Silver Meadow's Stories

A short story by Silver Meadow

(explicit lanuage warning)

Mom invited the man who withered our corn in for dinner. He’s been staying in our shed for the past few days because Dad needed an extra hand feeding the chickens, chopping wood, and loading the truck for the Farmers Market.

But I wanted him gone the moment we patched him up.

It was the day the rainclouds were as blue as the sky, Monday. I sat atop our silo (Dad hates it when I do) with my binoculars pointed at what used to be the Davis’ land. Years ago, I played tag and carved pumpkins with their daughter, Kelly. She graduated high school then took to NYU last year. In Kelly’s absence, her parents swore by their farmland and defending our community.

Mrs Davis said, “we must stick together and honor those before us no matter what…”

Yet, when those guys in the suits offered them a million, they forked over their farmland.

Then of course it was the Smiths’, unwaivering about their acres. “My grandaddy bought this land during The Great Migration. The sun and moon were his friends as he worked hard. Even when he was gray and tubed up with an oxygen tank!”

But when the weird men in the suits offered to pay his retirement, the hard worker trait his grandad possessed clearly skipped Mr. Smith. Although he often scolded me and Kelly when we ventured too far off into the cornfields, I do miss his summertime fresh lemonade and the apple pie Mrs Smith made every Sunday evening, no matter what season.

This pattern became all too common in Ruckers Homestead with every farmer peeling away like husk.

One by one then five by five—everyone left.

We’re the only ones here. Surrounded by abandoned acres “perfect for a spanning housing complex,” the guy in a suit told my parents. Sweat ran down his face but that’s what you get on a ninety-degree day. He gave them his real estate card: Dominion Capital Properties (dad fed it to our goat).

My parents didn’t cave. Not when they offered them the biggest buyout; not when the largest home in the housing complex would be in their name, free of charge; definitely not when we started hearing a high-pitched screech from 8 am to 9 pm, and not when he returned a final time, begging for the ‘integral piece of land.’

“This is the biggest investment of your life. You’ll never have to work again, bud.” The man nudged his elbow at Dad.

He simply couldn’t fathom that no money in the world could pry this land from my father’s hands. My Great-Grandfather, Leo Rucker I, founded this community after miraculously paying off his debt to his former enslaver. Through his agricultural knowledge, he overcame the involuntary windmill chase of sharecropping and wanted others to do the same.

He led many formerly enslaved African Americans to financial freedom then settled down up north in the midwest. He purchased some farmland, dragged my Great-Grandma out of the city, and sold off pieces of land to Black entrepreneurs interested in farming. Eventually, the collective became Ruckers Homestead in 1915.

Our small yet fortified community made an appearance on some documentary once. Mrs Smith called Mom and begged her to change it to the History Channel. She didn’t strike me as the type to just be watching that station, but, hey. They called Ruckers “a beacon for the Black plight,” whatever that meant. They plastered photos of my Great-Grandad all over the segment.

Anyway, blue rain clouds, I was atop the rusty silo, eyes enlarged in the binoculars, certain I’ve pinpointed the source of the mysterious pitch. Something glinted in whatever light the sun granted, just past where the Davis’ empty home stood. On that rusted fencing.

Those grimey Dominion Capital creeps set up some noisy contraption. I just had a gut feeling.

Dad scolded me from the base of the silo, “Desiree, get’cho tail down from there! What you gon’ tell the folks in heaven?”

“Dad, I’m sixteen, if I fall to my death it wouldn’t be considered child negligence. I think God would be happy to see me though…”

He shook his head, unlocking our horse pen. “One, you’re not grown. Two, crazy you think I’d be more concerned about legal trouble than losing my child. Three, I think God and I would be happy if you did some work and tied the horses to their stables. This storm bout to hit.”

I fed the chickens, pigs, shucked corn, thwarted hagglers at the market, and cleaned the dinner table every night. So if I wanted to be a detective on the side—Imma do me.

I removed the binoculars, then dropped my shoulders. “The weird housing complex men are targeting us.”

