All my life I wanted to race at Talladega. But the night before the Cup race, I sat in my apartment shakin’ like a leaf.

I was Lightnin’ Jack Davis. I was the guy who went around sayin’ he could beat the devil. I had the big promo poster that showed me leanin’ against the side of my car, black number 21, with my catchphrase at the bottom: Speed is my friend.

I was the hottest rookie on the circuit and didn’t mind sayin’ so. A few days ago all I wanted was to win the Cup. Now, all I wanted was a way to skip out on the biggest race of my life.

Some people think my attraction for NASCAR came from me growing up so close to the speedway and spending my summers working there. That’s only part of it.

When I was ten, we visited my grandma, and I loved it because around her house were the longest, steepest hills in all of West Virginia.

First day there, I took my bike out, and with as powerful a push forward as I could muster, I slammed my feet onto the pedals and pumped like I had Satan at my heels. I took a full eighth of a mile to build up speed on the level straightaway as I pushed toward the start of the slope. When I peered over the top, I pedaled even harder. I picked up speed as I raced down the hill and kept haulin’ until my pedals spun freely. The wind whipped my face and at one point I felt the bike leave the pavement. Flyin’. I was flyin’!

Then, I realized I didn’t have a plan to stop. After a brief panic, I figured I had a few choices. I could slam into a mailbox and end up at the hospital, I could try running along the curb to slow down and most likely chew up my tire, or…at the bottom of the hill, a field fenced off by barbed wire waited to welcome me. Now, that would have been one of the bad choices, except I saw a board left lying on the curb. I figured if I hit it going fast enough it would act like a ramp and send me flying over the fence.

Now that was a choice.

I gritted my teeth, aimed the bike and forced every pedal’s worth of power I could pull from the thing. When my front tire slammed into the board, I flew into the air, my bike landed in the barbed wire, but I went on another three feet and crashed down in the nice, soft mud.

I was a mess, but I wasn’t hurt even though my mom got plenty upset. But I stuck a hand on my hip and told her, “Don’t worry, Mom. I could outrace the devil if I wanted to, ’cause speed is my friend.” And being a mom, she repeated that little quote a million or so times, and what can I say? It took. And it was true. I loved speed. For me, that was the attraction.

My fans in the stands even echoed the story. “You’re faster than any devil, Lightnin’ Jack! Whip the devil’s butt!”

I’d laugh and promise to do it.

But wouldn’t you know? During the qualifying rounds for the Cup race the devil called me out. No, he wasn’t wearing a red suit. He came in the form of an old woman. Lots of older ladies come to the track and cheer and yell right along with all the guys and have a good time. So when this old woman, sidled up to me at the track, I didn’t think too much about it…at first.

She looked me in the eye and said, “Lightnin’ Jack, you think you can beat the devil? Well, I gotta message for you, boy. He’s got your number, and you’re gonna die.”

She yanked out a container with red dust in it and tossed it at me.

While I was waving my way out of that cloud, Hank, who heads up my operations team, called security.

“You okay?” Hank peered at me from underneath his #21 ball cap. “That old biddy get any of that junk in your eyes?”

I brushed it off me. “No. What’s her durn problem?”

Hank gave a dry, short laugh. “She sounds like Satan’s number-one fan. Crazy old bird. Takes all kinds. I’ll have the guys make sure she doesn’t get on the track anymore.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

This morning, the old lady made the papers, just not in a good way. The headline read, “Self-described, ‘back-country witch’ found dead after ritual involvement.”

The paper explained how police found the old lady’s body covered in evil markings. No explanation how it happened. My stomach felt like lead, and all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. You know that feeling you get walking past the graveyard at night? Like there’s something with you, except you’re supposed to be alone? That’s what I felt.

Tom, one of the pit crew, gave me a whack on the shoulder. “Well, she ain’t gonna be riding her broom anymore. Wonder if the devil got her? Or maybe she summoned Pumpkinhead! Whoooo!”

He wiggled his hands in the air like some dumb kid on Halloween, and I snapped, “Shut up!”

