[Mysteriousheartland.com] “With a name like Blood’s Point, this area was just asking to be a paranormal focal point,” Mike said as the Fallen cruised down the lonely rural avenue southeast of Rockford, Illinois. Only the light of the full moon and the dim headlights of their dark blue Toyota Corolla lit the road. The musical stylings of Slough Feg emanated from the Corolla’s speakers, while fog obscured the scenery on either side of the car.
“So this school bus supposedly fell off a railroad bridge up here, the same bridge where townsfolk hung a witch a hundred years before?” Emmet asked with a touch of skepticism.
“I guess you could say it was a magic school bus,” Greg interjected, and the others groaned.
“There are many layers to this place,” Mike explained behind the steering wheel. “Isn’t it possible that over the course of several generations, a few traumatic incidents left their mark on this one stretch of road?”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Emmet replied.
Aurelia, in the front passenger seat, examined a map under the narrow beam of a penlight and stayed out of the conversation. She had tied her hair tightly behind her small, round ears.
Suddenly, a pair of headlights lit up their rear windshield. Mike squinted as he tried to make out the vehicle in the rearview mirror.
“Is that a cop?” Greg asked, straining to see over his shoulder.
“Better not be,” Mike grumbled.
“He’s coming up fast,” Emmet added with concern.
The vehicle sped rapidly closer, and in a few moments, the Fallen plainly saw the outline of a large, white van behind them.
“It’s some jerk,” Mike said as he depressed the breaks. “I’ll just let him pass.”
The van sped forward. As the railroad bridge loomed, its headlights nearly pressed against the bumper of the dark blue Corolla, lighting up the bumper sticker that read “Necrophilia is Dead” in yellow, skeletal lettering.
“Look out!” Aurelia shrieked.
Mike covered his right ear and frowned. “What the hell?”
“Hey, isn’t there also a legend about a car that chases you down Blood’s Point Road?” Greg frantically asked as the bumpers briefly collided. “I’d say we confirmed that one.”
“Yeah, that’s it, blame it on ghosts,” Emmet shot back.
“What if it’s not a legend?” Mike asked. “Crowley’s ass! I’m going to try to throw him off.”
Once over the bridge, Mike jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right and braked. The Toyota’s tires spit gravel and it lurched toward the embankment alongside the road. If not for their seat belts, Mike and Greg might have flown into their friend’s laps.
The van raced ahead into the night, but displayed break lights after less than fifty yards and made a tight U-turn. Mike carefully guided his car back onto the road, and the two vehicles sat facing each other menacingly.
“Did anyone get the license plate?” Emmet asked between gasps for breath.
“I think we have bigger problems to worry about,” Mike said as the van’s tires squealed and it began to barrel toward them.
Then, without warning, a misty form materialized in front of the van. Whatever just appeared must have startled the driver, because he or she slammed on the brakes and swerved into the opposite lane. Unfortunately for the van’s occupants, but fortunately for the Fallen, it lost control and rolled off the road in a sickening tangle of steel and aluminum. It lurched to a stop in a grassy trench bordering a cornfield.
The mist in the road faded as quickly as it appeared.
Greg broke the silence. “Uh, did you guys see that?” he asked.
“They must have blown a tire,” Emmet said, still in shock.
“Tire my ass!” Aurelia yelled. “What was that mist? And more importantly, where did it go? Is it coming after us too?”
“What are you talking about?” Emmet asked in frustration. “The mist? Hello—” He gestured wildly with his arms. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re surrounded by fog. I think we should see if anyone in that van needs our help.”
“What?” Greg exclaimed. “Screw them! They tried to kill us!”
Mike drove cautiously toward the spot where the van rolled off the road. “No,” he said. “I want to see who these guys are.”
“Do I need to remind you that anyone within a mile radius is calling the cops right now?” Greg insisted. “Or someone might drive past and see us next to the wreckage? How will we explain the accident?”
“You have a point,” Mike admitted, pushing down the accelerator.
“Isn’t leaving the scene of an accident a felony?” Emmet asked, but he received no response as the Toyota Corolla sped further down Blood’s Point Road.
After a few minutes, a cemetery silhouette appeared on the horizon.
“This is what we came for,” Mike announced.
“More phantoms?” Emmet asked in a haughty, dismissive tone.
“Nope,” Mike replied. “Something tangible. The remains of an Indian—er—a Native American chief. Well, one of his ribs, to be exact.”
“According to an old history of Boone County, a Pottawatomie chief named Big Thunder lived in this area in the late 1830s,” Mike explained. “He died near present day Belvidere and his tribe buried him on a hill where the modern courthouse now sits. Well, buried isn’t exactly the right word. They placed him on a chair facing west and built a log structure around him.
“Over time, the white settlers carried off his bones as souvenirs one by one, until nothing remained. Some locals tossed in old pig bones to play a joke on the curiosity seekers, so no one knows where the original bones are. Except I have information claiming townsfolk buried one up here in Blood’s Point Cemetery. I did some mirror scrying and I think I know exactly where it is.”
“Great,” Emmet said. “Assuming it even exists, why do you want an old rib bone?”
“I think it will help us unlock the astral gate,” Mike replied.
Their Toyota Corolla stopped along the road’s narrow shoulder and the Fallen piled out. They stood for a moment, examining the cemetery’s two gates in the darkness. A thick layer of fog obscured most of the ground.
“Stay close,” Mike ordered. “We can’t use flashlights because we don’t want to attract attention. Greg, you got the shovel?”
Greg nodded, and the quartet climbed over the red guardrail and entered the cemetery.
Mike tentatively led his friends toward the far left corner of Blood’s Point Cemetery. Several times, he tripped over a headstone hidden in the fog-shrouded lawn. Greg used his cane to avoid running into anything.
An old cinderblock shed loomed in front of them. Excited, Mike told Aurelia to shine the narrow beam of her penlight down at the grass while he dropped to his knees and felt around with his bare hands.
After a tense moment, he felt a small, box-like stone protruding from the ground. “It’s just like my vision in the mirror,” he said.
“Are we supposed to dig?” Greg asked.
“No, look.” Mike cleared the fog away from the stone with one swipe. It read, “B.T.”
“Huh, no kidding,” Emmet said.
Mike snatched the shovel out of Greg’s hand and struck the stone with the sharp edge of the blade. To everyone’s surprise, the stone was hollow and cracked open. Clearing the debris, Mike thrust his hand inside and removed an old, sun-bleached rib bone. He stopped himself from shouting in triumph.
“It’s too bad Davin isn’t here to see this,” Aurelia muttered.
“I don’t want to talk about him right now,” Mike replied. “It’ll just make me angry. We’ve got what we came for. Let’s leave before the cops show up.”
Wading back into the murky haze, the Fallen disappeared into the night.
[New episode every Friday…]
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