“It is what it is,” Dad said. “They can play whatever game they want. We’re the ones with leverage round here. They can’t build a damn thing unless we give in.”

“Why can’t they just choose some other land? I bet some farmers would be more than happy to give this life up…I kind of would,” I mutter the tail end of my sentence.

Dad snapped his fingers at me, pulling our horse Lilly (the wildest one) out of the pen, “We ain’t ever giving this life up. You’ll be a farmer, your children will be farmers, their children’s children will farm and that’s that.”

“With climate change, we’ll see.”

Dad just barely has a hold on our Pinto horse; she’d bite your hand off if she even thinks you got food in it. “You got that smart mouth from yo’ mama.”

Lily neighed in agreement. They lucky Mom was busy herding the goats inside or else she would’ve objected.

I was finna climb down from the silo, but a silhouette in the dirt road appeared. Way out yonder. Close enough to cause concern. I focused my binoculars. “Dad,” I said. “A man’s limping down Clover Mill…”

The more I zoomed in, the more his blood-stained clothes became evident. One of his eyes were swollen shut and each step was slower than the last. I thought the zombie apocalypse started.

Without a second thought, Dad jumped into his truck and drove up Clover Mill for the injured man. Mom was still too busy ushering everyone and thing inside before the storm, especially me. She was rocking back and forth on our living room couch with her eyes glued to the weather station, crochet needle weaving outta control. “Watch this turn into a tornado. Watch.”

Mom is the type to board up the windows if thunder were to so much rumble over our house. We’ve only seen a few EF1s and I’m more than okay with that.

Dad’s truck rumbled in our front yard. He returned with the injured man slung around his shoulder. They settled in our garage because everyone knew Mom would lose it if we got some stranger’s blood in our home.

Quickly, a glass of water was brought to his parched lips, and Dad ordered me to grab the first aid kit. The man’s face was clawed up like real bad. Down to the white meat. An alertness remained in his available eye as he scanned the room.

His name was Willie, and he traveled all the way from the south to visit some family. Sadly, he experienced car troubles that were so bad he hadn’t a choice but to go on foot. Alone in the dead of night, in unfamiliar farm planes, he exhaustedly looked for a rest stop or at least a gas station.

Instead, he found a pack of coyotes that fought for their piece of wild hog. Then they fought for their piece of him.

“I got away,” Willie croaked. “For whatever it’s worth…”

“Your life.” Mom wrapped his bandages and put frozen peas on his eye. “Do you need us to call your family?”

“No, it’s quite alright, I was doing a surprise visit.” Willie wobbled to his feet. “But, I think I should just return home…they wouldn’t be happy to see me anyway.”

Mom and Dad gave him everything he needed: medication, food, and clean clothes while I watched from our garage door. Willie was bruised and battered. The proof was visible.

I just couldn’t get over his retelling of the unfortunate events. How he wasn’t so shaken up he could barely speak on it. How he shrugged off the encounter and even had enough energy to converse.

But I ignored that feeling since my parents’ guards were down. Besides, everyone deals with trauma differently. I thought.

Willie made way to our garage door’s button. I pondered. The name Willie is more suitable for an older gentleman. This guy looked like he would understand a little internet humor. Probably in his mid-forties, like my uncle Chris, who escaped the farmer’s fate bestowed upon my father. Grandad thought he was too lazy, and, once he became of age, drunk.

“I’ll be on my way…” Willie said like some old man.

The moment our garage door opened, lightning cracked the sky up. Those blue clouds finally had something to do as rain slammed into our roof. “Nah,” Dad said. “Stay here until the storm clears. After that, we’ll tow your car.”

Mom and Dad didn’t see it, but a tiny grin cracked Willie’s lips. “Why thank you,” he said.

My stomach knotted.

The storm raged all night and might’ve been worth mom’s panic. It was more about the wind than the thunder and lightning, like a drizzle cosplaying a hurricane. Still, the duration was irregular as if the storm sat over our house and passed once morning arrived.

