No Man's Land

I live in the small town of Holton, Kansas. About ten minutes outside of town is a Potawatomi reservation, along with the typical Prairie Band casino, dirt roads, and endless expanses of farmland. This story takes place my junior year of high school, when I'd been living in Holton for about three years.

One Halloween of my freshman year, my friend asked me if I'd like to go out to No Man's Land with her. I wasn't entirely sure what it was at the time; we were just teenagers looking for a cheap thrill.

I ended up not being able to go with her that night, actually- but that was the first time I'd heard about it. I started asking around school, trying to find out whatever I could about the place. I figured it was probably all local superstition, since Google wasn't helping me.

After hearing the same story with multiple variations, here's what I've gathered:

In the fight between the native Potawatomi Indians and the whites over land, many people were slaughtered. Since it was a battlefield for quite sometime, a large portion of the reservation contains many native spirits (as told in legends) who are still fighting the white men for their land. When the war was over, nobody bothered to clean up the bodies, and they all soon became part of the land. This battlefield was considered sacred after the reservations were set up, and now, no one is allowed to farm or live on those vast acres of forests and fields. Over time, however, people broke this rule. Houses were erected, and businesses. This angered the spirits.

My part in this tapestry came the summer of my junior year, after I'd gotten myself a car. The first time we went out there, it was myself, two other white friends, and two native friends, who were brothers- Dylan and Tristan. We drove out down 150th, at Dylan's instruction. He'd said he was going to take us to the morgue- it was about midnight at this point, so we were all kind of on edge anyway.

The two things Dylan told us not to do were whistle, or to speak of spirits. We turned into the gravel driveway that circled the building, I parked the car, and we turned off the lights.

For a while, nothing happened. The wary feeling we'd had was gone, and now we were just a few bored teenagers sitting outside a morgue. A kid in my car, Jordan, lit a cigarette and rolled his window down. That was when we heard the drum beats.

Tristan and Dylan lived on the reservation, and they said that nothing was going on that night. They'd been to a few rituals, performed in a building just beside the morgue, and that was what the drum beats sounded like- but they were farther away, and in the opposite direction of the buildings. The ritual they'd been to was for their cousin, Yolanda, who was full Potawatomi.

We made a hesitant decision to get out of the car and walk towards the drum beats, which sounded like they were coming from the field opposite the morgue. This was what we'd come here for, after all- to be scared. The only noise was the rustling of the trees and the pounding of the drums.

Suddenly, Dylan broke the silence. "Yolanda, it's Dylan. If you can hear me, whistle."

One silent second passed, and it was only the rustling of the trees. It was only one second. Then, sure enough, as we all stood there staring at each other, there came a slow whistle from the field where the drum beats had come.

We all ran back to the car immediately, and drove away, leaving skid marks on the pavement on 150th road.

We've been out there a few times since, but this was my first experience with it. I'll post the others later, I'm sure.

Does anyone have any information on the reservation, or No Man's Land? I'd also like to find out more about the morgue, and rituals performed there.