There’s a hidden cemetery on the road to the park. There’s a hidden cemetery behind the Community Center. There’s a hidden cemetery in your backyard.
“It’s a dry heat,” the grocery store clerk reminds you as you buy your 6th bag of ice. “It’s a dry heat,” your second grade school teacher says as she refuels her SUV, white hair tangled with sweat. “It’s a dry heat,” the old man on the corner says as he rolls up the sleeves of his poplin shirt. “It’s a dry heat,” you repeat. The humidity is only 97% today.
“You’re Ol’ Mike’s granddaughter, aintcha?” you hear. You are. You have no other name. You don’t know who Old Mike is. You’re his granddaughter.
Mr. Miller owns a soda shop on the town square. From the window you can see the courthouse in the center. It burned down in 1937.
The night sky is vast with no streetlights. Buck Hooten disappeared last year after he got a telescope for Christmas. You don’t look up for fear it will swallow you.
“Watch for coyotes,” they say. You live in town. You have no pets. Still, you lock your door at dark and listen. You can hear them howling. You pray for coyotes.
The Pink Mansion is haunted. You ride your bike past every day, tar sticking to your Keds. The “For Sale” sign sways gently. The July air is still.
It rains for three hours. The forest weeps for joy. The sun drinks up its tears, leaving it parched again.
The house next door is abandoned. The house across the street is abandoned. The house catty-corner to yours is abandoned. The house you live in is abandoned.
There are cracks in the soil. Some of them have marks from scrabbling hands at the edges. You scuff them with the sole of your shoe.
There is a church across the street from another church. The stained glass is red like blood, and when the doors open you can hear the choir. No one attends on Sunday morning.
The football stadium fills with the entire town on Friday night. “Budge over,” a third cousin says. “We need more room. There’s not enough room. Gotta see them boys play!” Outside, people crush at the gates, trampling one another to get into the stadium. Their screams sound like the Fight Song. We need more room. There’s not enough room. Gotta see them boys play.
You walk into the woods to get out of the heat. The woods are hushed and still around you, a sea of green and brown the doesn’t end. When you turn back toward home, you only see more trees. The woods have you now.
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