The Blazzed Ride

The Key and the Curse

Kansas City hummed with a quiet electric pulse, the kind that danced between the high-rise shadows and snaked through late-night alleyways. Imani Cole, 42 years old and a powerhouse in her own right, stood outside her boutique, Blazzup—Kansas City's only luxury 420-friendly fashion line. Her designs were bold, unapologetically Black, and infused with a laid-back elegance that echoed her spirit. But this night felt different. The air was thicker. The moon, unusually low, cast a haze over everything.

Her day had started like any other. Orders were backed up, a pop-up event had gone sideways, and a vendor was late. But something strange happened when she passed by the local tow yard after grabbing a blunt wrap from the corner store. Her eyes locked on a sleek, blue 2018 Dodge Charger parked behind a chain-link fence. The color shimmered like midnight oil.

Drawn in like a moth, she pulled into the lot. The car sat dusty but proud, almost like it was waiting. An older man, the lot manager, limped toward her with suspicion. You lookin' at her? That car's cursed. Been sittin' here over a year. Nobody wants her.

Imani tilted her head. "What's her story?"

The man sucked his teeth. Last owner died in it. Lashonda Grant. Fine woman. Ran a soul food joint in Midtown. Her man said it was an accident. Car flipped in a ditch, but police said the brakes weren't touched. Funny thing is, car ain't got a single dent now. Just showed up like this one morning. Good as new.

Imani stared at the car, her reflection staring back in the gloss. Something gripped her. She had to have it.

How much?

The man blinked. "You serious?

She nodded. Dead serious.

That night, she signed the papers. The car was hers.

The First Ride

Imani slid into the Charger for the first time under a pink and gold sunrise. The leather felt warm, lived-in. A faint smell of vanilla and weed lingered in the air familiar, nostalgic. She started the engine. It purred to life like it had been waiting for her touch. The radio snapped on without prompting, blaring Anita Baker’s Sweet Love.

Okay, Miss Charger. Got taste, Imani chuckled, patting the dashboard.

But the moment she pulled out of the lot, the radio glitched. It crackled, then played the same Anita Baker verse again. Then again. Even when she turned it off, the song continued, whispering from the speakers like a phantom.

A chill climbed her spine. "Girl, stop trippin’. You tired."

She drove to Blazzup, parked, and sat for a moment. A flicker in the rearview caught her eye brief, like a shadow. When she turned, nothing was there. She shook her head and got out.

Throughout the day, the car sat like a loyal guard dog. But when her ex-boyfriend Kareem pulled up in his rental and saw the Charger, he whistled.

Damn, that's clean. Who you rob for that?

Imani smirked. "You wish."

He leaned in to get a better look and touched the hood. Instantly, the car's alarm shrieked though Imani hadn’t armed it. Kareem jumped back, cursing.

Chill! Damn!

Imani stared. "I ain’t touched the remote."

That night, as she climbed into the car, the radio flickered again. This time, it played A Song for You by Donny Hathaway. The lyrics I love you in a place where there's no space or time…wrapped around her like a prophecy. Her heart thudded. She was no longer just driving a car.

She was driving a spirit.

The Spirit of Lashonda

Imani began researching Lashonda Grant obsessively. Local news archives, Reddit forums, Black Twitter threads anything she could find. The more she dug, the more things didn’t add up.

Lashonda had been a rising star. Soul food entrepreneur. Started from her grandma’s kitchen, feeding construction workers out the back of her Hyundai. Turned that hustle into two restaurants. Everyone loved her. Until she got with Byron James, a flashy real estate hustler with soft hands and a crooked smile.

Reports said Lashonda died in a crash while Byron walked away with a scratch. Open case, ruled accidental. But neighborhood gossip whispered that he’d been controlling. That he’d put hands on her. That she was planning to leave.

One evening, Imani drove to the old restaurant site—now boarded up. The moment she pulled into the lot, the Charger’s headlights flicked on by themselves. The radio played Before I Let Go by Frankie Beverly and Maze.

