There is no hill in Chapel Hill- just a railway crossing and two lights.
Actually three if you count the light that comes some starless nights from nowhere down the abandoned tracks.
It stands and flickers, seeking recognition.
State Troopers claim it's only a reflection from the interstate and coordinate midnight experiments to prove their case.
But the locals stick by their own story: about an Irish brakeman and a bellyful of whiskey . . . . who, in his Irish fashion, refuses to accept the simple fact that he is dead and with kerosene lantern stumbles blind over crossties searching for his lost head.
The light stands, flickers then disappears . . .
Everyone knows all locals lie, and that troopers always tell the truth.
But I'd sooner have the story if I had to choose- having always preferred the truth that cannot be to a truth that can be proved.
copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC All rights reserved