Mom brought scrambled eggs and toast with the last of our strawberry jam on it to our friend in the garage. I settled for grape and whatever scraps of eggs and bacon were left.

Willie’s mobility improved. He examined our garage and stopped a leak that developed in our slumber.

Dad was impressed, asking Willie to help him lift some hay that went awry. Then he walked our horses back out. Lily was too cooperative. Usually, she takes for the open roads that don’t ensure a warm stable and endless sugar cubes. She didn’t buck at anyone, especially not our stranger.

I shrugged it off and went on to my favorite part of the day.

I made way to the chicken coop with a bucket full of feed that weighed half my body down. Our chickens were rowdy, unruly, always hungry, and when the afternoon sun began to bake the roof, a little hot too.

I mentally prepared for the free-for-all as I cracked the doors open. Ready for the stream of clucking and feathers. Yet, the space was eerily quiet. So quiet it had me thinking they broke free and ran away during the storm.

I was wrong.

Every chicken was perched on their shelf. Not flailing or flying towards my bucket; on their best behavior. I heard the tall grass brushing together. That’s how quiet the coop was.

I threw some feed as an attempt to rile them up. Nothing. Clapped my hands, yelped, charged them, still nothing.

Then Dad made me jump out of my skin. “You ain’t gotta worry about that, Willie just fed them…”

I looked over my shoulder. “Huh? Why is he still here?”

“Whachu’ mean?” Dad took the feed from my hand and placed the bucket on his shoulder.

“Weren’t y’all supposed to tow his car after y’all walked the horses out?”

“Well, Willie went off the road when the coyotes chased him. He can’t recount his steps.” Dad flexed his arm muscle. “Besides, he’s helpful. You know, strong.”

I knew Dad always wanted a son, but he got me. He can say what he wants, but I could lift a refrigerator. He better believe in girl power since Mom and I hold it down at the farm. I even clean the pig sty. Dad was doing too much letting a stranger steal our grunt work.

He escorted me out of the chicken coop and walked along the trail.

“Dad, why were they so quiet? I usually have to cover my ears…”

Dad shrugged. “Maybe Willie poured some melatonin in the bucket, or is like some animal whisperer. He was like ‘shhh…never cluck again.’”

I rolled my eyes at that poor excuse for a joke. “For real, they’ve been noisy all summer. Now they just randomly lock in because this guy fed them?”

Dad looked out in the distance. Willie chopped lumber in a fresh wifebeater. Too clean for all the work you ought to around here.

Every piece of wood chopped into perfect halves.

“Desiree, you always got some conspiracies brewing up there. I bet those Dominion Capital clowns getting to your head.”

He continued down the trail and met with Willie. I knew Dominion Creepital was the source of that high-pitched screech. I knew they were waiting for us to cave like everyone else. I knew when that guy in a suit called Dad ‘bud,’ Dad wanted to clock him.

I caught up with Dad.

“Nice work,” He nodded at Willie. “You even shut our chickens up. Desiree called you the chicken whisperer…”

I didn’t, he did.

Willie chuckled, “I’ve been all over this country, learning and watching all kinds of things. I picked up some farming skills along the way.”

Dad handed me the bucket of feed and ordered me to dump it back into the bin. He and Willie were still within an earshot.

“I noticed a lot of empty land while wandering round here. Are y’all the only ones?”

Dad took a pause. “Yeah, the last ones honoring Ruckers Homestead’s legacy.”

Willie stopped the rhythm of his cutting axe. “This is Ruckers? I’ve heard so much about this place. The golden corn, fat cattle, surviving The Great Depression,” Willie marveled. “Shame it’s nearly abandoned…I have an admiration for the founder; what he did for our people.”

“That’s my Grandad. He taught us to bring anyone who’s willing on board. That’s how our community thrived. And that’s how I like to approach life by continuing my grandfather’s welcoming philosophy.”

Willie chuckled. “I surely do feel welcomed here…”

My eyebrow shot up. Yes, Great-Grandad’s method worked: any willing soul who crossed the Mason-Dixon line or wanted to slow the pace from city life were welcomed. Everyone so happened to be Black, and he was more than okay with that, elated even.