Imani’s breath caught.

The song skipped then slowed. Then reversed.

She gripped the wheel. "Lashonda?"

The car idled. Then the glove box popped open. Inside, under old registration papers, was a photo. A printed snapshot of Lashonda and Byron arms locked, smiles wide. But someone had drawn an X over Byron’s face.

The car rumbled low. Not angry. Protective.

Imani whispered, "You want justice, huh?"

Blazzup and the Breakdown

Business boomed. Imani dropped a new hoodie line inspired by retro soul icons. Customers lined up for blocks. But behind her smile, she couldn’t shake the car’s hold on her.

Friends noticed. Lani, her best friend since college, pulled her aside. Girl, why you always riding solo in that creepy car? You never walk anywhere anymore.

It’s... it’s hard to explain.

Lani raised a brow. You high or haunted?

Imani laughed, but inside she felt the truth press heavy. She was both.

That night, after closing up the boutique, she decided to follow the music. She whispered to the Charger, Take me somewhere. Anywhere.

The GPS lit up. She hadn’t touched it.

The route led her to a suburban cul-de-sac on the Kansas side. Big homes, quiet lawns. The Charger idled outside a gray stone house with a tall oak in the front yard. Byron’s house.

Her pulse raced.

She took a picture of the mailbox. Went home. Began digging again. That night, she dreamed of a woman’s voice saying, He locked the doors. I couldn’t get out.

When she woke, her fingers were smeared with engine grease. But she hadn’t left the bed.


Whispers on Wheels

By the fifth week, Imani had stopped questioning the car's odd behavior. Instead, she embraced it. The Charger became an extension of her mood, memory, and motion all wrapped in steel and soul. She spoke to it like a homegirl, called it Blue, and began every ride with a blunt and a prayer.

One evening after work, she lit up and said, Take me where I need to go.

The navigation system lit up again, guiding her with no input. It took her down 18th Street, past jazz bars and murals, through neighborhoods whispering with memory. The car slowed in front of a tiny church with boarded windows. She’d never noticed it before.

Inside, the air smelled like old wood and spilled secrets. In the second pew, she found a Bible with Lashonda’s name scrawled in the margin beside Psalm 91.

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High…

That night, Imani dreamt of a woman crying in a pew, wearing the same hoodie Imani had designed the week before. It read: Saints Smoke Too.

The dream lingered for days, curling around her thoughts like smoke. She began making trips guided only by the car, finding places filled with quiet reverence and unseen energy. She felt watched, but not in fear—more like a spirit trying to be seen.



Road Signs and Red Flags

The car started showing her things people, places, moments.

She passed a woman on Prospect Avenue who gave her a strange look. The car jerked gently, pulling Imani’s attention. She parked, stepped out, and approached the woman.

You alright?

The woman stared at her, confused. Then: You drivin’ Lashonda’s car?

Imani nodded slowly.

She was gon’ leave that man. Byron. He killed her. Nobody’ll say it, but I will.

Before Imani could respond, the woman shuffled off.

The Charger revved once, soft and low, like approval.

Imani whispered, We gon’ get him, huh?

Later that day, Imani pulled up old police reports. The death was ruled accidental, but inconsistencies screamed from the margins. Her intuition ignited. The Charger seemed to hum in agreement.


Ghosts in the Rearview

Driving past the hospital one night, the Charger’s stereo cut to static. A voice whispered through the speakers.

“Tell my mama I forgive her.”

Imani froze.

The car suddenly pulled toward the ER bay. Nurses buzzed around, but one older woman on the bench caught Imani’s eye. She looked broken, praying into her hands.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Imani said softly. “Did you know Lashonda Grant?”

The woman looked up slowly, eyes wide. “She was my baby.”

Imani knelt beside her. “She forgives you.”

The woman began to sob. The Charger blinked its lights twice.

