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# Friday the 13th: A Cursed Day in a Curious Town
- URL: https://www.thestreatorstandard.com/f/friday-the-13th-a-cursed-day-in-a-curious-town/
- Published: 2025-06-13T16:51:49.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-19T13:59:04.000Z
- Author: The Streator Standard
- Tags: History

Long ago, before the scariest thing in town was the price of property taxes on a house with no furnace, Friday the 13th was feared across the world. Not because of horror movies or hockey masks, but because it was considered unlucky. Unholy. Unwise. Like turning left onto Bloomington Street when traffic is flowing right.

The superstition goes way back—some blame the Last Supper, where Judas was the 13th guest. Others say it started with Norse mythology, where Loki crashed a fancy dinner and chaos ensued. Add in the fact that Friday was considered a cursed day in medieval Europe (crucifixion, executions, and the occasional peasant uprising), and you’ve got a calendar date designed to rattle the soul. It was basically the original Mercury in retrograde.

But here in Streator, we don’t need ancient mythologies to feel the chill—we’ve got plenty of our own omens. Just ask anyone who’s ever driven past Moon Point Cemetery after midnight and swore they saw a lantern in the woods. Or anyone who still believes the city is haunted—not by ghosts in chains, but by chains that never came.

Yes, Streator is filled with the restless spirits of almosts: the Caterpillar plant that almost located here. The prison that almost broke ground. The interstate that almost got routed through town. If you listen closely, you can still hear them moaning, “Just five more acres and some infrastructure incentives…”

Even The Times of 1884 had its share of dread. On June 19, the paper reported:

“The miners are again considering the advisability of forming a local organization for mutual protection. It is said that the operators have been consulting together with a view of reducing wages.”

Forget hockey masks. That’s real horror: wages falling, mine shafts collapsing, and hopes dwindling like the streetlight budget on a foggy night.

Today, Friday the 13th brings new local lore:

La Villa serves a margarita so potent it triggers unsolicited pole dancing and visions of former mayors.

A man at Northpoint Plaza reports activity at the proposed hotel site. Skeptics say it was a plastic bag. Believers say it was Keith Weinstein’s aura.

The Eagle 6 Theater accidently turns a quarterly profit.

A planning commission meeting ends without a single reference to “grant cycles.”

And downtown? Still haunted. By vacant buildings too pretty to tear down and too expensive to fix. By bike lanes that live only in PowerPoint. And by the ghost of a boutique grocery store proposal from 2009 that still wanders the halls of City Hall, mumbling “mixed-use, mixed-income…”

But don’t despair. In Streator, we meet bad luck the old-fashioned way: with sarcasm, strong coffee, and deep-fried optimism. Friday the 13th isn’t a curse—it’s just another reminder that our history is weird, our future is unwritten, and our budget is slightly overdrawn.

Just remember: the real curse isn’t the calendar.

It’s cynicism.

Keep your head high, your shovel ready (you never know), and your ghost radar on. After all, in this “quiet surprise on the prairie,” something’s always lurking—whether it’s a spirit from Moon Point or another TIF district.

🧂🖤