Special reports when the kids go to bed
And the ghouls come out to play.
Good girls make their marks and fade away,
People say their prayers and they shake their heads
And they bury them anyway,
And they'll tell you "she was lovely,"
Though they all forget the names
Of the ones who pay the good girl's fee
Down the rocky road to fame—
So when the crossroads call and your faith is thin
And you're afraid you might explode,
Go and talk to the girl in the green silk gown
Who walks on Sparrow Hill Road...
Rose Marshall was sixteen the year she died: 1945, when Franklin D. Roosevelt began his fourth term as President of the United States and World War II came staggering to a close. A lot of people have said a lot of things since then. She's been called everything from angel to devil. Some people say she makes men race with her and drives them to their deaths. Some say she's trying to save the drivers from that same fate. They whisper her name everywhere from Michigan to Maine, from Wyoming to Washington...but no one really knows the truth. No one knows what really happened that long-ago night on the blind curve at the top of Sparrow Hill Road.
Not until now, anyway.
I am pleased as punch to announce that I will be joining The Edge of Propinquity as one of their 2010 Universe Authors. Starting in January, I'll be inviting you to ride along on the way to Sparrow Hill Road, where a girl named Rose Marshall raced, and died, and rose again to walk the world as an urban legend of a very special kind. I've been looking forward to telling her story for a long time. I finally have the chance to do it. Here's hoping you'll come along for the ride.
Come on, now; let me tell you about Rose Marshall, the sweetest girl that you'd ever see. They always say that the good die young...