There was an old native cemetery behind my cousin's house.
We went there often as kids.
We went there often as kids.
There was a sound out further than that. Well past the visible tree line.
You could stand at the edge of the yard near the old swingset and hear it.
Sometimes it was so faint I wasn’t sure if it was real. Other times it was unmistakable. I never asked the adults if they could hear it.
Sometimes it was so faint I wasn’t sure if it was real. Other times it was unmistakable. I never asked the adults if they could hear it.
It was a drumbeat. Slow. Steady. Always out beyond where I could see.
And beyond that sound. None of us ever dared to go that far. I thought about what was beyond a lot. I made plans to go out there, but we never did.
That whole area was filled with magic though. The aunties were always telling us stories. Stories filled with magic.
One story really stood out to me. My aunt said she took something from a grave when she was a kid. She wouldn’t say what. Just said it was small. Pretty.
But that night something woke up. And it didn’t stop.
She said it circled the house. Knocked on the windows. Sat in the driveway with headlights off. Kept honking. Kept knocking. Kept waiting.
That next morning she returned the item and everything stopped.
That next morning she returned the item and everything stopped.
I sometimes wonder what she took.
I think about my cousin’s house a lot. The cemetery. The drumbeat.
I think about going out there, just to see if that drumbeat still exists.
I think about my cousin’s house a lot. The cemetery. The drumbeat.
I think about going out there, just to see if that drumbeat still exists.
