Damien Reuel Rucker

I lay on my back at Promontory Point as it juts into Lake Michigan, feeling the cold spray flick at me like a stone finger pointing toward oblivion.
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The lake that laps against those carefully laid blocks is the same lake that swallowed the Edmund Fitzgerald, the same water that claimed the Lady Elgin with 300 souls aboard.
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Chicago’s lakefront may look pastoral in daylight, but at 3 AM it reveals its true nature: a threshold between the world of the living and whatever lies beneath those black depths.