BLOOD IN SOIL

Start The bus hissed as it pulled away, leaving behind the stale scent of gasoline and hot rubber. Zeke Taylor stood on the cracked sidewalk, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, staring down the street he’d tried not to dream about. The Bottom.

It hadn’t changed in the ways he hoped. If anything, it looked worse—sun-bleached paint flaking off shotgun houses, chain-link fences curling like paper at the corners. Grass and weeds had claimed front yards whole, rising up like they were trying to take the houses back into the dirt.

But it wasn’t just decay. There was something else. A weight in the air. Like the neighborhood was holding its breath.

Zeke adjusted the strap digging into his shoulder and started walking.

Every step he took felt too loud, like the cracked pavement was calling out his return. He passed a rusted-out swing set with one chain missing the seat twisting slowly in the breeze. Wind chimes clinked in a nearby window, but there was no wind. Not really. Just a feeling crawling over his skin.

He reached the duplex where he and Nova had grown up. The siding was the same faded green, and the porch still leaned to the right like it was tired. He stood at the base of the steps for a long minute. Then the door creaked open.

Nova stood there, thin and taller than he remembered, barefoot in the doorway, sketchbook clutched to her chest like armor. Her eyes met his—and something in them flickered, like recognition and distance both tried to take hold at once.

“Hey,” Zeke said, unsure how to smile.

She nodded. “You’re early.”

Her voice was softer than he remembered, but there was steel underneath.

“I caught the first bus,” he said.

Nova stepped back. “You can come in.”

He followed her into the house. It was quiet. Too quiet. Their aunt wasn’t home, but her smell—lemons and menthol—lingered in the air.

“You’ve grown up,” he said, trying again.

Nova sank into the arm of the couch, legs folded up. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

He had. Four years. One stupid mistake after another. And now here he was—older, marked, trying to find his place in a home that no longer felt like one.

“Thanks for... being here,” he said.

She didn’t respond. Just flipped open her sketchbook and started to draw. Lines moved under her pencil like muscle memory. Like she needed to.

Zeke watched for a second before excusing himself. He needed air.

The corner store hadn’t changed. The same flickering sign. Same dusty display of expired snacks. But when he walked in, it felt different.

People stopped talking when they saw him. The man behind the counter narrowed his eyes. An older woman clutched her purse tighter as she passed.

“Zeke Taylor,” someone muttered near the back. “Ain’t he supposed to be locked up?”

He ignored it. Grabbed a soda and walked to the register.

The clerk—Mr. Harris, same as always—rang him up in silence.

“You doin’ okay?” Zeke asked, trying to bridge something.

Mr. Harris stared at him a moment too long. “Best you keep your head down, son. Lotta folks ain’t forgot.”

Zeke nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

As he left, he felt eyes on his back. And something else. A pulse beneath his feet.

He took a long way home, cutting past the old school building and across a sidewalk shaded by oak trees. The Bottom always had its secrets, tucked into empty lots and overgrown corners.

He paused at a broken grate in the sidewalk, the kind covering storm drains deep enough to swallow a man whole. He was about to step over it when he heard it—three knocks. Hollow, rhythmic. From beneath.

Zeke froze. “Hello?”

Silence.

He crouched, peering down through the rusted bars. Nothing but shadow and trash.

Another knock. This time slower. Deliberate.

He jerked back, heart punching in his chest. He scanned the street. Empty.

Zeke walked faster after that, every footstep echoing off the cracked pavement, as if something underneath was following.

When he got back, Nova was in her room, the door half-shut. He knocked softly.

“You, okay?” he asked.

She looked up from her sketchbook. He caught a glimpse—charcoal figures in the dark, faces twisted in agony, eyes black and bottomless.

“Did you draw that from memory?” he asked.

Nova closed the book slowly. “I don’t know. I just... see things sometimes.”

Zeke didn’t know what to say to that. So, he didn’t say anything at all.

That night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the fridge and the far-off yelps of stray dogs. But beneath it all, he could hear something else.

Knocking. From under the floorboards.

And when he looked toward Nova’s room, he saw light spilling under the crack of her door—and her shadow shifting, even though she wasn’t moving.