They sat together for an hour. Imani held her hand. The mother told stories of Lashonda as a childbof dreams and dance recitals, of laughter lost to time. When Imani drove away, she felt a shift. The Charger rode smoother, like gratitude had replaced grief.

Smoke and Mirrors

Word spread that Imani was investigating something. A private investigator friend, Brielle, warned her.

Byron’s got eyes everywhere, she said. He ain’t gonna like you asking about Lashonda.

Imani shrugged. He ain’t gotta like it.

Later that week, she noticed she was being followed. The Charger seemed to know, taking backstreets and ducking alleys until the tail was gone.

That night, she found a single white rose on the Charger’s windshield.

She called Brielle. “Somebody's watching me.”

Keep going,” Brielle said. “You’re close to something.

Imani dug deeper online records, burner social pages, whispers from Lashonda’s old crew. Every thread pointed back to Byron, who now ran a flashy club and wore guilt like cologne.



The Backseat Confession

Imani was driving home when the backseat door clicked open on its own. No one was there.

She pulled over, heart racing.

Then she heard it. A whisper.

I told him I was leaving.

The car filled with the scent of soul food—greens, yams, fried chicken.
“I was gonna open a new spot. Just mine. No Byron. That night, he drove us into that ditch.

Imani sat frozen.

The Charger’s engine cut. Then started again. A message flashed across the dash.

You know what to do.

Imani drove straight to her apartment and wrote down everything she could remember. The Charger stayed idling outside, humming.



Ride or Die

Imani and Brielle devised a plan to confront Byron. They needed proof.

The Charger led them to an old storage unit Lashonda had rented under a different name. Inside were files, journals, receipts—evidence of abuse, threats, embezzlement. Brielle snapped photos.

Byron showed up outside.

Y’all nosy bitches need to mind ya business, he growled.

Before he could lunge, the Charger’s alarm went off lights flashing, horn blaring, then… the driver’s door opened like an invitation.

Byron stepped back, visibly shaken.

Imani stepped forward. You ain’t scaring nobody. Lashonda’s talking now.

Brielle threw the journals in a duffel. We got what we need. Let’s roll.

The Charger peeled away smooth as silk, leaving Byron stunned and furious in their rearview.


Full Moon Reckoning

Under a full moon, Imani drove the Charger out to the lake where Lashonda died.

She lit candles. Set out a plate of food. Played Anita Baker.

The water was still.

“Lashonda,” she said aloud. We see you. We hear you. We got you.

The wind picked up. The Charger revved softly. Imani felt warmth wrap around her like arms.

Behind her, Brielle filmed the vigil.

Tell your story, Imani said.

The camera glitched. Then a faint image appeared on the playback—a woman, smiling, standing beside the Charger.

When they reviewed the footage, Imani wept. She’s free now, she whispered.


Street Justice

With the evidence gathered, Imani and Brielle took it to the police. At first, no one listened.

But when a local reporter ran their story, and the footage of the vigil went viral, pressure mounted.

Byron was arrested on fraud charges first. Then suspicion for Lashonda’s death reopened the case.

Protestors gathered outside his club. Candlelight vigils filled the streets.

Imani parked the Charger in front of Blazzup, proud.

Lani hugged her. You did that.

Imani looked at the car. “Nah. We did.



We Ride Together, We Rise Together

Weeks passed. Peace returned. But the Charger remained alive.

One morning, Imani sat in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel. The dash blinked, slowly.

A message scrolled across the screen:

“We ride together. We rise together.”

The radio played Tupac’s voice, clear and defiant:

“You got two of America’s Most Wanted in the same motherfucking place at the same motherfucking time.”

The scent of vanilla lingered.

She whispered, “Thank you.”

And for the first time, she felt it fully: the car wasn’t haunted. It was blessed.

Not cursed. Chosen.

And so was she.


She turned the key, and the Charger purred. A new journey ahead, and she was ready.