Fairy Tales

13 Graves

Based on Indiana Urban Legends

My time is up.

The glaring black police car pulls into the drive, its tires grumbling over the gravel like an excited monster chasing its prey. I can't do it today. Not again. Why won't the cops let my soul rest?

I've told the police all I can about the day my son was killed and the time during my wife's disappearance before she was found dead in the basement of an old abandoned building. It's been forty years, and they can't give it up. I can't say anymore - I won't say anymore!

They've been poking their noses in my business lately, wanting to know my daily routine. I've seen them parked down the road, watching from behind the tinted glass of the window. I've felt their eyes stalk me as I walk through the parking lot. They've been checking up on me more lately, asking me questions as their eyes search the room for a clue, a reason, an excuse.

If I don't leave now, they surely will find what they're looking for - if they haven't already.

Three loud, angry knocks shake the door. I pretend I don't hear them as I slip into the garage and turn the key in the ignition of my 1960 Chevrolet. Over the grinding of the engine, I hear the policemen batter down the door and invite themselves into the house. It seems I was right. Today was the day they finally gave up being patient.

I pull out of the driveway, passing the crow-black police cruiser that watches like a foreboding sentinel. I am not free yet.

Easily, as if I were on a run to the store, I drive down the road. I glance in the rearview mirror to make sure they are not behind me. The black car stays in the driveway. The police stay within the house.

What I do not expect is the police car waiting at the intersection adjacent to this road, hidden by the cornstalks. My heart pounds, and a bead of sweat slides down the wrinkles on my forehead. There is likely another police car at the other end of this road.

Swallowing hard, I continue straight. The wrinkles on my hands turn white around the steering wheel as the police car follows me down the road and around turns. I force myself not to panic, not to speed, not to cause any reason to be pulled over. The lights do not turn on. I am not forced off the road. The policeman shows no interest in me.

I turn onto Blood Road and he does not follow. Though there is some relief that the policeman is gone, I cannot fully let out my breath as the truck steadily drives down the road. This place haunts me every time I pass over it, though it no longer should as I am as much of a legend as it.

As the story goes, a farmer would take his son to work and pass over this road. The son would sit in the bed of the truck, then jump out while it was moving as a fun joke. For the boy's safety, the farmer chained him to the truck bed. The boy didn't jump out after that. But the truck hit a large bump at a high speed, throwing the boy out. As he was still chained to the truck, he was dragged across the road. Eventually, he died. The father claimed never to have heard the boy's screams.

Even now, I can see the faded stains of blood people claim are only imaginary. I can hear the little boy's screams as he calls to his father to stop. It has haunted me for decades.

And only I know the true story of what happened on Blood Road.

The boy was afraid of his father and was trying to run away. The father thought it was cruel of his son to think he was a murder, so he tied the boy to the truck bed to keep him from leaving. The truck hit the bump and the boy fell out. The father, angry with the boy for all of his attempts at leaving, dragged him down the road until he died. Once he realized what he had done, the father was struck with great grief. Now his wife and son are both gone. He was alone, and it was all his fault. He told the police he didn't hear his son's cries. He was also intoxicated at the moment, and his story won in court. That's how the legend of Blood Road became twisted into falsehood.

Though forty years have passed since the founding of Blood Road, the boy's screams still echo in my ears and shake my soul. In the rearview mirror, the boy struggles to free himself from the chains, but they hold him tight.

I shut my eyes and try to block out the screams and the sight of the bloody child. I push my foot harder on the gas pedal as if I could speed away from the ghosts. The wind beats against the windows and the engine groans in protest and the tires growl over the pavement and everything is suddenly quiet.

My eyes snap open. A hooded figure stands in the road.

Quickly, I swerve away. I would have hit the figure if it hadn't evaporated into shadow the moment before the bumper hit it. The shadow falls to the ground and spills off the road like mist. As fast as it appeared, it vanishes and I am left wondering if it was ever real.

Soon, I turn off Blood Road and leave the ghosts behind. I relax into the seat and my hands loosen their grip on the wheel. Returning home crosses my mind. Then I remember what waits there for me that I do not want to see again. I keep driving.

I pass through Hartford, going north to Baston Cemetery where my wife and son are buried. I'll spend the next few hours there to speak with them. Apologize for what I've done.

Halfway to the cemetery, the old school for the blind sits lonely and abandoned on the other side of the field. The windows are dark and the yard is overrun with weeds. A little girl in a simple white dress wanders the field beside it. She hears my truck pass, and her clouded green eyes turn towards me.

Suddenly, she stands in the middle of the road. I slam my foot onto the break and pull on the steering wheel as if that will help stop the momentum. The truck jerks to a stop inches from hitting little Meggie.