[T3] Halloween Story

["Charles E. Whitney" <clncrew@erols.com>]

Hello All,

With Halloween only a couple weeks away,  I am reposting a story written
by a Connecticut friend of mine, Ron Van Ness.  It was originally posted
to the T-2 list.  I believe I posted it last year about this time, but
could not find it in the archives.  The old-timers may remember it, for
the newbies to the list enjoy.

And please, for the sake of my "membership" here on the list, please
replace any mention of other vehicle types with your own coveted T-3
model and year.

Lastly, PLEASE, PLEASE, don't say this couldn't happen to you!

MWAAAHAHAHAHA,

Charlie


> Night of the '54 Barn door
> 
> The ad appeared on the list around 7pm.  The poster, thousands of miles from
> me but linked in the spirit of the bus hunt had found a fresh ad on some
> obscure corner of the net that simply read "'54 Barn door Volkswagen van for
> sale, $750 OBO".   The biggest shock of all was the phone number was in my
> area code.  But there I was again, logging on over an hour after a super
> deal was posted to the bus hungry masses.  Feeling that I had lost it
> already my heart sank, yet I optimistically began to dial.  I should make it
> clear that I'm really not like those other bus fanatics on the list.  No, I
> have self control--one bus is good enough for this listee.  But as I always
> say, there's no harm in looking, and my intentions are unselfish: after all,
> I'd potentially be "saving" a bus.  Who knows what kind of horrific
> customized fate lay ahead of the poor old bus should it not reach my loving
> arms? I quickly canceled my date for the evening and stationed myself by the
> phone in the bedroom, dialing and redialing the number in the ad that
> remained unanswered.  Hours passed and my eyelids grew heavy as I lay
> slumped over the phone, a pathetic figure: head resting precariously in a
> half eaten bag of Cheetos.  By now it was past 2am and with little remaining
> strength and hope I knocked the phone off the reciever and managed to target
> the redial button.  The ringing stopped and after an eternity of silence, a
> soft voice answered the call.  I perked up and babbled something slightly
> incoherent about a bus for sale.
> 
> "Oh yes, the bus"  a pleasant male voice replied, "it's still for sale."  I
> leapt off the Cheetos, sending cheese dust across the wrinkles in the
> bedsheets.
> 
> "Can I see it now?" I shot out impetuously.  My mouth awoke before my brain.
> I lost the cool edge that a savvy buyer should have.  Something about buses
> and my negotiating wits turn to jelly.  Before I could recover, I heard the
> man's good natured laugh and a "sure, you must love vintage, original VWs"
> on the other end of the phone.  A subsequent exchange of pleasantries
> revealed that the seller, Bernard, had just completed the seminary and was
> selling the bus (that had belonged to his late father) before leaving for
> missionary work in South America.  "My father loved that vehicle and had all
> sorts of gadgets for it," said Bernard.  After a pause he added in a
> seemingly caustic tone, "He liked to keep everything original."  Resuming in
> a pleasant voice he continued, "but it is afterall just a material object
> and I estimate its fair worth value as transportation and all the
> miscellaneous items to be about $750, but I'm willing to negotiate."
> 
> My mouth grew dry and my palms began to sweat. I felt deep within that
> Bernard was sincere about this bus and for once, I was the lucky first
> caller on a great bargain!  Bernard was still talking as I drifted out of my
> reverie, he was saying something about how he was looking forward to the
> challenge of his missionary work.
> 
> "Yes, you're right, it's the use value of the bus that counts."  I said
> automatically.  I was a bit off topic at this point in the conversation but
> Bernard was forgiving.
> 
> "You say you'd like to see the bus tonight?  Well, I'm a bit of a night owl
> these days, I suppose I could meet you out at the farm."  We calculated that
> we could meet where the bus was by 4am.  It was a rural area and I knew the
> route vaguely but never noticed the farm off the road where Bernard
> described.  The tools were already packed in my '71 and I happened to have
> an appropriate towbar handy (just in case I ever had to help another buser
> in need).
> 
> I reasoned the scenario was perfect: Bernard would leave to meet me and
> would therefore miss any subsequent inquiries by persistent bus seekers.  I
> was somewhat confident that Bernard wouldn't sell the bus out from under me,
> but who knows what manner of wily character might persuade him to break our
> agreement. Yes, I prefered the advantage I possessed.
> 
> The only route that lead to the small town where the bus was sheltered was
> unlit and narrow.  Fortunately a full moon burned brightly that evening,
> lighting the path to my prize.  I turned into the narrow dirt drive just at
> 4am and my generator light then began to glow.  Well, at least I'd made my
> appointment.  Getting back might be a challenge though, and at this point I
