a ditch behind him, bolts and tire nuts scattering into the highway as he swore loudly again.
He could hear the whistle of oversized mortar shells, taste the thirst and heat of those rocky grey cliffs.
250 men battled, only 27 made it back.
And you failed them all, Frank.
Stereo watched blankly from inside the passenger seat.
Frank lay there, hands on the side of his ears, sobbing, trying to block out the noise.
He could still hear the whistles and cracks of Arasaka rifles, and the terrifying yells of fanatical banzai charges.
The noise finally settled.
Frank needed whiskey, bad.
Out came his flask. He downed the whole thing.
On your feet, marine. Frank rose.
You returned as a hero and were celebrated, everybody shook your hand.
But you weren’t one. You were a survivor in a slaughter.
Frank stumbled back into the car. He was seeing double. He kept driving.
Drink the blues away, hero. Stereo saluted as Frank reached for another bottle.
Frank didn’t make it home from the bar that night.
Stereo opened its eyes yet again.
This time it was on a bus.
Several individuals in straight jackets sat scattered throughout.
A woman sat closest, her black hair matted and tangled over her shoulders with a grey streak along the edge.
She was mumbling something to herself.
Stereo sat down next to her.
It observed her wounds, and it knew exactly what to say:
You’re trapped Iris, there’s no getting out of this.
Once you were a song of love.
Now the memories keep taunting you.
You’re broken hearted.
You’ll never see him again, he went away.
The woman didn’t respond, but she had stopped mumbling and become quiet.
the way he wore his hat, sipped his tea.
The memory of all that, you’re going to lose it.
The next time they shock you.
But your dreams will stay haunted.
Then something happened that Stereo did not expect.
Iris turned and looked directly in its direction.
“You can’t take yourself away from me,” she stated.
Stereo was silent for a moment.. You can see me?
“I can hear you. And I recognize your voice.”
Stereo felt something strange, a primal excitement that it could not explain.
Who am I?
“You’re Clyde, my brother… and you died.”
Clyde “Stereo” Pulaski in that moment remembered who he was.
He had grown up in New Salem.
Days spent working on cars at Antonio’s.
Cruising the interstate with other greasers in a brand new Coupe DeVille.
Listening to Rock-n-Roll in the bowling alley next to Rudy’s.
And many late night games of blackjack and poker in the auto garage.
Clyde also remembered taking care of his kid sister Iris, who had been unwell and had often had nightmares.
The sudden recognition of Iris now older shocked him.
Iris… I’m so confused.
I don’t know why this is happening.
How did I die?
Iris sat with Clyde.
“You had a lot of problems Clyde. You borrowed money from bad men.”
Clyde suddenly remembered a switchblade and being some place high up.
I don’t know why I keep returning.
I also want to hurt others.
Iris continued to sit with him quietly. An orderly near the front of the bus had turned back and was looking towards her with a nervous glance.
Clyde struggled to recall the events before his death. So much was a haze.
He remembered looking for help to get away from the Teamster thugs that had kept hounding him over his debts.
He had seen a priest who had warned him of the dangers of sinful living and given him instructions on absolution.
Unfortunately this wouldn’t help his his temporal situation, so he turned to other measures.
Under the advice of an especially superstitious fellow card player, he had visited a mysterious woman who lived by herself on the outskirts of town.
She had offered him help of strange means.
In return for an energetic exchange as well as an agreed upon occasional furnace tune-up, she would provide a special protection for him.
Clyde had thought it seemed silly as he watched her wave the blood colored amulet around. But he tried to stay open as she tossed salt across his shoulders, all the while chanting the words repeatedly that reminded him of Latin mass on Christmas for some reason:
“duo soni et duae voces una fiant”
She had also burned two candles, one for him and one for his sister.
Afterwards, upon arriving to the freeway, Clyde felt very tired, and pulled over to take a nap before heading back to Antonio’s.
And when he’d woken up, they were there, the teamsters with their fedoras, ties and overcoats.
He reached for his switchblade but one of the thugs had reacted quickly, smashing his hand with a baseball bat, before pulling out a .38 revolver.
They’d hauled him 7 miles east of Medora to Painted Canyon Overlook.
Clyde didn’t have the 3000 dollars he owed Frank Delaney or the recent 200 he’d lost playing poker against Frank’s son, Johnny.
Frank’s goons smiled at him cruelly as Clyde stood at cliff’s edge.