But what if that individual was somehow maimed by a pack of coyotes, then up and chopping wood the next morning? Would Great-Grandaddy Leo scratch his head at that?

I glanced at the two. Dad didn’t notice, but with his bare palm, Willie wiped the saw dust from the blade. He drew not a drop of blood from his hand. Quick, yet flawed.

Eventually, we upgraded his stay to our shed: me and Kelly’s old hangout spot. Equipped with heating and cooling, plumbing, it really ain’t a shed. It’s like a treehouse on the ground. Groundhouse.

Anyway, Willie stuck around for days, making himself more and more useful. Drawing nearer and nearer to our home. Sipping on Mom’s world famous sweet tea. Charming our animals. He was lucky Mom and Dad were more distracted with our upcoming evaluation.

Every year before fall harvest, some people be all up in our cornfields, horse stables, even our pig sty, to ‘grade our farm’s quality.’ Mom doesn’t trip. Dad? He turns into an anxious monster.

So this morning, Friday, I climbed the silo and pointed my binoculars at the Davis’ ex-land.

That noise wasn’t sounding off anymore. It just mysteriously stopped. I ain’t dumb. I knew Dominion Capital wasn’t giving up that easy. They were a greedy soulless company, using terms like “urbanization” and “zoning” with respect to the outlet mall, twenty minutes away if traffic doesn’t suck on I-90.

The glint I saw earlier right near their shed, ceased to exist. Gone like the noise. I squinted. Maybe they cloaked this insane noise machine. Maybe they were creating a new tactic.

“Desiree. Get down.” Mom claps out each syllable.

I don’t go toe to toe with mom out of fear of losing mine.

It didn’t take long before the evaluators, dressed sharp in button-downs and armed with clipboards, began their tour of the farm with my parents. Dad ordered me to “look busy and smile,” so that meant brushing our horses’ manes.

Lily was acting all wild, neighing and shaking her head, but I didn’t care because she wasn’t going to matt up again. She wasn’t gonna embarrass me in front of these evaluators.

Someone emerged from the cornfields, Willie. It took everything in me not to roll my eyes. He was gone all morning (I wished it was for good.)

“With that one,” Willie climbed over the pen. “I noticed she likes to be pet against the grain…that seems to calm her down.”

Who made him the damn horse expert? Still, I smiled. “She’s an oddball. And now, she’s running laps because I brushed a few strands of her hair.”

Willie held his hand out. “Let me try.”

Not only did he successfully stop her in her tracks, but she remained perfectly still while he brushed her mane. You would think he had some sugar cubes in his pocket or something.

The inspectors passed by, eyes darting between Willie and me, we waved, they looked away (rude asses). They headed for the chicken coop.

“I found a snake this mornin’,” Willie said.

I assumed he was talking to me since Lily only spoke when we fed her 24k gold. “There’s a few out here…I’ve been bit before.”

The ‘snake’ was the size of his palm: a sleek matte-black box. “This was making a terrible noise. Not sure if y’all heard it, but it was driving me crazy. Probably why your animals been so agitated.”

What took me months to uncover only took Willie a few days.

“Now you don’t have to climb up that thing and get your parents all worked up, Nancy Drew.”

I wanted to shoot him the bird.

Dad probably told all my investigative business to Willie, ugh.

My parents saw the inspectors out. Willie approached them with that ear-piercing torture device courtesy of Dominion Capital. Dad instantly grabbed the device and ran to our garage to examine it further.

What happened after Mom and Willie trailed behind him was insane: the tips of our leafy cornfield slowly browned, crumpling up like tea-stained paper, shrinking like every ounce of water in the soil dried up at once.

That’s when I watched them in our garage. I wanted to get my parents’ attention but no matter how loudly I screamed, they couldn’t hear me. Even Lily didn’t go off running at my loud mouth, in fact, she remained perfectly still.

Willie glanced at me with that grin. He quickly returned to whatever surgery Mom and Dad were performing. The way Willie stood over them told me what he was really studying: us.

