The rusty shovel leaned against the shed’s weathered wall, its wooden handle worn smooth by years of use. Mary Beth stared at it through the kitchen window, her thin fingers nervously twisting the dish towel.
“That shovel ain’t nothing special,” Mama had always said, but Mary Beth knew better. She’d seen things in the moonlight, when the crickets went quiet and the air grew thick with possibility.
“You still mooning over that old thing?” Uncle Vernon’s voice startled her. He stood in the doorway, tobacco juice staining the corners of his mouth. “Your mama told you to leave it be.”
“I ain’t mooning over nothing,” Mary Beth muttered, but her eyes drifted back to the shed. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the yard, making the shovel’s outline seem to writhe against the wall.
“That shovel buried your daddy,” Vernon said, his voice low and gravelly. “Best leave the past where it lies.”
Mary Beth’s hands trembled. “Daddy ain’t dead.”
Vernon spat into an empty coffee can. “Suit yourself, girl. But them dreams you been having ain’t nothing but fever talk.”
The dreams had started three months ago. Every night, she’d see Daddy using that shovel, digging in the far corner of the property where the kudzu grew thick. His face would be illuminated by strange, dancing lights, and he’d whisper words she couldn’t quite catch.
“I hear him sometimes,” Mary Beth said, her voice barely a whisper. “When the wind blows just right, I hear him calling from somewhere deep.”
Vernon’s face darkened. “Now you listen here—”
But Mary Beth was already moving, screen door slamming behind her as she ran across the yard. The shovel felt alive in her hands, humming with secrets.
“Mary Beth!” Vernon’s shouts followed her into the gathering dusk. “You leave that ground alone!”
She reached the kudzu corner as night fell, the air heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and decay. The shovel sank into the earth with a sound like sighing.
“I’m coming, Daddy,” she whispered, dirt flying. “I heard you calling.”
Hours passed, the hole growing deeper. Vernon’s calls had long since faded, replaced by the whispered promises of the wind. The shovel moved faster now, eager, hungry.
When the metal struck something solid, Mary Beth’s heart leaped. But what she uncovered wasn’t her father’s face—it was just an old box, its wood rotted and split.
Inside lay a collection of worthless trinkets: a broken watch, some Confederate money, a tarnished locket. Nothing more.
The shovel slipped from her fingers, suddenly ordinary again. Above her, the moon cast strange shadows through the kudzu leaves, and somewhere in the distance, a whip-poor-will called mournfully into the night.
Mary Beth stood there until dawn, covered in dirt, while the crickets slowly resumed their song and the world pretended nothing had changed at all.