the cicadas screamed

The north Georgia mountains rang with screams. 

Allison wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to get used to it. There was lots of noise in LA, screaming included sometimes, but not like this. This was unsettling, how every afternoon, when the sun was at its highest and hottest, the woods around her would ring loud with an incessant, droning wail. 

Cicadas, as she found out, were responsible for the screaming. Large, flying insects swarmed the area in the summer, littering the sky and the ground. Allison hated them. She could deal with the sticky heat and the slow pace and the early closing hours, but screaming bugs was a true test of her patience. 

On Saturday, Allison went to the farmers’ market, as she had every week since first moving to the area. It had taken her a while to find the right market, as there were several in the area, but she’d finally found one that suited her needs: this farmers’ market was the only one in a three-county radius that was indoors, something Allison found invaluable. Here, a high vaulted roof and giant metal fans kept the sticky summer heat at bay, while the concrete walls provided protection from the myriad of swarming bugs, including the wretched cicadas. 

Allison hated the cicadas. She tried to limit her excursions outside as much as she could, anxiously clinging to the promise that they would be gone soon, but try as she might, she could not resist the farmers’ market, so every Saturday, she braved the dangers of the outdoors, parked her car as close as she could, and made a mad dash to the front door. One time she wasn’t quick enough and a cicada had gotten tangled in her hair. 

Allison thought for sure she was going to die. 

Thankfully, one of Allison’s favorite sellers happened to be walking by at that minute, and he gently helped pry the bug free and escorted Allison to the safety of inside, where he bought her a cup of lemonade and gave her a discount on her flowers, which Allison greatly appreciated and thought was perfectly fine compensation for the way he’d chuckled at her as he’d pried the buzzing monster off of her. 

As usual, Allison spent her time slowly meandering about and perusing the offerings: juicy peaches, bright watermelon, and spicy peppers; fragrant flower bouquets and jarred soups. She was just about finished with her shopping when she felt eyes following her. She ignored it for a while, but eventually relented and looked around for the source. 

Two women, as old and textured as the mountains themselves, sat in their usual corner, rocking asynchronous in their chairs, bones and wood slowly creaking as they kept a lazy hawk’s eye over the market. As she looked over to them, she met their watery gaze. The women held her eyes for a moment, then turned to each other and started to whisper. 

Allison made her way closer to them, trying to see if she could hear what they were saying. 

“Think she’ll be one of ‘em?”

“Maybe. We’ll have to see.”

“I think so. And you know I’m never wrong.”

“You were wrong about the Wright boy last time.”

“Besides that.”

“And the Jenkins girl. And little Emma.”

“Well you haven’t predicted one right since the Reed siblings.”

Allison rolled her eyes and dismissed their bickering as nonsense, just two old ladies with nothing better to do than gossip about the townspeople. Whatever they were talking about, being “one of them” was probably none of Allison’s concern. 

She grabbed a final few things at the market and headed out to do some other errands. She’d dismissed the old womens’ conversation as unimportant, but the shadow of it lingered in the back of her mind for the rest of the day. 

That evening, as Allison cooked dinner, she heard a rustle outside. She looked out her kitchen window, figuring maybe it was her neighbor’s chickens again, but didn’t see anything. 

Allison continued with her work. Another rustle came as she plated her supper. She ignored it, but it grew louder and more insistent. Maybe a storm was coming. Southern storms were different from other storms, she was coming to learn, weird sounds included. The rustle grew more insistent, but Allison was determined to ignore it. 

Until the rustle called to her. 

“Allison.”

Allison froze. Surely she was hearing things. 

“Allison.” 

The wind called again. She peered tentatively out the window. The back of her property was lined with woods. Allison hadn’t bothered with them, but something about them called to her now. 

“Allison.” 

Allison was halfway out the door before she realized what she was doing. She hesitated, it would be dark soon and she didn’t have a flashlight, but when the woods called again, Allison shut the door behind her and walked to the edge of the wood. 

“Allison.” 

The call seemed more excited, more coaxing the closer she got to the treeline. Something in her urged her to turn around and go back into the house, to lock the doors and windows tight and curl up under a bright light, but her curiosity won out and she crept closer to the woods. 

“Allison.” 

Her foot rose. 

Dusk fell. 

She crossed into the forest. 

A shiver crawled along her spine as she stepped into the woods, but Allison wrote it off and continued on, seeking the source of the sound. 

The hum grew louder the deeper she went into the forest. Beckoning. Warning. 

“Allison.” The woods called again, low and haunting. “Allison.”

Allison stepped off the path. 

