In the back hills of Arkansas, long ago, people were few and far between. For Laura Beth, who considered herself the most beautiful creature that God had made, his was unbearable, for it meant that she seldom got a chance to show her looks off to others and receive the praise, awe, and jealousy she thrived on. Winters were even worse, for it meant the end of the few parties and gatherings that the Ozarks had, and that Laura Beth would be confined to her parents’ farm with no one to admire her beauty.
Just before the start of what the old folks were predicting would be one of the worst winters yet, Laura Beth received an invitation to the mayor’s to attend his son’s birthday, which was certain to be the last and best of that year’s entertainments. Laura Beth was hungry to attend, but on the night of the party a fierce wind came in from the north, and with it the first flurries of snow. Her parents begged her to stay home where it was warm and safe, but Laura Beth would have none of it, and would not be satisfied until they had hired a carriage for her. Her mother gave her a thick, homemade quilt to wrap herself in for the journey there, but Laura Beth sneered and tossed it to the driver. She would not be seen wrapped in a moth-eaten, fraying pile of rags, of that she was certain. The driver gratefully wrapped himself in the blanket, and off they sped.
Well, the wind began to howl, the carriage rocked and shook as the horses raced down the road, and the snow began sticking to the windows.
“Miss!” the driver shouted, “We should turn back!”
“Drive on!” she called from inside.
The wind grew fiercer, the snow was so thick as to make the air white, and ice was hanging off the carriage.
“Miss, please!” the driver begged, “We should turn back!”
“Drive on!” shrieked Laura Beth.
Steam billowed from the horses as they ran, and ice coated the road so that the carriage slid almost as much as it rolled.
The driver started to turn his head, started to petition Laura Beth once more to see reason, but an icy hand gripped his shoulder, and a cold, raspy voice breathed into his ear, “Drive….on….!”
The horses let out a shriek and dove through the storm with renewed speed, the whites of their eyes rolling and heads tossing. When the carriage finally arrived at the doorstep of the mayor’s great house, the pair of them dropped dead they stopped, their poor hearts having burst.
It took three men to break away the ice that held shut the carriage door, and when they opened they found Laura Beth inside, beautiful as ever and frozen solid through. She was dead, but she had made it to the party.
On cold winter nights in the hills of the Ozark, when the roads are icy and the sky is more snow than air, there are some that think to pull over, stop the car, or turn back. And sometimes, if they are alone, a cold hand will touch them, and a raspy voice will call out from the back seat, “Drive…on…!”
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