“You know how this ones gonna go, Stereo,” said Vincent, still holding the revolver.
“Please guys, you know I have a younger sister, Iris. She isn’t well. Take my Cadillac - that should cover what I owe Frank.”
“Oh you know you’re already paying for it that way sonny, plus more,” said Eddy, car keys dangling from his hand.
“I don’t want Iris left alone.”
“Well You should’ve thought that before you went spending Frank’s money,” sniffed Vincent.
Frank’s goons stabbed Clyde 3 times and then shot him, a final kiss of death, before pushing his body into the canyon.
Eddy could’ve sworn he’d seen a flash of red light, but that might have just been the blood reflecting in the sunset.
“Easy Pickens,” remarked Vincent, before handing the switchblade to Eddy.
Clyde refocused.
They were on the bus.
Iris was looking in his direction worriedly.
“Clyde are you there?” Iris asked.
She couldn’t see him.
I’m here Iris.
“Are you real?” She whispered, “They told me the voices I hear aren’t real”.
I’m real, Clyde assured her.
And I’m here with you Iris.
“Will you stay with me? I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
She was frightened.
He could see the burn marks on her lower scalp left over from shock therapy.
Clyde sat with her. His hands weren’t covered in oil marks anymore. He tried to put his arm around her, to do something, anything that would help comfort her.
At that moment he felt a warmth in his jacket pocket near his name tag. Upon reaching in, a familiar blood colored amulet with flecked bits of gold appeared in his palm.
The amulet felt strangely solid, in a way that the rest of Clyde did not.
Iris sighed and closed her eyes, leaning her head back where he was.
You’re going to be okay Iris.
I’m always with you, even if you can’t see me.
…I just had to take care of a few things.
The sun was coming up.
The bus was getting closer to a building.
Iris still had her eyes closed.
The bus screeched to a halt, rolling up on gravel.
Its doors scraped open.
Two men in guard uniforms had stepped onto the bus. They both were armed.
“That’s her,” the orderly said, pointing back towards where Iris and Clyde were sitting.
Clyde knew they couldn’t see him. But something didn’t seem right as the men approached cautiously.
“Miss Pulaski, its time to come with us.”
Iris?
Iris stirred as she opened her eyes.
“Where am I?”
“On behalf of the North Dakota Department of Corrections and Rehabilitations, while awaiting your sentence, you are being transitioned to a maximum security holding unit within San Haven Sanitarium”
As Iris Pulaski was being admitted into San Haven Sanitarium, she received many second glances.
The sanitarium workers had read about Iris in the Bismarck Tribune.
Marylou “Iris” Sara-Lee Pulaski was under suspicion of murder for the deaths of four different men over the last year, all connected to the Bismarck Local 123 Teamsters labor union.
Iris’ personal effects were documented, removed and stored for safekeeping.
They included amongst other things; a few quarters, a matchbook for Rudy’s Cafe, the lid to a whiskey bottle, a photo of a handsome college student, as well as a small tuning knob from a Chevrolet semi-truck’s radio.
Most curious of all though, was an amulet the color of deep red with small flecks of gold sparkling throughout. It would later be crossed out from the record with a one-word handwritten note: MISSING.
Whenever she was questioned by the psychiatrist, Iris claimed that her dead brother Clyde had instrumented the killings, all in an effort to protect her.
Iris pleaded insanity and remained a patient in stay at San Haven up until the facility’s closure in 1987.
Her current whereabouts remain unknown.
Special Thanks to the following Substack users for image prompts that helped this piece come to fruition:
Jacqueline - “The only way out is through”
Sam’s Spaghetti - “His hands”
Original Worlds (Ira Robinson) - “Does this painting tell a story”
Note: Many of the italicized lines from “STEREO” in this story come directly from musical hits of the 1950s and 1960s.
Stand By Me - Ben E. King
I Must Be Living for a Broken Heart - The Spinners
My Girl - The Temptations
Have I the Right - The Honeycombs
I’m Gonna Jump - Toggery Five
Ballad of Ira Hayes - Johnny Cash
Sink the Bismarck - Johnny Horton
They can’t Take That Away from Me - Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
December 1963 (Oh What a Night!) - Frankie Valley and the Four Seasons
Natalie Cole - Plans for the Future
+More
Adored this! And I love the addition of the music💛 I’m playing with some ideas like this for my series as well :) Anyway, great work. Glad I found you!
This story has such a chilling atmosphere! Stereo’s presence is truly unsettling.