(Transcribed by TurboScribe.ai. Go Unlimited to remove this message.) Night has fallen, and the moon is a
glowing golden orb in the black sky.
See how it shines on the dark back
roads of America, and on one road in
particular.
Come with us, and we'll take a walk
down the moonlit road, for the night is
waiting.
Night has fallen, and the moon is full.
The Movement Road presents Episode 14, The Blue
Girl, written by Lanny Gilbert and Craig Dominey,
and told by Lanny Gilbert.
About 40 miles north of Atlanta, in rapidly
growing Forsyth County, is a pretty covered bridge
known as Pools Mill Bridge.
It's one of the few covered bridges left
in Georgia, or anywhere for that matter.
At one time, the sagging old bridge was
in such bad shape that it just about
fell into the creek below.
But the county built a nearby park and
restored the covered bridge to its original state.
So now, as in years past, the bridge
is a really nice spot to have a
family picnic, or a romantic afternoon with your
sweetheart, or just to stop by to enjoy
a nice wait in the creek.
That's exactly what one young family did on
a bright summer day back in the 1930s.
At that time, there was a grist mill
operating near the bridge, which is how Pools
Mill got its name.
The mill was first built in the early
1800s by a Cherokee named George Welch.
But, like other Native Americans back then, George
had his property taken away by the government,
and he was sent out west along the
notorious Trail of Tears.
Even though another family took over the grist
mill and ran it successfully for years, some
say the area was forever cursed by the
wrong done to Mr. Welch.
The young family I mentioned earlier included a
daddy, a mama, and their 9-year-old
daughter.
They were traveling through the area when they
saw the pretty bridge and thought they'd stop
for a picnic just upstream from the mill.
Mama and Daddy spread a blanket on a
tiny hill while their daughter ran toward the
creek.
Watch yourself down there, yelled Mama after her
daughter.
But the young girl didn't pay her any
mind.
It was hot as the devil's kitchen that
day, and that cool water sure looked tempting.
So, the young girl kicked off her shoes
and socks, hiked up her dress, and jumped
into that cool water.
What nobody knew was that recent rains had
made the creek deeper and more treacherous than
it looked.
In no time, the current suddenly swept the
young girl away.
Mama and Daddy heard her screams and ran
down to the creek bank.
Then they gazed in horror at what lay
ahead.
Their daughter was floating downstream toward the grist
mill.
Her daddy dove into the water and frantically
swam after her.
He was a strong swimmer, and with the
help of the current, he inched closer and
closer to his screaming daughter.
But she was being sucked toward the large
water wheel that creaked and groaned in the
rushing water like some wounded monster.
Hold on, sweetheart, screamed Daddy, his mouth filling
with the rushing water.
Daddy lunged for the big blue bow on
the back of his daughter's dress, his fingertips
near inches from her.
Then with one final, blood-curdling scream, his
daughter was sucked under the water wheel.
The mill creaked to a halt.
And Daddy knew with sickening certainty that his
daughter was wedged under the wheel.
By this time, the mill workers had heard
the screams.
They dove into the water to help save
her.
But by the time they pried her from
the slimy wooden teeth of the water wheel,
it was too late.
The pretty young girl had drowned, her face
as blue as the bow on her dress.
The story spread like wildfire through the community.
The devastated young couple left the state with
the body of their daughter and never returned.
No one knew their names, but the young
victim was forever known around town as the
Blue Girl.
Several years later, the old grist mill mysteriously
burned to the ground and the pretty bridge
fell into neglect.
Until the county built the nice new park
I mentioned earlier, many an old-timer wondered
what was really happening out at the old
pool's mill.
Had the Blue Girl returned to avenge her
death?
Or was it the curse of the Cherokee
George Welch?
Now, you might think this is the end
of the story, but there's one more important
part to tell.
Bear with me.
But we're now going to need to jump
to modern times and a local man named
Chuck Morse.
Now, there are a few things about Chuck
you should know.
He did a couple tours of duty in
Vietnam and came back with a disfigured right
arm, thanks to an unfortunate napalm accident.
He also brought back a few scars that
didn't show, things he wouldn't talk about.
But whatever happened to him, the promise he'd
shown in school and the bright future all
his teachers knew was coming his way vanished
into thin air.
Since coming back to the states, he could
never hold a job for more than a
few months.
So, he tried one get-rich-quick scheme
after another.
He illegally planted potatoes on a neighbor's land
to sell to one of the large potato
chip companies.
