Most of you are familiar with Christine will've seen her birth on that fateful day in Detroit. But the new mystery is, what lead to her conception?
The year was 1957. The place was a steel mill outside Dayton, Ohio.
It wasn't a sturdy operation. Rather it was an OSHA nightmare.
This was because the owner/manager, a MR. Carl Knight, was a bit of a miser. This, coupled with the fact that the mill was smaller than the big ones in Dayton or Pittsburgh meant that things didn't run as smoothly as it's counterparts.
There were numerous accidents over the years past, and folks were leery, but unfortunately what happened in January 1957 was NO accident.
Now, MR. Knight's miserly ways didn't directly affect what happened, but rather aided the one who brought things about, namely a ladle operator named Earl Hendershot.
Now, Earl wasn't careless at his job, but when that Home whistle blew for the day shift workers, things took a turn.
This is where we see Earl's home life; A small, four room house with a separate garage, a white picket fence, and a nice green yard. In the driveway a battered old Model T, and a slightly better-off 1953 Cadillac.
The Cadillac belonged to Earl, who'd won it in a poker game. The T belonged to his wife, a rather tall, blonde-haired gray-eyed young lady named Christine Verna Hendershot, formerly Truax.
She was a nice young lady, with a decent build for her height of 6'7".
She and Earl had married in 1954, and had moved to Ohio so Earl could find work in the mill.
And for the first few years things ran smooth as a snake on glass, despite Earl's occasional ill treatment of her.
That old Ford was one of his more mixed gestures, for though it had been fitted with a slightly newer engine and starter, it hadn't been well kept.
Keep this in mind.
Anyways, besides this, Earl and Christine had at times argued as most couples do, but in 1956, Earl did the unthinkable.
You see, in the August of '56, Earl made the acquaintance of a lady named Eleanor McCleary. And unfortunately Eleanor was built quite a bit better than what Earl was married to. Remember what I said about that whistle?
Soon Earl began calling Christine, saying that he was taking on double-shifts, then racing the old Deville over to see Eleanor.
He was able to run like this for a while, but in January of '57, trouble struck.
You see, what Earl failed to realize was that Eleanor's house was right spang along the route Christine would take to market.
And on one cold day, the poor girl had had to rush out to said market to pick up supplies for supper.
Unfortunately for both, she had taken off just before Earl had the chance to make his usual call-and-dance. Worse still, as the lines at the store were long that day in all lanes, pushing her exit time back.
When she finally got checked out, she hopped in the T and gunned it, sadly pushing the old thing beyond itself. In a sad twist of fate, it overheated, and broke down, right smack in front of a modest Tudor house, with a '55 Nomad in the driveway, and a familiar '53 Coupe Deville, in Midnight Blue, sitting in the street by the curb outside.
Christine had heard a few rumors up till now, but her raisings forbade her to jump the gun at such things. But now, those yarns took hold, and her once sane mind wrenched and boiled in a Scot-Irish temper.
She stormed through the snow, charging the front door down and thundering up the stair.
The two lovers hadn't even the chance to dress.
Unfortunately, Eleanor's former husband, whose name shall not be dragged into this, had left behind a revolver. And before Christine could break a shoe off in his tail-end, Earl snatched it from the night stand.
One shot was all it took.
When it was over, he and Eleanor hurriedly scrambled for a plan.
Here is where the mill resurfaced, as Earl had snagged a most evil method of disposal.
He took the body and wrapped it up, and drove it through the night to the mill.
The night-shift workers had been called to lunch, and that left the work floor empty, save for a line of giant ladles full of molten steel. Among them was Ladle #19, whose fresh contents were marked for use in the formation of sheet metal, namely that which would be used in automobiles. Plymouth Automobiles. Specifically those for the 1958 market.
Earl did not know this, nor did he care as he crept through an unguarded section of fence, a big burlap sack over his shoulder.
And though the plan was riddled with holes, some how it worked all too well.
He crept up to the top floor, working his way over to the inspection path he used whenever he inspected the overhead rails.
The path was narrow, but thankfully had a railing.
Earl struggled with the load, but soon he was standing close to Ladle 19. He only had a few minutes to spare before the night shifters returned, and with the strength that two years of mill work had given him, he launched the bag over the railing, just high and far enough to where the works landed in the red hot steel.
Unfortunately there was one last set of twists;
You see, while it'd only take one shot to drop her and knock her out, Christine was still somewhat alive. And just as Earl flung her to her doom, she awoke, emitting a high shriek just before her burlap prison hit the steel.
Earl heard this, and bolted, somehow managing to get off the catwalk and out onto the fire escape.
From there he bolted through the night.
He got into his car, and tried to escape. But in a stroke of fate, he only managed to get as far as a rail crossing just outside the mill.
In his haste, he lost focus of his surroundings, and what he missed as his slain wife's scream pounded his ears was the sound of the mill's shunting engine, milling it's way along the little spur line with a cut of ingot cars.
The weight of the train drove the poor Deville several yards out before it caught fire.
This was where the Mill's bad luck indirectly added insult to injury, as the investigation of the crash drew attention. Attention that could have went into discovering the grisly remains in the steel of Ladle 19.
The investigation nearly halted production, but sadly MR. Knight, unwary of the doings prior surged the workers along, and on Wednesday, January the 8th, 1957, an ingot car was loaded with re-heated steel.
This car was drawn into a small yard by the little six-wheeler, and soon picked up by a freight train bound for Detroit.
The steel was casted and cooled in Dearborn, and then trucked over to the Plymouth company.
Heavy machinery blasted the cooled metal, obliterating any signs of the scorched bones.
Further on, the new sheet metal was hammered, bent, and rolled into body parts, while some went into pistons in another part of the factory.
Soon, the line workers lowered a freshly hewn body onto a frame cast from the same metal. Rivet guns thudded, securing body to frame.
Further on, various components were added until a rolling chassis with a mounted body was being towed along the production line.
Then at one point, a new, custom-order pain job was applied to the body. Autumn Red over Ivory.
And soon a brand-new Golden Commando 350 was mounted to the chassis.
More parts came, slowly adding up until finally an entire car rolled into the inspection portion of the line.
The car in question was a 1958 Plymouth Fury Sport Coupe. And inside it lurked a spirit, not exactly dead. And not really over that case of jealousy.
And though it no longer inhabited a human form, it had retained its thoughts, and what it brewed up was a decision. Namely to make sure that whoever the machine met, it would never let anyone get between them.
And soon, someone would come along.