A black Corvette which is not what it seems ... wind turbines standing sentinel between worlds ... a tower crane with a beastly inhabitant ... these are tales of the machines we live—and sometimes die—by: machines which transport, that build our roads and bridges. Machines which operate in our hands and penetrate the clouds—which can take us to the edge of the universe and beyond. Machines which sometimes break down—go wrong—become inhabited. Become possessed.
From Demon and Machine:

It was all too much—the car that had been buried for 52 years yet started right up, the flashback to the 1960s and the ghostly girl, the bugs the size of dogs whose stench filled the cab and caused me to wretch. I gripped the door handle instantly—even as the little chrome knob dropped, locking me in. Then we were accelerating— abruptly, powerfully—whipping around the cars in front of us and blasting through the intersection: the girl vanishing, just winking out of existence, the bugs making a sound like crickets but magnified a hundred-fold—the V-8 (or whatever it was) roaring.
Yes—yes, James. Want this, we do ...
Want it! Want it!
Right there, James. The infestation. Do it!
But I wasn't driving—
No, I could see that wasn't true: my foot was on the peddle just as sure as my hands were on the wheel. And that foot dipped suddenly even as the skateboarder came into view—his eyes widening, his free leg kicking—so that he disappeared into an alley even as we exploded past—fishtailing to a halt in the middle of the road, where the high-compression engine sputtered and the glass packs rumbled—before my foot once again hit the gas and we tore after him, burning rubber.
And then we were bearing down upon the kid, as he kicked and kicked furiously and glanced at us over his shoulder. As I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the bug-things leaning forward (as though in anticipation). As I fought whatever impulse had taken oven my limbs and partially succeeded—too late.
There was a thud-crunch! as he vanished beneath the hood—and the car bucked violently, as though I'd driven over a curb. I ground the brakes, glancing in the mirror—saw him tumble after us like a bag of litter. Only then, after I'd come to a complete stop, did it occur to me: I could see out the back window. The bugs were gone. The kid, meanwhile, was still alive—good God!—and thus it wasn't too late; I could still help him, still save him.
Yes, yes, James. Save him.
We're not finished yet, James.
Finish, finish!
I felt the gearshift in my hand—saw that I'd already put it in reverse and was stepping on the gas, letting out the clutch. And then the car launched backward—reversing straight as an arrow—until it bucked and rolled up onto the kid; and stopped.
"Please, mister," came the kid's voice—muffled, garbled—through my partially open window. "Please, God—"
But then my hand was shifting and the engine was roaring—the wide tires were spinning—and I saw through my side-view mirror that his blood was fanning the nearby bricks and a window—spraying them like rifle shot, spattering them with entrails, hurling pieces of bone against, and through, the glass—until the posi-traction gripped bare asphalt and the car leapt forward: roaring down the alley, skidding back onto the road, releasing its control over me.
At which moment Mia reappeared, like an apparition, and, rolling her milky eyes to face me, said, "Now will you listen? Now will you open the trunk?"