On the night of October 23, 1877, Death rained in Cross.
It started at 7:14 PM exactly, and I know that because I was standing in the Cross train station arguing with Herman Leopold over the pros and cons of a Spencer repeating rifle when compared to a cartridge firing pistol.
The first noise we heard was an ungodly sound that reminded me of a child running and dragging a stick against a picket fence. Then, it became an almost drum-like cacophony, and Herman and I hurried to the window to see what was happening. Both of us were dumbstruck at the sight which greeted our eyes.
Bones fell from a clear sky.
Bones in the thousands.
Around us came the noises of glass breaking and buildings being pummeled by the bones of a thousand men and women and children.
The storm continued unabated for three hours, and when it was finished, there were two people who had been killed by the falling debris.
It took us four days to sort out the bones, and in the end, we had to dig a massive communal grave for an estimated 1,200 people.
I offered up one of my islands as the final resting place for these unknowns, and the town took me up on the offer. Occasionally, I visit the island, to see if anything strange has occurred, and every so often, I discover something out of the ordinary. Most recently, I found a plaque, written in an unknown tongue, placed atop the grave.
I’ve no desire to know what it means. Ignorance, in this instance, is most assuredly bliss.
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