And that mofo withered our corn.

Tonight, now, mom makes baked chicken, collard greens, and mac and cheese. Dad bakes dinner rolls that are one step away from burning at the bottom. We sit, our family, and this weirdo.

“That little thing can make all that noise?” Mom asks.

That ‘thing’ being the deconstructed frequency emitter in our garage.

“Rude-awakenings by a gothic Rubik’s cube,” I respond. “So I’m not a conspiracy theorist after all.”

Dad eats silently, contemplatively. Willie pokes at his plate but, like my granda used to say, ‘eats like a bird.’

Willie gathers his eyebrows like Mom squeezed too much on the chicken. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Dominion Capital,” the Ruckers say in unison.

Dad goes on his spiel about their predatory practices, borderline collapsing our prolific district, all in the name of some housing complex. “Everyone flaked like money was worth more than what we’ve built over the years. Just happily handing everything over to some white men.”

Willie sets his fork down and shakes his head at this information. “Why they always doing us like that? We can’t have a thing. Even when we go on and build our own thing. They just take that too.”

Dad sighs. “I don’t know man…I just try to stay away.”

“No, really,” Willie’s eyes grow large. “Haven’t y’all heard? Greenwood District, Seneca Village, Oscarville, just to name a few. Don’t wanna add Ruckers Homestead to the list. Once a thriving Black-owned farming district turned sterile housing complex.”

I’ve heard of those towns and communities in school but mostly on TikTok. They were self-sufficient, thriving, and predominantly Black. That last characteristic was the reason they were all destroyed. Black Wall Street (Greenwood District), burned down and massacred. Seneca Village, bulldozed and leveled for the sake of a park. Oscarville, submerged in water, littered with canoes, swimmers, and boats.

Rebranded as a lake.

Mom sighed, “I hear you, Willie. Hell, I got a great aunt who lived in Tulsa…she said some man walked into her dad’s barber shop laughing uncontrollably the day before the mob showed up. He kept saying ‘Y’all can’t smell’ over and over. Mind you, her daddy had the doors locked. That strange man was the talk of the town the night before chaos struck, but I think this is different. Baby,” Mom looks at Dad now. “We should sell the land.”

A wave of silence crashes into our dinner table. I nearly choke on my sweet tea.

Dad says, “Taryn, no.”

My Dad isn’t a short-winded man. He only uses Mom’s first name when stuff gets serious.

“Why not? We’ve put up with everyone else selling out, psychological torture, and these damn storms aren’t this bad in the city.”

“I said no.”

“Desiree’s fate is pre-determined by your grandfather’s actions, but what if she wanted to become a doctor? Teacher? Scuba-diver? Any damn thing besides suffocated by corn? Then what?”

Dad slams his fist on the table. “That’s all you think this is?”

Mom don’t even flinch (I do). “When I married you, I asked when it came down to it would you choose me or Rucker’s, and you promised to never put any land before me. Never.” Mom leans in, eyes cutting dad up. “Well?”

“Don’t start this,” Dad says, shaking his head.

“Nothing else matters to you. Your grandfather chose to farm. You think he’d be happy with you keeping us here?”

Dad responds with silence and angry chewing.

“They rated our farm ‘average’,” Mom adds. “And that’s just by the grace of God. We can’t hold this community up on our own, Leo.”

I’m not sure whose side I’m on—I’m torn honestly.

On one hand, farm life is hard work, but it’s peaceful and I’m not a people person, so it’s the perfect level of isolation. But on the other hand, Kelly is living her best life at NYU. I know that because she went from dirt smudged clothes and dookie braids to ring lights and perfect winged eyeliner.

Plus she got a bunch of piercings and a personality upgrade like she’s the main character in a coming of age film. Yes, this information has been gathered through vague social media posts, so what?

But me? I’m still the farm girl.

My eyes are so busy darting between my parents like some cinematic pendulum swing, I almost miss Willie.

