Lola and the Menacing Machine

chapter 9

Lola had stopped riding to school with her sister, Maisey, much to the latter's initial delight. The decision was Lola's way of asserting her independence, and she had taken to riding the public school bus instead. This was an act of rebellion against the Daniels' relaxed yet oddly specific parenting rules-one of which was an absolute ban on their children using public transport. The Daniels believed it was "too pedestrian" for their social standing.

Maisey, at first, relished the newfound freedom. It was a relief to drive around without Lola's chatter filling the car. Her sleek, navy-blue blazer fit snugly over her white silk blouse, and her pleated gray skirt added to her polished, private-school aesthetic. She enjoyed solo rides, windows down, her caramel curls bouncing in the breeze as she blared her carefully curated playlists. With no sleepy Lola to babysit on late-night drives, Maisey felt like her car finally belonged to her.

But the novelty wore off faster than she'd expected. The once-lively Lola, now withdrawn and cautious, wasn't the same sister Maisey adored. Her imagination-once a delightful mix of whimsy and absurdity-seemed dulled by whatever haunted her about the car. Maisey found herself missing the quirky companion who once turned mundane car rides into adventures. She proposed hiring a chauffeur for Lola, framing it as a solution for her sister's apparent fear of being alone in the back seat. Secretly, Maisey hoped the presence of an adult might bring back some of Lola's old energy.

Back at the police station, Detective Harris sat in his cluttered office, lit dimly by the dull gray of the overcast afternoon spilling through a half-closed blind. His desk was piled high with files, a half-eaten sandwich pushed aside to make room for the video evidence playing on his screen. The grainy footage showed the two boys approaching the Daniels' car. Then-nothing definitive. A subtle flicker of the car's lights, and the video cut off. Harris sighed heavily, rubbing his temple with one hand while the other gripped a lukewarm mug of coffee.

The room reeked of frustration. Harris, a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, wore his stress like a second skin. His navy suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and his tie hung loose around his pristine white shirt still crisp despite the long hours.

"This makes no sense," Harris muttered, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence. "There's no solid evidence. Just lights moving. Could be a prank... but why target the Daniels?"

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, and considered the tangled web of testimonies. The Daniels family had their fair share of quirks, but Harris had uncovered enough about the rich to know they often hid darker secrets. Yet this felt different. The fingers found in the car, the missing boy-these weren't skeletons buried in the Daniels' closet; they were fresh and horrifyingly real.

Maisey's testimony was, unsurprisingly, self-centered. Draped in designer confidence, she dismissed the events as the work of jealous peers targeting her "fabulous" lifestyle and enviable car. "They're just envious of my vibe," she had said with a toss of her perfectly styled hair.

Mrs. Daniels, regal in a tailored cream blouse and pearls, backed her daughter's theory with maternal fervor. Her crimson-painted lips pressed together in disapproval as she insisted the incidents were nothing more than an attack on their family's status. Mr. Daniels, on the other hand, suspected corporate espionage. His sharp pinstripe suit and polished leather shoes gave him an air of authority as he theorized the accidents were meant to undermine his
business.

Then there was Lola. The youngest Daniels sat quietly during the questioning, her wide eyes betraying her fear as she described the car as "alive." Harris had dismissed it at first, chalking it up to her overactive imagination. But as he watched her wring her hands and glance nervously at the window, he couldn't entirely shake the notion that she might be onto something.

There had been whispers in the past-urban legends about vehicles behaving independently before the stories were hushed up. Harris didn't believe in the supernatural, but the evidence-or lack thereof-nagged at him.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly as he stood, drained the last of his coffee, and resolved to revisit the Daniels' car that evening. Something about it didn't sit right with him, and Harris wasn't one to leave questions unanswered.