He did some electrical repairs at another neighbor's
house and nearly burned the place down, after
lying that he was a certified electrician.
When too much trouble followed him, he'd disappear
and find work on the oil pipelines in
places like Saudi Arabia or Alaska.
He'd come home flush with cash, quickly blow
it all, and would be right back at
square one.
It was during one of these visits back
home, while sitting at the bar at the
local VFW, that his life changed forever.
While nursing a beer, thinking about what scheme
he could come up with next, Chuck didn't
notice that an old World War II veteran
had slid up beside him.
Hey, Chuck, said the old-timer.
You ever seen a piece of gold like
this?
Chuck looked down at the old-timer's hands
and his jaw dropped.
The old-man was holding one of the
largest gold nuggets Chuck had ever seen.
Must be worth thousands of dollars, he reckoned.
The old-timer noticed Chuck's envious gaze and
shoved the rock back into his pocket.
Chuck gave a low whistle and said, Man,
where'd you get that?
My grandson found it up near Pools Mill
Bridge the other day when he went up
there with his daddy, the old-man answered.
Way I hear it, there's a lot more
up there if you're willing to dig for
it.
What do you mean?
Chuck asked.
The old-timer said a man named B
.J. Corliss, who ran the Cherokee Tourist Museum
out on Highway 20, had told him about
the gold.
B.J. regularly dug around Pools Mill for
arrowheads and other artifacts and was shocked one
day to dig up a nugget right near
where the old millstone was buried up in
the creek bank.
B.J. reasoned that Cherokee George Welts had
buried a stash of gold that he had
panned from the river, hoping to return one
day.
Why doesn't that guy dig up the rest
of it and put it in his museum?
Chuck asked.
Cause the county built that park up there
and the police keep a close eye on
it during the daytime and there ain't no
way in hell he's going up to dig
for it at night.
Chuck drained his beer and laughed.
You know, they've got this new invention called
a flashlight.
It ain't that, answered the old-timer.
He's scared of the blue girl.
Well, this really made Chuck roll his eyes.
He had heard the stories about the blue
girl ever since he was a kid.
She was about as real to him as
Bigfoot.
You know, the reason B.J.'s scared of
the blue girl is cause he's seen her,
said the old-timer, noticing Chuck's skeptic smirk.
He was up at the bridge one afternoon,
just as it was getting dusty dark, gathering
a few arrowheads he'd uncovered.
When he stood up to put them in
his bag, he saw a little girl out
the corner of his eye.
She was wearing a pretty Sunday dress, perfectly
dry, and not a wrinkle on it.
But her hair was soaking wet.
He started to take a step toward her
to see if he could help her, not
knowing at the time who she was, when
all of a sudden, poof!
She vanished.
Then she suddenly appeared again about ten feet
in front of him.
Then he saw the bluish tint of her
skin and he knew exactly who she was.
So he took off running and praying.
The old-timer paused to take a quick
sip of his beer before continuing.
A lot of mill workers claim to have
seen the blue girl up there at night
through the years, walking along the creek bank.
She seems to want something, but nobody's sure
exactly what.
She's still seen from time to time by
folks who go up there at night romancing
and whatnot.
But nobody except the museum guy ever said
she'd come near them.
He says he'll keep digging down there, but
only in the daytime.
There ain't no amount of gold or priceless
Cherokee artifacts that'll get him down there after
dark.
Chuck laughed again, patted the old-timer on
the back, paid his tab and left.
He reckoned if that old man was going
to tell him a blue girl story, he
was probably lying about the gold as well.
For all he knew, the old man had
spray-painted a creek rock.
But as he drove toward home, Chuck's get
-rich-quick mind started buzzing.
What harm would it do to try digging
up at Pools Mill Bridge, he thought?
If everyone's so scared of the blue girl,
I can go up there at night and
have the place to myself.
If I don't find anything, all I wasted
was a little bit of time.
Beat spending another night in front of the
TV, he thought.
So when Chuck got home, he grabbed his
shovel, pickaxe and flashlight from the old tool
shed and roared away in his truck.
Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the old
covered bridge, carefully looking for signs of anyone
about.
He parked his truck in a cluster of
trees where no passing motorist could see it.
He then grabbed his tools and marched down
to the creek to find the old millstone.
Now, finding what remains of the old grist
mill is hard enough to do in the
daytime.
At night, it's darn near impossible.
Chuck cursed to himself as he slipped and
stumbled along the creek bank, his shoes and
pant legs sinking into the sloppy mud.