Yeah, just sitting there with that tiny grin plastered on his face. Like the one from back in the garage. He entranced our chickens, caressed a blade, and wilted our green stalks: an enemy at our dinner table.

Now I slam my fist. “Why are you smiling? What’s so amusing about our struggling farm to you?”

Willie’s mouth straightens as his grin fades to his usual dead-eyed look. Mom interjects before he can speak, “Desiree, who is you talking to like that?”

I stand on my feet, scraping my chair on mom’s good wood floors. Sorry, Mom. “Why are you still here? Why you watching us? All your wounds are gone. And you got every ounce of strength to leave this farm yet you don’t. Why?”

Now Dad chimes in, “Desiree, stop.”

I slide Willie’s dinner plate away from him. He wasn’t eating anyway. “Get out. You stalking my family and destroying our crops. I bet you working with Dominion Capital.”

Mom stands up and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Sweetheart, Willie is not our enemy…you need to calm down.”

“No, no,” Willie says. “She’s right. I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He gets up and pushes his chair back in. “I’ll be gone tomorrow morning. Thank you for your hospitality and saving a wretch like me.”

His reference boils my blood. Dad chases him to our screen door, “Nah man, you ain’t gotta leave. I can pay you. How much you need?”

Mom shakes her head. “Our corn is the only sure thing at this farm. Sometimes we see what we want to see. Sweetheart, I know this is hard for you, but you can’t be going off on people like that.”

“But mom, I watched it crumple up at once. I’m not crazy.”

She kisses my cheek, dismissing me.

With all this pressure to carry the weight of what Rucker’s Homestead used to be, the quality of our crop was destined to take a hit. Then housing a bunch of new animals was bound to shoot us in the foot. They stressed just like us.

But I’ll stand on it: everything is Willie’s fault. I’d rather deal with Dominion Capital weird suited men head on than this creep they summoned. I’d rather them be upfront than try to destroy us from the inside out.

Mom and Dad turn in for bed early, leaving me with all the dirty dishes thanks to my outburst. We have that typical horror film kitchen window. The ones right above the sink with a perfect view of darkened cornfields. I usually keep my head down so I don’t lock eyes with whatever paranormal creatures dwell in these rural lands.

Although I think the creatures we really should be worried about are the ones that have been closing in on our farmland for decades: the racists. There’s been all kinds of crazy talk from neighboring farming communities about Ruckers. Too Black for their liking. Some went as far as calling it ‘the colored farm’ but my Grandad pulled his shotgun on the individuals. Dad promised not to tell anyone about the time sweet old compassionate and slow-burned anger Leo Rucker II almost lit some white asses up.

He was concerned about image, but, truthfully, I would’ve done the same thing.

Now it’s some real estate company notorious for devouring land for bland houses they put some weak gate around. I know Grandad would shoot them if he were still alive.

As I stand here laughing to myself, a shadow moves under our porch light. Willie. My parents want me to apologize before he heads out, but nah, I’m good. It’ll be something for him to ponder as he walks the dirt roads. And that’s if Dad doesn’t go running after him.

Willie emerges from our shed, making way to our cornfields. They’re only illuminated by moonlight. There’s no way this man is nocturnal. What is he doing?

Like he’s taking a midnight stroll in a familiar neighborhood, Willie wades deeper and deeper into the stalks. They rattle as he pushes through. Oh my God this is so silly of me, but I step outside too. Silently.

My parents just don’t believe me when I say he’s a creep. Not in a perverted way but in a crossed-over-from-another-dimension-will-melt-your-brain-while-sleeping kind of way. But since he’s just so strong and so helpful and so not a sixteen year old girl—Dad can’t get a grip.

I stand at the edge of our field, reluctant to step in. I might’ve grown up here, but that don’t mean I got used to the way everything looks at night. Still, Willie can’t get away with everything he’s doing. He ain’t.

With each step I take, my heart sinks. It’s like some invisible poisonous gas is moving throughout our crop, or maybe that’s Willie’s horrific aura finally manifesting. I feel like it’s just my imagination until I end up a few paces behind him. Deep into this abyss for a cornfield.

