What the Light Knows
By Louise StoryMay 5, 2026
Since her father’s passing, Atlas Obscura CEO Louise Story has witnessed an unexplainable ray of light each April—this year, at a handmade Stonehenge in Nebraska. This green dot was persistent—following me for 15 minutes and moving around to meet me no matter where I stood. The first time it happened, my father had been dead for one week. My mother and I were in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, in April, trying to do something with ourselves. We were walking an overlook with long views across the ridgelines when something appeared in the air in front of us. Not in a photograph. Not on a screen. In the air. A shaft of colored light — blues and greens — moving as we moved, present in a way that had no business being there on a clear afternoon with no rain, no prism, no explanation. My mother raised her camera toward it. I have that photograph. She is standing at the stone wall, back to me, pointing her camera at something that should not be there. She saw it too. We both did, with our own eyes. And then after a few minutes it was gone. We hadn’t changed anything. It just left. Tennessee, 2021. I know what some people will say. Lens smudge. Camera artifact. But you can’t smudge a lens you’re not holding. You can’t artifact something two people are watching with their naked eyes in open air. And you can’t explain why it disappeared without anyone touching anything. And if it was only a smudge on my lens — why is my mother up there separately photographing it? I’m a journalist. I spent decades at the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times. I don’t report things I can’t stand behind. This is what I can stand behind: Every April since my father died, around the anniversary, it comes back. Different states. Different phones. Different landscapes. Always April. Always a few minutes. Always gone the same way it came — without explanation, without asking permission, without saying goodbye. I’ve stopped trying to explain it. I’ve started just showing up. My parents prided themselves on taking us everywhere. Every great trip, every wonder — their children came too. Some parents, my father said, used vacations to take a break from their kids. They never wanted to go anywhere without us. When I was eight years old, they took me to Stonehenge. My father stood at those ancient stones and said something I have carried my whole life: I have read about this place in books all my life. I have imagined it. I have dreamt of coming here. Now I’m 37 and I’m here. Then he looked at me. You are learning of this place for the first time in person. When you read about it at school, you’ll say: I’ve been there. Then he said: I wonder who is the richer? He meant it as a real question. He had spent a lifetime reading about this place, imagining it, longing toward it. He arrived at 37 carrying all of that. I arrived at eight carrying nothing — no context, no anticipation, no idea what I was standing in. But when I sat in a classroom years later and opened a book to Stonehenge, I would not be meeting it for the first time. I would be recognizing it. Every fact would attach itself to something I had already felt with my own body. He had the knowledge first, then the place. I would have the place first, then the knowledge. I have thought about that question my entire adult life. I am still thinking about it. This morning I got up before dawn to drive to a field in Nebraska. Carhenge sits outside Alliance, in the sandhills, and it is exactly what it sounds like: a full-scale recreation of Stonehenge built from 38 vintage American cars, painted grey, hoods buried in the earth, chassis pointing skyward, some with other cars welded across them as lintels. It is absurd. It is also, at sunrise, genuinely and inexplicably beautiful. There was no one else there. Just me and 38 cars and the Nebraska sky beginning to change. I want to slow down here, because this is the part that requires slowing down. The cars are grey. At the moment I arrived, in the blue-dark just before dawn, they were silhouettes — massive, strange, prehistoric-feeling against the pale Nebraska sky. Then the sun began to rise. A silhouette of vintage cars. What happened over the next 90 minutes is the reason I stayed 90 minutes. The light did not simply illuminate Carhenge. It transformed it, repeatedly, in real time. The grey turned amber. The shadows stretched long and then longer across the frost-pale grass. The sun cracked the horizon and poured through the gaps between the sculptures in long flat rays. Then it climbed and the quality changed again — softer, more golden, the rust beneath the grey paint catching fire. Every twenty minutes I thought: I have now seen Carhenge. Every twenty minutes the light shifted and I was seeing something new. Most people stop for ten minutes, take a photo, and drive on. I understand this. I have done this. But Carhenge is not a ten-minute place. Carhenge is a place that keeps becoming something else, and if you leave before it's done with you, you have not actually been there. I stayed. And because I stayed, I was there when the light came. In the photographs — twenty of them, taken as I moved around the site — there is a soft green circle sitting low in the frame, in the frost-covered grass. Not the sun. Not a reflection. A round, quiet, luminous presence at the bottom of the image, consistent across every shot no matter where I moved. After about ten minutes it was gone. I hadn’t changed anything. It just left. The same way it left in Tennessee. The same way it always leaves. Standing in that field, I did what anyone does. I pulled out my phone and looked up what I was actually standing in. Carhenge was built in 1987 by a man named Jim Reinders. He gathered his family on the Nebraska homestead where he had grown up. Together they painted 38 cars grey and arranged them in precise correspondence to the original Stonehenge — same dimensions, same orientation, same proportions. They unveiled it at the summer solstice. He built it as a memorial to his father. I read this sentence standing in the frost in Nebraska with the sunrise still happening around me, five years after my father died, on the anniversary of his death, at a stone circle made of American cars, with a green circle of light in my last twenty photographs that was now quietly gone. There are moments where you stop trying to make meaning and simply stand inside it. This was one of those moments. My father would have had a lot to say about Carhenge. He would have appreciated the audacity of it — one man’s decision to take one of the most ancient monuments in the Western world and rebuild it in the Nebraska sandhills out of 1962 Plymouths. He would have appreciated that Jim Reinders didn’t ask anyone’s permission, didn’t wait for funding, just gathered his family and built the thing. He would have stood here a long time. He would have wondered who was the richer — the people who made the pilgrimage to the original, surrounded by thousands of other seekers, or the people who made a different kind of pilgrimage, driving through the Nebraska sandhills before dawn and arriving to find the whole place entirely to themselves. No crowd. No noise. Just the light, and the cars, and the frost, and the silence of something ancient — or something built to feel that way — with no one else there to witness it. Carhenge at daybreak. I think about that question differently now than I did at eight years old. I think maybe the answer is: the people who stay long enough to let the light change. I don’t think he would have come this morning without it. But the light was there. And so was I. And for about ten minutes, in the frost-covered grass of a Nebraska field, at a circle of cars built for a father by his son, so was he.
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