The Black 2014 Cadillac CTS flew down the upstate New York highway. Tim couldn't remember the last time he felt this way - the roar of the turbo-charged four cylinder engine beneath his feet compiled with such a high level of luxury left him feeling extremely powerful.
He was a ghost, yeah, but there wasn't anything quite like a good Luxury Sedan.
"Couldn't you slow down just a tad?" Emma snapped at him. She was clutching the sides of her seat with the intensity one would hold a young child's hand in a storm.
Tim rolled his eyes. "Emma, the speed limit is seventy miles-per-hour. I'm going sixty."
"Could you go fifty?"
"Then we'd get pulled over," Tim began shifting through channels on the radio. "And I think the cop would find it odd that neither of us, while we have work Visas in the U.S., speak the native language of the country we're from."
Emma scoffed and continued to mess with her hair. "How would they even know that?"
"Says so on our Visas." He found a station that he liked. "Ah, here we go."
Alternative Rock was one of Tim's favorite things. He died in the early nineties, so he had always been attached to that kind of music. Unfortunately, the only modern music that even remotely resembled 90's pop was Alternative Rock.
Emma held her hands over her ears. "Turn that racket down!"
Tim complied. "Why, what's wrong?"
"None of it makes any musical sense! When I was alive, music was a 100-piece orchestra, led by a conductor with years of experience in his craft. Not some kids with high voices who play as loud as they possibly can, repeating the 'lyrics' over and over again. Where is the nuance in that? Besides, with real music--"
Tim caught sight of a sign. "Crystal Falls... Was that the exit?"
For the moment, Emma stopped her rant. She picked up the map from her lap and examined it. "Yes, yes it is."
They turned off and took a right at the following intersection. As the minutes passed, they drove down roads that were as sketchy as they were barren - various signs popped up all over the place, written in indistinguishable languages.
"Are you sure this is where we were supposed to go?" Tim asked.
"There!" Emma pointed to her right. "See it? It's right there!"
Tim did see it. Painted onto a dark wooden sign were three magical words: Mohawk Burial Grounds. They took an immediate right, then the road stopped. Twenty yards past the road's end sat a humongous dirt circle, fifty yards in diameter, decorated by various sticks and lashings.
They got out of the car and looked at each other. "Ready for this?" Tim said, shutting his door.
"I'm not sure." Emma examined her outfit. "I'd hate to get this dirty. I mean, who makes a burial ground that--"
Suddenly a deep booming voice erupted from in front of them. "Hello, Emma. Greetings, Tim."