Rustling blooms all around us, and when I look up, Willie leaves a trail of corn ears turning east to west—shaking their heads no. I clench my jaw at the scream brewing. This is worse than seeing a group of small children holding hands or some dude with a chainsaw.

Willie stops.

Dang near all the corn around him falls like dominoes, collapsing into a perfect circle. Thank God the ones I hide behind aren’t included. Through the slits of the leaves, Willie’s hands are drawn behind his back as he stares at the chalky moon; posture too straight for someone just mauled by coyotes and left wandering for hours on end.

“Little girl, I know you’re out here…”

I freeze.

Willie inhales serenely, “Ruckers Homestead…what a shame?” He looks over his shoulder, eyes blue-rimmed and glowing. “Leo…all three, quite pesky.”

There’s no point in hiding when those eyes are cutting through the leaves and are on me. I emerge. “Who are you?”

“I?” Willie rests his hand on his chest. “Am well fed.”

My face remains cold, masking the panic. “What do you mean by that?”

Willie stares for a few seconds; it just doesn’t feel human. “Don’t be scared of the way things are. You know what this land is laced with. A scent I’ll follow anywhere: any city, any community, any home, and any person…”

I keep the distance between us, recalling the self-defense headlock mom sloppily taught me once. I don’t want him to get too close for me to try it, though. “Scent? You a bloodhound or something?”

“Desiree, you’re a sharp one.” He looks down, shaking his head. “That makes you quite dangerous to many. There are also many like you, angering many.”

“Stop talking in riddles. I failed English.”

Willie smiles. Steam exits his nostrils on a seventy-degree night. “I keep the balance. The imbalance. I feed off hatred.”

Willie shares exactly what he’s after as a breeze brushes over. For centuries, Willie was a figment, something trapped in a suspended state…too metaphorical, too weak. He floated about the earth as thin as the air we breathe, reaching for something he could latch onto. An energy source. “That’s when I found this place. This land was like a hotspot for me. You would know that.”

We, humans, can’t see hate. Not the same way we see the sun. But Willie? devours hatred. As long as it’s around, he’ll be around. It brews, and while it brews, Willie stirs. He draws near and breathes in the aroma like it’s some pie baking in the oven.

Before a village burned: he was there. Before the neighborhood was overrun by violence: he was there. Before the cans of tear gas are chucked at the crowd: he’s there. Before the real estate company flattens Black-owned farmland: he’ll definitely be there.

“Your Great-Grandfather, yeah that guy. He cheated the system,” Willie says. “All that hatred just wasn’t enough. That scent was all around this community for years. I thought the racists would clean this place out before some real estate company would. Maybe I didn’t realize they’re one in the same…”

Now I stare. I wish I had Grandad’s shotgun. As much admiration and praise as our community received over the years, there were just as many threats of poisoning our crop and setting our stables ablaze.

Eventually, that turned into a real estate company treading on our land ‘legally.’

“Dominion Capital. Sure do think they have it over y’all.” Willie kicks dirt around. “They knocked some busted apartments down to build a new one, charging five times more for rent in some cities before. Y’all call it—now what is that word? Starts with a G.”

“Gentrification,” I clarify. “So what you trynna say? You’re the manifestation of racism?”

Willie laughs, a deep, too many octaves low cackle. “Desiree, I was here before that.”

Demon.

“Call me the messenger,” he continues. “Harbinger for chaos. Now, being well fed here, strong enough to be the impetus to said chaos.”

I slowly close the gap between us, standing at arm’s length. I get a good look at his face. He Black like me, Black like my Dad, Mom, Grandpa, Grandma, like dang near everyone before me…but something tells me this is a mask. A performance.

“So Dominion Capital did some weird ritual and summoned you here.”

Willie taps his chin. “Hmm,” he hums. “More like attracted than summoned. They got hate. Leo, Leo, Leo. He eluded me for quite some time. Honestly, I thought Ruckers Homestead would fall the same way Black Wall Street and all those other places did.” He squints. “But now I see, you beat a dead horse. I’m opposed to violence against animals, that’s wrong.”