That was the day we did qualifying rounds. After years of driving in starter races, and dealing with ARCA cars, and traveling to Loews and Atlanta, I was doing what we set out to do. I met Hank in Atlanta and he was the one who decided my driving was worth the hassle of gettin’ a car and team together. We had so much riding on that day and suddenly I was so spooked, I barely bagged a starting position of thirty-second. Thought I’d be sick.

Everything startled me. That’s the best way I can explain it. It ain’t smart to be twitchy in a stock car.

The guys were all cool about it, even Hank. But, dang, I could’ve done better.

That night, I’d close my eyes, and I could see that old woman, one gnarled finger pointing at me. She kept calling at me in a dead croak, “You mocked Satan! Nobody beats the devil, boy. But he is going to beat YOU!”

The only reason I got up and went to the track the next morning was because I still couldn’t figure a good way out of it. Even if I died, there were people I couldn’t let down. The witch cursed me, and I knew it. But I sucked it up and went to Talladega.

The raceway did make me feel a lot better, though. The smell of exhaust alone cheered me up.

I got dressed in my coveralls, got together with the team, went over the strategy, got my car in my crummy thirty-second position, and when the white flag waved, I realized…I was okay. No headless horseman had showed up to haul me away, or Pumpkinhead, or Freddy Krueger. All of a sudden I felt like the dumbest kid on the block for lettin’ some crazy old lady scare me so bad. With the sun up and the engines roaring, I was ready to go.

I heard Hank’s voice over my radio. “How ya’ doin’ out there, kid?”

I hit my intercom. “Remember all that mess with the old lady?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“Well, forget it. It’s time to get to work.”

“Now yer talkin’!”

I gripped my wheel and focused. I always said every race was mine to win, and this one wouldn’t be any different.

Johnny Fizbin and Mike Raider were both driving and on my team. Our plan was that when we had five laps to go we’d make our moves, earlier if the game changed a little, but at the latest by then. We were counting on each other to ride our drafts for better placement. This many cars back, I surely hoped neither of them would get greedy.

I held my position, lap after lap.

Some people think it doesn’t take much to drive in NASCAR, but let me tell you, try taking one hundred and eighty-eight laps around a track doing close to two hundred miles per hour, while the track temperature itself sits at about one hundred and thirty degrees. Yeah, it takes skill and focus.

It’s also why, when I first heard the roaring sound, I thought maybe my lack of sleep was getting’ to me.

See, I made it all the way to lap 178 when stuff started getting weird.

In my mind, I started wondering, Should I pull over? Get some water tossed in my face? What?

No reason not to keep going.

Then I heard it again. Wasn’t anything strange about hearing an engine on the speedway, but this sound practically filled my car. It didn’t sound so much like a stock car as it did an oncoming tornado. The kind of loud, ongoing roar that tells you anything in its path better get out of the way. Right at that moment I saw it. A car so fast and dark, it whipped past me in a black blur.

My heart leaped into my throat.

Hanks voice came over the radio right away. “Jack! You’re swervin’ awfully bad! You got a problem?”

“I—I—I...” That’s when I heard a voice in the seat next to me say, “Quit stammering and answer the man. But watch what you say or they’re gonna think you’re crazy.” And when I glanced over, I dang near lost control of the car. I didn’t know whether to scream or puke or what. A guy sat there wearing racin’ coveralls, with a red ball cap on his head. He had mirrored sunglasses and a reddish mustache that twitched a little when he talked.

I’d been lookin’ at that guy all my life. My heart skipped a beat ’cause I’d even cried like a girl…when he died.

“Dale Earnhardt?”

He shook his head. “I told ya t’watch it, dummy. You got yer mic on.”

“What?” Hank sounded worried. “Uh, Jack…uh what’s that about Earnhardt?”

“Uh, n—nothing…” I said, neck muscles tight trying to get a grip. “Uh…I—I just remembered. This is where he had his last win.”

“Alright, let’s forget the history lesson and stay focused!”

“I’m there, man.”

Next to me Earnhardt gave a dry laugh as the black racecar streaked by me.

“Pretty good save, kid,” Dale said. “But keep your mouth mostly shut, and you just might come out of this alive. You noticed you gotta problem, right?”