> began to realize my intention of making it to work by 8am may have been too
> optimistic.
> 
> The path grew narrower and steeper as I forced the bus past the overgrown
> brush on its edges.  As I made the final ascent the moon shined brighter
> than ever directly into the large window of my '71 bus, lighting my face.
> I crested the hill and the farm yard lay before me, my headlights
> illuminating the scene as best as my failing generator would allow.  The
> buildings were ragged.  I slowly navigated around the debris and old farm
> equipment that littered my path.  It was then I noticed the shining black
> Cadillac hearse parked before an old barn.  A man, darkly clothed, stood
> alongside the car.  He was looking toward the ground, but raised his head
> slowly into the direct glare of my lights.  At first it seemed his face was
> a blank sheet, but as I blinked in disbelief I began to discern thin
> features and the hint of smile.  I stopped the bus fifty feet from him and
> sat there idling for awhile.  This was not my mental image of Bernard and
> for the first time that evening amidst the clamor of my expectations I grew
> cold and felt suddenly vulnerable.  As the man walked in my direction I
> reached for the shifter and at just that moment the '71's engine stammered
> and died.  I quickly turned the key but the engine refused to turn over.  By
> then the man had reached the side of the bus and I felt his stare on the
> side of my face as he peered into my open window.
> 
> "Ron I presume?"  It was Bernard's voice.  I turned slowly and fixed on his
> pale face.  His features were somewhat grim and he seemed years beyond the
> twenty-something year old I had envisioned.  He wore a brownish sport jacket
> over a darker outfit and his body seemed to blend into the night.
> 
> "A hearse?" were the first words that came from my ill-prepared lips.  I
> tried not to sound afraid, but the atmosphere was overpowering.
> 
> "It's practical transportation for me, I find it very useful" was his response.
> 
> "So, the bus is in there?" I said, pointing at the barn.
> 
> "Yes, shall we?"  With that Bernard opened my door and I crept out onto the
> desolate landscape.
> 
> My mode of enthusiastic anticipation for the old bus had turned to a dark
> foreboding.  We walked slowly toward the barn then Bernard stopped abruptly,
> jolting my already heightened senses.  "Why don't you take this flashlight
> and have a look at the van, I'll join you shortly--I left some paperwork in
> my glovebox that you might be interested in seeing."
> 
> I took the light and aimed it toward the slightly open door of the barn.
> The flashlight caught something bright and it reflected back at me.  For a
> moment I forgot Bernard as I realized it was the bright paintwork on the
> familiar shape of a barn door bus.  I approached quickly and entered the
> structure and shined the light directly on the bus.  Incredible!  A quick
> glance above the split windows to see the ventless roofline confirmed that I
> shared the same space with a true barn door bus that had somehow been hidden
> from the ravages of time.  It was a delivery model and had the special order
> rear hatch without glass. I dropped to my knees and felt the rocker panels
> as I ran the flashlight along its side.  Perfect! And the crossmembers I
> examined as I stooped lower and ducked my head below the chassis were pristine.
> 
> At that point all I remember hearing was the sound of dry hay break behind
> me and something whistling through the air.  Before I could turn I felt a
> sharp pain on the back of my head, I dropped the light and all grew dark and
> silent.
> 
> As I lapsed in and out of consciousness I perceived what sounded like rain
> on a roof.  When I next opened my eyes it was still dark.  But I was no
> longer on the ground--I felt the coldness of steel against my cheek.  I
> groped in the darkness with one hand and attempted to raise myself with the
> other.  I kicked something with my knee and reaching for it, discovering the
> flashlight.  Clicking it on, I saw I was within the '54.
> 
> Despite my confusion I couldn't help but marvel at the perfection of the
> interior.  The paint was immaculate.  As I scanned the interior something
> strange above my head caught my eye.  I pointed the light upwards.  The roof
> was caved inward--strange for such an otherwise perfect bus.  I raised
> myself and stumbled toward the cab section.  What I thought was a fiberboard
> partition was actually a steel panel welded to block the cargo area from the
> front.  I studied the paint and welds.  It appeared to be a factory job, but
> I couldn't recall that option.  I whimsically wished amidst my distress that
> I had my M-codes book with me now so I could verify this oddity.  Then
> reality set in.  I was trapped in this '54 Barn door and like most car
> sellers, Bernard was not the good fellow he seemed on the phone.
> 
> In a panic I rushed at the cargo doors.  They seemed to give slightly but
> felt blocked from the outside.  I made a second run at the doors and this
