Our new car is haunted.

A couple of months ago, we needed a new car. (Or, I should say, we needed to replace my HUSBAND'S car -- my trusty Honda is just fine, thank you very much.) So we did a bunch of research, took into account everything we wanted out of a car, and ended up with this:

(Ours came without the blurry skyscraper backdrop, though.)

It's a Pontiac Vibe. It gets excellent gas mileage, has decent storage in the back and was reasonably priced. (According to T, his crackerjack research skills nabbed us the second-cheapest 2009 Vibe in the country. It's not that I don't believe him; I just know that car salesmen -- and the Internet -- are liars. But I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.)

Since I drive my aforementioned rock-star Honda, the Vibe is primarily T's car, but I (of course) drive it occasionally.

Last week, one of these occasions arose. I was running to Kroger to grab some supplies (i.e., food and beer) for the football watchers at home. I parked in the parking lot, ran in, grabbed the goods (and paid for them, of course -- can't leave that detail out lest you think I can sprint while carrying a 30-pack of Busch Light) and ran back out to car, juggling groceries and attempting to open the car door at the same time, and dumped everything in the passenger seat.

Then I ran around to the driver's side and got in.

The radio was on.

The engine was running.

I was holding the keys in my hand.

I went kind of cold and clammy. I tentatively peeked into the rear view mirror, thinking that maybe I'd surprised some kind of hooligan trying to hotwire my car and that said hooligan was now hiding in my backseat. (Or, worse, lying in wait in the hatchback storage space -- that area freaks me out.)

I got out of the car and walked around it, peering cautiously in all the windows. Hooligan-less.

I got back in and sat there for a second. Then I called T and related this whole story to him, heavy on my theory that either someone had messed with the car or that the ghost of a disgruntled Pontiac employee was inhabiting the car and was surely intent on making it explode with me inside.

He burst out laughing.

This was not the response I was looking for. I mean, if I was a Pontiac employee who'd gotten crushed by the hood-bending machine (I'm assuming there must be one) and I'd vowed to haunt a car forever, I wouldn't stop at turning on the car intermittently. I'd do that a few times to lull the car owner into a false sense of security, until she thought it was cute, like, "Oh, my car is haunted -- look how cool this is: Pontiac Employee Ghost, start my car! And could you check the tire pressure while you're in there?" And then, as she was on her cell phone telling her friends about her super-cool haunted car, I'd cut her brake lines while she was driving.

Or, you know, make her get crappy gas mileage.

The point is: This was serious.

T: "Do you think it's possible that the Vibe might have an automatic starter, and we just didn't know it?"

Well, sure, if you want to get all Occam's razor on me.

Show off.