I nodded. The roar came up on us again and this time the black car slowed down as if giving me a good long look on purpose. My jaw dropped. The body shone bright and sharp, like polished obsidian. There was no sponsorship logo on it, just decals of bright orange flames surrounding an envy-green number: 666.

The side window miraculously slid down, and I saw behind the wheel a thing straight out of hell. It didn’t wear a helmet or a suit. All I could make out were blue-black scales all over its body. It had a flat, pinched face like a snake’s. Suddenly, the head whipped around, and yellow eyes glowed inside its sockets. I shouldn’t have been able to hear it speak, not right there. But its voice came through in a loud angry growl. “I WIN, YOU DIE!”

The window flew shut, and the demon car whipped away.

I gripped my steering wheel for dear life.

“Yeah, you got a speed demon after you, boy. And he’s right: you don’t beat him, you are gonna die.”

“I—I—I…”

“Now listen,” Dale said. “I hate t’ say it, but you sort of brought this on yourself.”

I shot him a glance. “How?”

“Because the words that come out of your mouth mean somethin’. That’s why. All these years you’ve been harpin’ on how you can whoop the devil and how speed is your friend. Nuh-uh, your friend is the sweet Lord Jesus, speed’s just a tool.” The mustache hitched up in a quick smile. “But it’s a good tool. And we’re gonna use it t’save your rear.”

I nodded as the demon car raced by again.

“He’s goin’ awfully fast.”

“Yeah, that’s fer sure. But he’s gotta play by the rules, and his car may be souped-up demon style, but it’s still a car. This ain’t no Monte Carlo but you gotta a Rousch engine under the hood, you can beat him.”

The demon car pulled up next to me again. I could make out the yellow eyes gleam. The car pulled closer.

“He’s gonna push me into the wall!”

“Then push back!” Dale ordered.

I glided over. The demon held his position.

Dale yanked off his sunglasses and glared at me. “Act like you’re goin’ somewhere. Now git!”

I gritted my teeth and swerved over. The demon fell back, but rode my tail and pulsed, back and forth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dale scoffed. “That kind, they think pretty highly of themselves. In fact, if you give him enough room, he’ll try racing rings around you. Makes it dang hard to drive.”

The demon car appeared in my mirror as a black cloud.

“I can’t beat that—that—thing!”

“Jack!” Hank’s voice came over the radio again. “What are you doin’? This ain’t the plan!”

I wanted to yell for him to shut up, for Dale to shut up, and to just head for the pit area, jump out and run away. My weirdness quota was runnin’ way too heavy.

But Dale leaned forward and asked, “You gonna fight, or turn tail?”

For all I knew this whole thing might be one big hallucination or I was still in bed dreamin’. But in the end one thought kept me going: real or not, no way was I wussing out in front of Dale, Sr.

I took a breath and hit the mic. “The plan’s gettin’ re-worked. Just hang in there.”

“Good,” Dale said. “Here’s how yer’ gonna make it. When you were ten, you should have been sliced to pieces by that barbed wire. But how’d you get out of it? You used your head. Use it now.”

I gripped the wheel and took a deep breath.

Slow him down. Block him. In stock car racing air intake is everything. You get behind another car, and you can ride that guy’s draft for a while, but it also blocks the air to his intake, and if he doesn’t back off or come around, his engine can overheat.

I gave Dale a nod and pulled into the inside track.

“Kid! What are you doing?” Hank called into the mic.

“Winnin’.”

Next to me, Dale laughed.

I saw that demon car come up in my mirror. He was way too fast for me to block him alone. I got on my radio.

“Fizbin! Raider! C’mon out, guys!”

“That’s it, kid!” Dale said. “He’s still just one more driver and he’s gotta beat ’im. You get your team out here, you know what’s gonna happen…!”

The other guys from my team pulled out of line, thinking I was making a move. And then we were joined by other drivers. Four and five cars across, the demon couldn’t get by. I could see him swerving back and forth behind me like a caged tiger. The yellow eyes glared and he began to make a move, coming around on my left.

“Don’t let him do that! Move in on him!”

I gritted my teeth and swerved over just enough so that to miss being bumped, the demon car’s left wheel caught hold of the soft dirt in the middle of the track and instantly spun out.