> time they gave a bit more, but I fell to the floor from the effort and
> dropped the light.  On the cargo floor near the door line, dark soil had
> sifted into the bus between the now damaged doors.  I stared at the soil and
> with my body trembling, for the first time touched the dented roof.  I could
> not push the dent out, there was weight behind it.  I fell back against the
> cargo floor with the realization flooding my brain:  Bernard had buried me
> alive in this bus.
> 
> Fighting off the overwhelming sense of my impending death, I examined every
> inch of the interior to judge for weakness.  I resolved to concentrate my
> energy, and my remaining oxygen, to the task of kicking near the cargo door
> hinges.  There was no rust in the panels to make this effort easier.  I had
> to destroy this bus to save myself.   At first every blow felt like
> sacrilege, despite the circumstances.  After awhile a certain catharsis
> ensued:  as I continued kicking at the metal I watched the perfect cargo
> door transmute from its original perfection to dented, scarred sheet metal.
> The dirt that fell loose on all sides of the doors was etching into the
> factory paint.  This bus that had cheated the elements for over forty years
> was rapidly bowing to wear. I braced my body and kicked frantically at the
> doors for what seemed like hours but I was making progress even as
> light-headedness set in.
> 
> Just as the door finally gave, with my last kick I managed to break my right
> ankle.  I had access now to the packed wall of earth that lay behind the one
> broken door, but I did not know how deep I was buried or if I had the
> strength to dig out from my grave.  Pulling the one broken door inward, soil
> broke free and rushed in.  I fell back and again felt the excruciating pain
> from my ankle, which had been caught in the tumult.  My face twitched from
> the pain.  I was covered in sweat and had been working in the dark since
> approximately an hour before when the flashlight had broken.  I was a blind,
> wounded maggot now, filling the cargo interior with armfulls of richly
> fertilized soil, digging upward and balancing in the chaos on my one good leg.
> 
> The interior was soon shoulder high in dirt but the tunnel to freedom seemed
> unending.  My nostrils were plugged with filth so I no longer perceived the
> earth's stench, but with wet breaths I sucked soil onto my palate.
> Approximately ten feet above the roofline of the van, with one ankle
> completely numb and body quaking, I finally poked my fist through to the
> airy suface.  I jostled upward and rolled my body onto a field with the
> autumn sun sinking below the horizon.
> 
> I don't know how long I lay there but when I was able to sense more around
> me I realized my '71 van was parked nearby.  I dragged myself toward it,
> opened the unlocked driver side door and pulled myself inside.  I flinched
> as I looked back to the cargo area at the familiar steel interior--despite
> the windows on this bus it now felt too much like a crypt.  I turned the
> ignition key and the engine came to life.  I drove haphazardly across the
> field, double clutching as one useless leg lay still.  I found my way back
> to the main road and managed to reach a hospital in the next town before
> collapsing at the wheel by the emergency entrance.
> 
> A police investigation revealed the number from the ad was from a pay phone.
> I was questioned numerous times about why I was out there at 4am.  They
> didn't understand how a forty-three year old van could lure me out to an
> abandoned farm late at night.  I can no longer explain it either.
> 
> They found the '54 as I had described, buried in the field.  When they
> pulled the '54 from the ground with a crane in the daylight it looked
> nothing like it had the night I first saw it.  It was covered with rust and
> dents.  The once fresh paint was badly oxidized, almost as if it had been
> buried for years.  A subsequent excavation of the field revealed dozens of
> vintage cars: Dusenbergs, Packards, Pierce Arrows--each with a human remains
> inside.  Strangely most of the bodies were sitting upright at the wheel.
> The causes of death were presumed to be asphyxiation--as if the occupants
> did not want to damage the vehicles to make their escape and settled for an
> eternity at the wheel.
> 
> Since that night I considered selling or junking my '71 many times.  I never
> thought I'd camp in it again.  Some time passed and I realized that
> Volkswagen was in my blood and I had to find a way around the fear that
> baleful evening had cursed upon me.  I decided to modify the '71
> considerably: I've installed remote controlled exploding pins on all the
> door hinges and even cut a few emergency escape hatches in the floor and
> bodywork, not to mention hidden compartments for weapons and tools.  I can
> now sleep in the van, but the nightmares persist.  My vintage friends think
> I'm crazy--the bus was perfectly original before my modifications.  But I've
> seen enough originality to last a lifetime.

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