The 13  

It was April 1937.

The sun broke across the eastern hills on a chilly spring morning, climbing hesitantly into the creamy vanilla sky.  At 5:30am Miss Jenkins awoke and started dressing, anticipating the first day she’ll be teaching at the new school house.  It was the pride of Republic County, a brand new field stone and mortar building with a cut stone facade that bespoke of an important building, just like in the big city. There was a coal fired floor heater that would warm the children and a basement that would protect them from the violent thunderstorms of a Midwestern spring.  

School stated at 8am and Miss Jenkins would have to hurry to make the 5 mile buggy ride down the rutted, dusty, dirt road #36.  Thank God that the farm down the line would provide the ride in, she hated navigating those roads herself.  Across the county the same scene was unfolding at a dozen other farm houses. Children excitedly rushing to get the chores finished in time to dress in their Sunday best for the first day at their new school house.  

Old Bill was the custodian for the Republic schools as long as anyone could remember. Today he lit the coal furnace early so by the time everyone arrived, the chill night air would be dispelled and the school house would be warm and cozy.  It was sure better than having to stoke that old broken down pot-belly stove all day. Especially when all the kids would watch and laugh at him as he struggled to keep it lit. With the new furnace he could set the coal alight once and then leave, returning hours later to check if more coal was needed.

The children, parents, Miss Jenkins and Old Bill gathered and at 8am knelt and prayed thanks to God for providing this blessing.  They were all very proud and the new school house held all the promises of a bright future. After the prayer the parents and Old Bill left, leaving the 12 students and Miss Jenkins to their appointed tasks. Never in a million years could they have ever known what the day had in store for the 13.

As the day advanced the wind shifted from the benevolent south to the turbulent north and the sky grew dark with swirling masses of angry black clouds.  While everyone noticed none became alarmed, this happens all the time on the plains where the northern and southern Jet streams spar constantly.  At 2:30pm the class jumped as the first lightning bolt grounded to earth very close to the school house, the smell of ozone permeated the class room. Seconds later, cccaaaaarrreechh-BANG, another bolt  even closer, the children could see the surrounding woods in the freeze frame of the brilliant white light, their cries drowned out by the terrible baritone bark of the thunder claps and the growling winds outside.

Miss Jenkins knew in a second, it was the witches that come to visit. They must now hurry down into the storm cellar, to hide from the vengeful wailing banshees, all hope rested there.  The furies were already screaming, tearing at the doors and windows. Miss Jenkins cried, “Children leave everything and head down the stairs, girls hold onto the younger ones”. Miss Jenkins bolted the cellar door shut behind them.

From across a golden field of windblown wheat Old Bill saw the gathering storm clouds, surprised at how quickly they formed and the veracity with which they came. He would later swear he could see the laughing face of Satan in those clouds.  He rushed through the fields, running breathless towards the school house, his heart pounding, his chest heaving. He fell face first into the muddy clay just as the witch touched the earth between him and the school.

In the storm cellar the swirling winds outside fanned the coal furnace into a red glowing mass of metal. The children were crying and soon their clothes began to smoke and their skin began to blister. Miss Jenkins huddled the children into the far corner of the basement. The heat was too much to stand.

As Old Bill rose from the mud, he watched in horror as the school house erupted into a firestorm. His eyes could not believe what he was seeing and he cursed the very God he prayed to earlier in the day. A moment later  the witch descended on the school house with a furious rage, sucking up the flames into the funnel, tearing at the building until only shreds were left, the roof gone, the floor burned away.

They never found the 13 bodies, only badly burned parts scattered a 100 yards in all directions. The school was never rebuilt. The best anyone could do was to mark the tragedy on a plaque placed in the town square.

A micro story
    by Joe Ponepinto