It was a popular story that year.
About the grave which lay in the corner of the Potter’s Field at Lake Forest Cemetery.
Rumors told of devils and demons.
Of curses and misfortune.
Of strange things happening to graveside visitors.
Surely, I thought, spurred on by scenes from a recent horror film which were shot on location in Lake Forest.
But I was curious.
And bored.
And found two cohorts: one, my best friend, Betsy; the other, my brother's best pal, Phil, whose main interest in tagging along was Betsy.
It was a perfect Midwest autumn day - cloudless, cool and colorful - as we headed out in my small, blue convertible.
Cold air whipped through our hair and the heater blasted from the vents below, warming our legs, as we wound along Sheridan Road beneath the red, yellow, orange and brown leaves silently floating to the ground on the fragrant lake breezes; shrouding the lawns, the sidewalks, the forests and the prior season, in moist, earthy layers.
Hidden amid the quiet, tree-filled lots and stately lakeside homes, we entered Lake Forest Cemetery beneath its great, grey, arched gateway, not having a clue as to which way along the narrow, winding pavement would lead us from the grand mausoleums, obelisks and stone angels marking the graves of the powerful and famous, to where the powerless and nameless were buried.
It didn’t take long before we noticed a short, dead-end lane at the corner of the graveyard leading to a small, sad patch of grass, unkempt and inconspicuous.
No statues.
No flags.
No flowers.
No benches for mourners.
Just a sorry stretch of lawn, cornered by a chainlink fence, choked with neglected vines and scraggly branches of struggling pines.
We parked the car at the end of the road and as we headed in the direction of the empty-looking lot, I watched as Phil and Betsy stepped into the small ravine that separated the potters’ field from the rest of the cemetery. Filled with recently fallen leaves, their feet and ankles disappeared into the sea of yellow and brown - as if they were sinking into strange worlds below - before appearing intact on the other end.
An ominous entrance to this uncelebrated field.
We wandered up and down the quiet corner, but found nothing. Not even a name on the nameless headstones which lay scattered on the ground - unadorned and unnoticed.
Their stories untold.
We were about to quit our grave-hunting quest when Phil happened upon a half-buried, cross-shaped headstone at the very corner of the lot where the wealthy suburb's poor were buried. It had a single name, Damien - barely legible - handwritten in the crudely made crucifix, now lowly sinking into the earth, smothered by the overgrown grass and wandering roots of the towering, lakeside trees.
Mossy.
Decaying.
Mysterious.
Who cared enough to mark a life among the many strangers?
And why?
Perhaps a lifelong love.
A life cut short.
A best friend.
A profound loss.
The three of us stood over the homemade marker for a moment, content we had found what we were looking for, but unsure what to do next.
We joked about curses and demons, and the dead, and were laughing after several attempts to startle each other, when the daylight disappeared behind the dark clouds, which had just rolled in off the lake like a great, grey whale - silent and mountainous.
Suddenly, wicked gusts of wind turned the sky surrounding us to twisting, twirling, whirling leaves, as we turned our backs and cowered from its unexpected violence and looked to each other, wide-eyed and weirded out, before running toward the car.
Shivering in our meager, season-stretching layers, we laughed and swore as we raced to unfold the convertible top and roll up the windows. Just as the last latch clicked into place, the sky over the cemetery turned pitch and the winds turned wild, shaking the convertible roof and plastic back window, rattling my brain now serving up visions of Dorothy being lifted in the old farm house.
Clutching the wheel as an anchor, I smiled at my friends.
Then came the rain in a tantrum.
Ill-tempered and acrimonious.
Pelting the canvas roof like angry applause.
Causing us to question whether we were witness to a strange, seasonal storm…
or something far more evil.
We thought it best to discuss the matter on the road, away from the cemetery.
Away from the lonely grave and the handmade marker with only one name.
I turned the key.
And heard nothing.
After a moment of stunned silence and nervous laughter, we turned our attention to the key in the ignition.
I turned it again, as the rain pounding overhead muffled my impassioned pleas.
Nothing.
On the third, desperately hopeful try, the tiny, Italian engine finally fired up and I shifted into gear, hands shaking, stomach knotted, Phil and Betsy urging me forward a little too loudly.
As if our speedy departure was enough to appease whatever - or whomever - we offended, as soon as the cemetery gates were in the rear view mirror, the violent storm broke and the sun reappeared as quickly as it had abandoned the scene just minutes prior.
