The crickets were already screaming when Charlie stepped out of his daddy’s rusted Buick, the heat hitting him like a slap from his mama’s wooden spoon. July in the Deep South meant two things: sweet tea by the gallon and sweat that never dried. His cousins Marcus and Delia followed behind him, their Chicago clothes already wilting in the thick air.
“Y’all remember to mind your manners,” their grandmother called from the porch, her voice carrying that particular authority that made even grown men straighten up. Meemaw stood there in her housedress, arms crossed, watching them with eyes that had seen too much and forgiven too little.
Charlie had been coming to this house every summer since he could walk, but something felt different this year. Maybe it was because he’d turned fourteen and started noticing things—like how the weeds grew closer to the house, or how Papaw’s hands shook when he lit his morning cigarette cause he didn’t have his morning drink, or how the neighborhood had changed. Half the houses sat empty now, their windows boarded up like closed eyes.
But Mr. Clark’s house across the street—that was the same as always. Every morning at six sharp, Charlie would hear him out there.
The first morning, Charlie woke to the sound of muttering. He crept to the window and peaked through the thin curtains. There was Mr. Clark, standing in the middle of Collins Street in his overalls and no shirt, his dark skin glistening with sweat. The old man was hitting his head with the flat of his palm—not hard enough to hurt, but rhythmic, like he was keeping time to some song only he could hear.
“Lord Jesus, wrap your arms around this place,” Mr. Clark was saying, spinning in a slow circle, stomping one of his feet on asphalt. “Keep the darkness at bay, keep the evil from our doors.” He’d raise his arms to the sky, then bring them down, hitting his head again. “Blood of the lamb, blood of the lamb, wash this street clean.”
Charlie watched, mesmerized. Mr. Clark had been doing this ritual for as long as Charlie could remember, but he’d never really paid attention before. Now, at fourteen, he found himself drawn to the window every morning, watching the old man’s strange dance.
“What you looking at, boy?” Marcus whispered, creeping up behind him.
“Mr. Clark,” Charlie whispered back. “He’s out there again.”
Marcus pressed his face to the glass. “Man’s crazy as hell. Mama told me he talks to spirits.”
“He ain’t crazy,” Charlie said, though he wasn’t sure why he was defending the old man. “He’s… protecting something.”
The days rolled by in that slow, way that those summer days do in the South. Charlie and his cousins spent their time catching lightning bugs, swimming in the creek behind the house, and dodging Meemaw’s chores. But every morning, Charlie found himself at that window, watching Mr. Clark’s ritual.
The old man would always end the same way—kissing his fingertips, and touching them to the ground. Then he’d look up at Charlie’s window and nod, as if he knew he had an audience.
It was on the third night that everything changed.
Charlie was lying in bed, listening to the night sounds—the hoot of an owl, the distant rumble of a freight train, the hum of the window unit struggling against the heat. Then he heard it: the sharp crack of a shotgun blast.
He bolted upright. Another blast, then another.
“What in the Sam Hill—” Papaw’s voice came from down the hall.
Charlie pressed his face to the window. Mr. Clark’s porch light was on, and the old man was standing in his backyard near the big drainage ditch that ran behind all the houses on their street. He had his shotgun raised, pointing into the darkness.
“I see you!” Mr. Clark was shouting. “I see you green devils! You ain’t welcome here! This is God’s ground!”
BOOM. Another shot into the ditch.
“Come on out where I can see you proper! You think you can fool me with your trickery?”
Charlie could hear doors slamming, neighbors coming out to see what the commotion was about. But Mr. Clark kept firing into that ditch, his voice getting hoarse from shouting.
“Green people! Green people coming up from the drain! Lord Jesus, give me strength!”
The next morning, there was no ritual. Mr. Clark’s house was quiet, the windows dark. Charlie waited at his window until seven, then eight, but the old man never emerged.
“Meemaw,” Charlie said at breakfast, “what happened to Mr. Clark?”
His grandmother’s mouth tightened. “Sheriff came and got him. Said he was disturbing the peace.”
“But what about the green people?” Charlie asked. “What if they come back?”
Meemaw set down her coffee cup with a sharp clink. “Child, there ain’t no green people. Mr. Clark’s mind has been slipping for years. Sometimes when folks get old, they see things that ain’t there.”
But Charlie wasn’t so sure. That night, he couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about Mr. Clark’s words, about the way the old man’s voice had carried such conviction, such fear. Around midnight, he crept to the window and looked out at the empty street.
The drainage ditch behind Mr. Clark’s house was dark and still, but something about it made Charlie’s skin crawl. As he watched, he could have sworn he saw something move in the shadows—something that didn’t belong.
To be continued…