I gave a shout, feeling really good for a moment.

“Couldn’t a done better myself, kid,” Dale said. “But he’ll be back real quick. Why don’t you side-draft your buddy there and let’s get ahead?”

I pulled up close enough to Fizbin’s car so that our doors practically kissed. My engine caught some extra air, my RPM’s ramped up, and I flew forward.

“You guys get behind me,” I called into the mic. “I can take us up front.”

Raider grumbled. “This ain’t the plan, dude.”

At my right, Dale shook his head. “New plan, live with it!”

“Hang in there, Raider,” I said.

The field in front of us filled with all the other drivers hunting for their paths to the front of the line.

Fine. If I couldn’t get through, neither could my scaly friend.

“C’mon, quit drivin’ like a girl,” Dale said. “Drive like you plan on winning.”

“I gotta get through this,” I muttered.

Dale became livid. “You ain’t gonna win unless you get up there and do it! If they don’t move, then you move ’em! Now go! GO!”

This time, I grinned. Dale was right. Move in on somebody’s air space when you’re runnin’ close to 200 mph and they tend to back off. I got some awfully colorful language from folks over the radio, but man, no guts, no glory. I kept it up.

We were coming into the final lap when I made out the demon car on my tail again. My blood ran cold. I didn’t know what to do.

“He’s got two more laps to your one,” Dale explained. “But he’s still a little too happy taunting you. So let ’im.”

I gulped. “Even with an extra lap, I’ll never beat him.

“That’s right. He’ll whip around and be back before you get to the finish line,” Dale said. “Earlier, he was makin’ you awfully twitchy. Let me ask you: at that speed, what do you think will happen if he gets twitchy?”

If we startled the demon, and made him overcompensate, he might accidentally swerve into me.

I kept my eyes on the track. “Anything…”

“Bingo. You just keep your eyes open and adjust. Let him think he’s got you, and we’ll fake him out on his final round.”

I nodded and pulled closer to the wall opening the way for the demon to come roaring through. As he did, his words echoed in my car… “ONE MORE LAP!”

Dale sat forward. “Alright, hurry. Pull closer to the inside, like you’re going to try and block him again. Ready?” Dale craned his head around. “He’s back already. When I give the word, act like you’re comin’ at ’im.”

Dale began the countdown.

“Okay, one…” I heard the horrible roar of demon engines and loud, high laughter.

“Two…” I saw the demon coming as just huge black fog, closer, closer…

Suddenly, Dale yelled, “Three! GO!”

I swerved toward the inside like I was gonna take off his front bumper. The demon car took an overdone whip to the left and darned if we didn’t fool him again. He hit the dirt at the center of the track, and this time he spun so fast we were in spitting distance of the finish line before I saw him regain control. And Dale Earnhardt sat next to me and said, “Nice work, Slick. Ya’ whooped ’im.”

The radio crackled as Hank’s voice came to life. “Jack! Jack! What are you doing? You already won. Man, you can stop now!”

I caught my breath and turned to give Dale a slap on the back, but he was gone.

I looked across the track. The demon car spun away, scaly fist shaking at me out the side window. The car vanished in a puff of thick, black, smoke.

There was some confusion on the track, ’cause no one could figure out what happened at the center. It seems out of nowhere the dust began blowing up and around.

“It wasn’t the wind,” Hank told me after the reporters finished with their pictures. “You’d have swore someone spun out. But what happened to you out there? You passed the checkered flag, and it was like you didn’t even see it.”

“I needed to finish beatin’ the devil.”

“Well, I’ll say one thing, you sure must have had Earnhardt on the brain today cause watchin’ you race out there; for a minute I’d have swore the Intimidator was back.” He glanced at the ground and wiped his eyes before muttering, “I need a minute.” And he walked away.

I sighed and paused a moment myself, helmet under my arm, just lettin’ the wind dry out my sweat-soaked head. I did what I always wanted to do. I won at Talladega, screwed-up, big-mouth me. But the Cup wasn’t the important win that day. I won a second chance to make the right things come out of my mouth, and dear sweet Lord Jesus, I ain’t gonna mess it up.

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