The year is 1978. The air is crisp and tinged with the faint smell of autumn leaves. You walk down the quiet suburban street, the crunch of leaves under your feet the only sound in the stillness of the evening. The setting sun casts a warm, golden hue across the rows of neatly trimmed lawns and cookie-cutter houses. Everything seems peaceful, almost idyllic, but there's a knot of unease tightening in your stomach.

You've heard the rumors, of course. Everyone in town has. Whispers about the old, abandoned garage at the edge of town, and the sinister presence that lurks within. They say it’s haunted, possessed even, by something otherworldly. But you never put much stock in ghost stories. That is, until now.

Ahead, you see it. The garage stands in stark contrast to the well-kept homes, a relic of a bygone era. Its paint is peeling, windows cracked and dirty. But it’s what’s inside that sends a chill down your spine. There, sitting under a flickering streetlight, is the 1958 Plymouth Fury, its cherry-red paint glistening as if it had just rolled off the assembly line.

You pause, heart hammering in your chest. The car looks pristine, out of place in this derelict setting. It’s Christine. Everyone in town knows her name, the cursed car that brought death and despair to anyone who crossed its path. You swallow hard, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end as you take a tentative step closer.

As you approach, the streetlight above flickers and buzzes, casting eerie shadows across the Fury's gleaming surface. The air around you grows colder, the smell of oil and gasoline mingling with something else, something metallic and tangy—like blood. You glance around, half-expecting to see someone watching you, but the street is empty.

Your breath fogs in the chill air as you reach out, hand trembling, to touch the car. Just as your fingers brush the cool metal, the radio inside crackles to life. An old rock 'n' roll tune blares from the speakers, the sound tinny and warped. You snatch your hand back...