The humming beckoned her deeper. Allison snuck further into the forest, leaving the path far behind her. The forest was dark, illuminated only by patches of moonlight streaming through the branches. Allison followed the humming and occasional soft calls of her name all the way into a clearing, at which point the humming surrounded her. She paused and looked around, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. She couldn’t see anything but trees and darkness. 

Allison’s attention was pulled to the left. The woods seemed to quiver and darken. Allison’s breath quickened as a shadow began to peel itself off the trees, gathering and creeping closer and closer. She started to back up, intending to flee but unwilling, or unable, to take her eyes off the shadow. She made it a few feet and was about to turn and bolt when a snap echoed loud, breaking the eerie silence of the forest. The shadow froze, much like Allison’s blood when she felt the shadow’s attention lock onto her. 

As the shadow crept toward her, Allison realized it wasn’t a shadow, but a mass. A tall, writhing mass, over seven feet tall and two feet wide. Allison turned and ran. 

Fire flared across Allison’s face and she fell to the ground. A hand to her face came back sticky and dotted with hot blood. Allison wiped her hand and looked up to see the large tree she’d run into. A tree that she did not remember from her journey into the forest. 

Allison did not have long to soak in her fear and confusion. The humming noise surrounding her pressed in on her, louder and more insistent. The edges of her vision darkened and Allison remembered the shadow mass. She pushed herself to her feet and tried to run, but something held her foot to the ground. Allison looked down and saw a thin green vine with wide leaves twining around her right foot. Kudzu. The same vine that laid over the trees and mountains around her in a thick carpet, choking the life out from anything underneath it. 

She tugged, but the vine only tightened. 

A cold sweat settled over Allison as she watched the vine creep higher, wrapping around her leg as another vine started to snake its way up her other leg. 

“No, no!” Allison yelled as the vines dragged across the forest floor, muddy ruts carving into the ground as she struggled. The vines crept higher, binding her legs together and wrapping around the tree. Quicker than she could realize, the vines had wrapped around her torso and pinned her arms out to the side of her. Once she was bound, the vines tugged once, twice, and then settled. Allison pulled at her restraints, but they wouldn’t budge. 

Bound to the tree, Allison was helpless to do anything but watch as the shadow mass crept up to within a few yards of her. It paused, seemingly considering her, then slunk closer.

As it approached, Allison realized the humming sound was coming from the mass and that it was less of a hum and more of a buzz. The mass writhed and crept closer, closer, closer, and Allison’s fear rose higher, higher, higher. 

Allison felt a lump in her throat. Initially, she thought it was just discomfort, a scream trapped under panic, but as it started to grow larger, she realized it was not a scream, but something worse. Something physical. 

Whatever it was was large and buzzing as it rose up in her throat, throttling her into a pained choke. She pulled at the vines strapping her to the tree, needing to clutch and grasp at her throat, to reach down and pull out whatever was replacing her breath with panic, but her arms were bound tight. She fought desperately and fruitlessly against her leafy restraints which only made them wind tighter, the thin vines twining tight and biting, until her blood dappled the leaves with little ruby freckles. 

The thing in her throat rose higher, twitching and struggling to free itself. Allison started to gag. As she struggled, the writhing mass drew even closer, faster and more frenzied. This close, she could see that the mass was made up of thousands and thousands of small insects, their flurried movement emitting a pulsing heat. 

The thing fought its way to her mouth. Allison could feel tiny legs scrabbling against her tongue and wings scraping her soft palate. The mass grew closer, closer, and Allison knew it was connected to whatever was inside her. Allison heaved, her body curling into itself as a fat, winged insect flew out of her mouth. She had only a moment to inspect it. It was large, with sickly orange wings, and beady red eyes - a cicada, she realized - before the mass descended upon her. 

The vines encircling her wilted and crumbled, and Allison dropped to the forest floor. The mass engulfed her, her screams drowned out by a high-pitched, frenetic buzzing, an echoing scream of its own. 

The night seemed endless, but eventually, the pink and orange tinges of dawn began to sweep across the sky. As night receded, so did the mass. By the time daylight claimed the forest, the only evidence that anything had happened that night was a few ruts in the ground, an empty cicada shell, and a thin gold bracelet with a little “A” charm. 

The next Saturday, the vendors of the farmers’ market shuffled in and set up their goods. The cicadas continued to bumble about outside, though several patrons had comments on how much milder the swarm was, with not nearly as many bugs flying around as before. 

Perhaps the end is near, one said. 

Until next time, at least, another responded. 

Two old women rocking in the corner listened to the comments. They shared a twisted, toothless smile, and continued rocking, the creaks and groans of their chairs echoes of the noise of the forest. 

And, that afternoon, the cicadas screamed.