I bet he is.

“Leave,” I say. “Stay away from our home. I don’t care if it’s just us left. I don’t care if hatred is around us. I won’t let some demon disguised as a Black man play in my face!”

Willie smiles. I don’t remember his teeth being pointy like sharks. “Your wish is my command. Don’t be mad cause y’all can’t smell…watch the clouds, Desiree.”

With that, Willie disappears into the cornfields. Shortly after, rustling stirs behind me and out into the clearing comes Lily, our goats, chickens, pigs, ducks, whatever animal we have, following after him. I pull on Lily’s reins but that just sends my feet dragging in the soil. She’s entranced.

I frantically run back home, has to be muscle memory. Wind and rain brush against me, and soggy mud slows my strides. But I still make it.

My parents scrunch their faces at the sudden light flooding their bedroom. And before they can speak I say, “Willie is a demon! He stole our animals! He has glowing eyes, and he don’t speak in that fake ass country accent!”

The knot in Mom’s silk scarf flies to the back of her head as she springs up. “Desiree,” she says. “Honey, what the hell are you talking about?”

She rests her hands on my shoulder while Dad is too busy scooping eye boogers. I’m on the verge of tears because I know I sound crazy. I just know they don’t believe me. All they see is their child in distress, having delusions.

“I don’t know where he took them but they all just vanished—”

Lightning flashes through my parents’ bedroom window. Everyone jumps at this. The rain pours harder. Heavy. Winds go from a gentle breeze to an environmental vacuum in seconds. Mom holds me closer.

Our lights flicker. Dad’s eyes snap into alertness at the thunder exploding. “Weather ain’t report no storm for tonight…”

“See,” Mom points at the window. “This is exactly why we shouldn’t stay here.”

“Now ain’t the time for this.”

“Leo Rucker III, don’t tell me about time after our daughter woke us out of our sleep to share her hallucinations. This farm is driving us insane!”

I should’ve just let them sleep if I knew they were gonna resume their argument.

As they rage, the storm rages too.

Lightning strikes down again. A shadowy funnel on a crash course collision stands in the flash. No, that can’t be right. What I just saw is angrier than an EF1. So dark, the night sky appears light gray. And what Willie said, ‘watch the clouds,’ feels like a curse.

A crack pressing into their window zips everyone’s mouths shut. I slowly back away from the window until it shatters.

“Go to the basement,” Dad says. “Now y’all, let’s go!”

We spend the night under a flickering lightbulb, listening to our land cry. My mind stays on Willie. Willie the stalker, the harbinger, the balance, imbalance, and impetus to chaos.

I can’t even doze off for a second.

The next morning, Rucker’s Homestead is unrecognizable.

I want to climb atop our silo but it’s fallen over. Our shed torn to pieces, chicken coop collapsed, and we don’t have a fall harvest anymore. Everything is torn up.

Our home, funny enough, remained unscathed. Just a few pieces of debris here and there, and my parents’ shattered bedroom window.

Even funnier, Dominion Capital roll up to ‘assess the property damage.’ Ruckers Homestead is a landscape of rubble, corn, and wheat. I doubt the land they purchased (took) survived the tornado.

I really want to ask why they were torturing us with that frequency device or why they were racist enough to attract an entity feeding off hate that Pied Piper our crop and animals. But I think my glare does enough.

Mom gives the creeps that side-eye glare she gives Dad all the time. They check on us (really just our property) in their own way. I look to Dad who won’t rip his gaze from the destruction. We don’t learn about insurance in school, but I doubt this would be cheap to fix.

All my memories, my ground house, Lily, our crazy chickens, goats, our neighbors—gone.

To my surprise, Dad talks to the man who gave him the real estate card. They’re too far away to hear, but the way Dad’s shoulders aren’t standing as tall as they usually do tells me everything.

And when the Dominion Capital creep hands him a new card, Dad pockets it.

That’s how I know Willie is on to his next meal.

The End.