About a year after my father died, my younger sister called me to ask about her car registration. “It’s expiring,” she said, “but the car isn’t registered in my name, so I’m not sure how to renew it.”
“What do you mean it’s not registered in your name?” I asked.
That’s how I learned about the Ghost Car—the red Hyundai sedan that haunts my spare moments, always hovering in my peripheral vision. It would be a perfectly ordinary vehicle were it not for its poltergeist-like ability to create chaos. I literally wrote a book about how to deal with post-death legal and financial logistics, and I still can’t exorcise this car from my to-do list.
The Harrowing Tale of the Ghost Car: Or, You May Be Less Prepared to Die Than You Think
Here’s what happened: Back in 2019, my mom bought my sister a car in Illinois, where we all lived at the time. (Did my parents ever buy me a car? No, but whatever. That’s fine.) Presumably because the Department of Motor Vehicles is a waking nightmare, my mom never transferred the title to my sister’s name. Then, in 2020, she died. In theory, my dad should have inherited the car. But again, because the DMV is living hell, he never transferred the title to his name or to my sister’s name. Then, in 2023, he died. When she called me in 2024, my sister was illegally driving a car that didn’t belong to her. Its cremated owners were sitting on a shelf in her condo.
According to recent statistics, only 24% of Americans have a will—and my parents were part of that tiny minority. Not only did they have wills, but they’d also gone a step further and created a revocable living trust. This is what the experts call a nonprobate transfer; by putting all their assets (money, property, etc.) into the trust, my parents were trying to help my sister and I avoid the hassle of probate court, which is usually mandatory whether you have a will or not. Die intestate—without a will—and the local probate court will name a personal administrator, usually a close family member, to pay your debts and distribute whatever remains of your estate to whoever the court determines should get it. Die testate—with a will—and the court will ensure that the will’s named executor pays your debts and distributes whatever remains of your estate to whoever you named as beneficiaries.
Unlike human beings, however, a trust cannot die. (Thanks to the rule against perpetuities, this isn’t strictly true, but it’s too complex to get into here. I’m a blast at parties.) When one trustee dies, the role passes on to the successor trustee with the trust intact. No need for the probate court to intervene.
For the most part, my parents’ trust worked as promised. Here’s where their careful planning broke down: Because the Ghost Car was only ever titled into my mom’s name, my dad should have dealt with its legal status when he closed her estate. But he didn’t. Which means it was never part of his estate, and therefore never subject to the terms of his will or the trust.
After losing both parents in less than three years, I have pretty thick skin. Between that and the expertise I’d developed in my role as successor trustee, I figured I could lick this thing.
I drove from my home in Kentucky to my sister’s place in Wisconsin. (Sharp-eyed readers may already anticipate a problem.) Then, because the Ghost Car was originally purchased and titled in Illinois, my sister and I drove south to the Illinois DMV. I was armed with my mom’s death certificate, my dad’s death certificate, a copy of my dad’s will, and a copy of the trust paperwork. I explained the situation to employees of increasingly higher pay grades.
Contrary to DMV stereotypes, they were largely helpful and sympathetic. I almost had them convinced to title the Ghost Car into my sister’s name. And then came the first setback: because neither my sister nor I currently lived in Illinois, they couldn’t title it in either of our names. But it couldn’t stay titled to a dead woman, either. They settled on titling it into “the estate of Nancy Robison.”
Screencap from the film Zootopia featuring the DMV sloth
Ghost Car 1—Robison sisters 0. The next order of business was to get my sister a car she could legally drive. We used some of the trust money to put a down payment on a brand new vehicle (which effectively means my parents bought my sister a car again, but I’m not bitter or anything). My new plan was to untangle the Ghost Car’s supernaturally difficult knot and eventually sell it to recoup the loss.
As a reminder, my mom died in 2020. By this point, her estate had been closed for years. But since this car was now titled into that same estate, it would have to be reopened. I contacted an estate attorney in Illinois and explained the problem. I provided him with all the necessary documents—the death certificates, the will, the trust, the car title. Since wills become public record, I managed to find a copy of my mom’s will, too. The lawyer spent a few weeks looking everything over, and finally informed me that because my mom predeceased my dad, her estate basically became his estate. It was his estate I would have to reopen.
Talk about your estate plans with your traditional and/or chosen family. Death is a taboo in our society, but so is money.
Sure. Fine. Good. I called up the estate attorney I’d worked with in Florida after my dad died. (Did I mention that my dad had moved to Florida? Always fun to throw another state into the legal mix.) Turns out she’d retired. But I sent everything to another lawyer at her office, who informed me that the Illinois lawyer was wrong, and that I would have to reopen my mom’s estate after all. Also, the car wasn’t worth enough for them to bother, anyway.
At this point, despite my morbid know-how, I had no idea where to turn. As a last-ditch effort, I contacted the Jefferson County clerk’s office here in Kentucky and made my desperate plea: If you don’t make an exception and title this ghoulish automobile into my name, it will spend eternity floating in legal limbo. More literally, it will spend eternity rusting in my sister’s condo parking lot in Wisconsin.
Miraculously, someone at the clerk’s office took pity on me. I sent her all the necessary documents, and she said they’d try to make it work. If, however, the higher-ups didn’t approve it, my only recourse would be to get a court order. From which court? Kentucky? Wisconsin? Illinois? Florida? She did not say.
Since then, I have followed up with her multiple times. No response. I cannot find her name on the county clerk’s website. I cannot find her on LinkedIn. My last hope, extinguished.
As I write this essay, I’m not sure what my next step will be. I might try to contact the clerk’s office again and start from scratch. I might CC the relevant probate courts in Kentucky, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Florida, and let them hash it out. What I would like to do is set the Ghost Car on fire, but I suspect that an arson charge would render any emotional catharsis moot.
What can you do to avoid my terrible fate? Talk about your estate plans with your traditional and/or chosen family. Death is a taboo in our society, but so is money. If my parents had included my sister and me in their estate planning conversations, one of us might have pointed out that they needed to get that car title fixed before they kicked the bucket. What’s more, you should make your own will. Even if you’re young, even if you feel like you don’t have much money or property to dole out, your janky used car could become a serious problem. You can either visit a lawyer, or there are many websites where you can make a boilerplate will for low or no fee—all you have to do is print it out and get it witnessed and notarized.
Oh, and go to the DMV while you’re still alive.
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