He then made his way onto a pile
of rocks.
Certainly the millstone can't be far, he thought.
Whoa!
Chuck yelled out as he slipped off the
bank.
The flashlight flew out of his hand and
he tumbled into the cold water, banging his
knee against an underwater rock.
Shouting out a long string of cuss words
as only a former soldier can, he reached
underwater, grabbed that big rock and threw it
angrily into the trees.
Chuck saw his flashlight shining in the grass
beside the creek bed.
He grabbed it and looked at the damage
to his leg.
His pants had a small hole at the
knee and blood trickled out of a minor
scrape.
He knew he'd have a deep, painful bruise
in the morning.
Chuck pointed his flashlight back at the creek.
In the spot where he fell, he swore
he saw something glisten under the water.
Could it be gold?
His heart beat faster as he jumped back
into the water and dug around where he
had removed the underwater rock.
And sure enough, he found gold!
But not the gold he was expecting.
In his hand was a small, golden, heart
-shaped locket that looked like it had been
buried in the creek for years.
He noticed a clasp on the side and
twisted it.
Inside was a deteriorated, old-timey photograph of
a mama, a daddy, and their beautiful young
daughter.
They were frowning and tired-looking, like folks
always look in those old-timey pictures.
They were dressed in their Sunday best, the
little girl in a pretty dress with a
big bow.
Then Chuck's flashlight suddenly went out, plunging him
into darkness.
Damn it, he thought.
What timing!
What could possibly go wrong now?
But Chuck hadn't lost all of his light.
A strange glow was emanating from behind his
back, glowing brighter and brighter.
Maybe the moon had come out from behind
the clouds, he thought for a moment.
But then he heard a sound that chilled
his blood.
Tiny footsteps splashing in the water behind him,
growing louder and louder as the eerie bluish
glow grew stronger and stronger.
He took a deep breath and whirled around.
Aaaaaah!
He screamed, for a young girl stood behind
him, in a dry and perfectly pressed Sunday
dress, her skin glowing and blue, and her
hair soaking wet.
Her dark, pleading eyes stared holes into Chuck.
Try as he might, he could not run,
frozen in terror at the mere sight of
her.
The young girl silently reached toward him, but
stopped just short of his face.
All Chuck could think to do was to
pray silently for the first time in who
knows how long.
Lord, if you get me out of here,
I'll never come back and look for gold
or try to scam anybody or nothing.
I don't know what this girl wants, but
please, God, please help me.
While he was praying, he was unconsciously rubbing
the gold locket.
The blue girl glanced at it.
It was then that Chuck finally figured things
out.
That's it, he thought.
She wants the locket.
Mustering up all the courage he had, he
held the locket out toward the girl.
She walked toward him, took the locket with
her cold, wet hands, and suddenly vanished.
Chuck could have sworn she was smiling.
Chuck collapsed onto the creek bank, shivering, partly
from the cold water, but mostly from sheer
terror.
After a minute or so, he noticed he
was finally able to move.
So even with his scraped, bruised knee, he
charged up that creek bank, ran for his
truck and burned rubber for a half mile
getting away from there.
When Chuck finally calmed down a few days
later, he realized what had happened.
The blue girl had lost her locket when
they pulled her from the creek, and she
would not leave the area until she had
it back.
For it was the only way she had
of keeping her family close to her heart.
The reason she had confronted the museum owner
was that he had been digging around in
the area.
She thought he might be able to find
her locket, since he was so good at
finding artifacts.
Ever since that day, the blue girl has
not been seen around Pools Mill Bridge.
Though there's no shortage of ghost hunters, curiosity
seekers, or lovebirds who go up there looking
for her, Chuck gave up on his prospecting
idea and moved out to Los Angeles to
become a movie actor.
Needless to say, most folks expect to see
him back in the Pools Mill area any
day now.
As far as anyone knows, some of Cherokee
George Welch's gold still hasn't been found.
But, to this day, no one who's heard
Chuck's story will go within 10 miles of
Pools Mill after dark.
But really, that makes no sense, does it?
The blue girl's long gone by now, isn't
she?
That concludes this tale from The Moonlit Road.
Be sure to visit our website at themoonlitroad
.com to find out more about our stories
and let us know how we're doing.
The Moonlit Road is produced and directed by
Craig Dominey, recorded and soundscaped by Henry Howard
in beautiful Stone Mountain, Georgia.
Thanks for listening, and we'll see you next
time.