Your True Tales
July 2007 - Page 8
Tiny Handprints
by Megan
This happened to me in the town of Burlington, Iowa. It was the summer of 2005. I was bored one summer night, and had nothing to do. My fiance was at work, so I called my best friend up and asked her if she wanted to go cruisin' (all you can really do late at night in a small midwestern town). We then got to talking, and decided to take my younger sister (then about 13 or so) and one of her little girlfriends to a place about four miles south of Burlington called Rock Springs School Memorial site.
This is a small, secluded spot in the woods where an old-timey, one-room school house, Laura Ingalls style, used to sit. There are many versions of the reason as to why it happened, but circa 1901 the little school called Rock Springs Elementary burned to the ground with many of the children inside it. Only the professor and one child made it out alive. On the small hill where it sat (you can still see the stone foundations of the school) is a tall metal sign that memorializes the lives of the kids lost in the fire. Around it is a circular driveway, so family and/or tourists can leave flowers, take pictures, explore, etc. To the right is a small hillside cemetery where some of the children are supposedly buried.
It is also said that if you go there at 12:00 midnight on May 4th (the date and time of the fire) you can hear children "playing at recess." My friends and I had gone out there many many times, just for a cheap thrill, and nothing had EVER happened before. So we got them in the car and drove them out to the site in the pitch black. I showed them where the school once sat, and then grabbed some flashlights and took them on a hike through the cemetery. We left my car parked in the driveway by the school foundations. We were only out there for about 10 minutes, then trekked back down the hill and got into my car and I drove home them home.
My little sister and her friend went into the house before me. I stayed outside for a minute, intending to grab some stuff from my trunk. Now, let me tell you, I had washed my car one day prior to this night, and it was spotless, squeaky clean. Also take note that there hadn't been rain in months, and in turn, no mud. I got out of my car and got my first good look at my car under the street lights: handprints! Tiny, little, children-sized handprints, made out of DRIED MUD all over my car! Probably close to thirty pair.
I put my hands up to them to compare, and they were smaller in circumference than my palm (and I have small hands for my age). I called my sister and her friend out to see them and to compare their hands. They were much tinier than their hands, as well, and they started crying out of fear and screaming, "OH MY GOD, WHY'D YOU TAKE US THERE!" Then ran inside and told mom. My best friend nearly fainted when she saw them as well, and vowed NEVER to go back to that school site.
The strangest thing was the consistency of the mud. It was so thick, and caked and dried solid, as though a bunch of tiny children had put their hands in wet, gooey mud and applied them directly to my car, and had dried hard in the sun, or something. Remember, this was during a drought, and there had been no rain for months, and no mud, anywhere. My car had been spotless as we drove out to that site; my friend and sister can attest to that. They had even made a big deal when they saw it because I almost never wash my car. I took lots of pictures with my digital camera for proof. Those kids are still there, I swear, and I guess they wanted us to know.
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