I always said Texas heat could melt your mind clean off the bone…
It started with the cicadas. That’s how I knew something was wrong. Not because they were loud—they’re always loud come July—but because they never stopped. Not at night, not even when the sun dipped low to duck from its own burn. They droned on like the whirr of a machine that someone forgot to turn off, and once I heard it, I couldn’t unhear it.
That was the first week I started keeping the blinds closed. My son, Davis, said I was being dramatic. But what would he know? He’s not the one baking in this old house with a busted AC and walls that sweat like a pig. He offered to fix it, sure, but I told him no. I like the heat. Keeps me sharp.
I saw my daughter, Clarice, in the backyard the second week of the heatwave. At first I thought it was a mirage, some heat shimmer playing tricks on my eyes. But no—there she was, same little white dress, the one she wore the day her birth mama gave her up. My late husband had picked it out at the thrift store. Still too big on her shoulders.
She didn’t wave. Just stood there, toes sinking in the cracked mud where the grass used to be. When I opened the screen door, she was gone.
Clarice died three summers ago. Died right in her bedroom, barely sixteen, curled up like a dry leaf. It was ruled natural, a so-called “failure to thrive.” I never liked that phrase. Makes it sound like she just gave up. She was a sickly child, yes, but stubborn. Never talked much. Made weird humming noises to herself. I did the best I could.
Didn’t I?
The third week, Davis came back. Said he wanted to check in on me since I hadn’t been answering the phone. I told him the lines were dead, but he just stared at me like I was speaking tongues.
“Mama,” he said, “you buried me last year. Don’t you remember?”
I laughed so hard I nearly peed myself. Then I slapped him, like I used to when he said something smart-ass as a teen. Spouting nonsense at his big age, I could hardly believe it. But he didn’t react. Just stood there, blinking slow, like I was a ghost.
“You’re not real,” I whispered, testing the thought like a loose tooth.
He smiled. “That’s what we were hoping you’d say.”
Then he vanished. Or I forgot he was ever there.
Hard to say which.
You might think that’s when I lost it. But you’d be wrong.
The real break came later, when I tried to leave town. I packed up my old Buick with bottled water, stale crackers, and a rosary I hadn’t touched since Clarice’s funeral. Figured I’d head toward Oklahoma. Maybe find cooler air.
But every road I turned on looped me right back to the gas station at the edge of town. Big red sign blinking “OPEN” even though it was boarded up. I circled that place four times before I realized something was wrong.
On the fifth pass, the gas station attendant—Cora Mae, who used to work with me at the church kitchen—stood outside with a Slurpee in hand. She waved, slow and syrupy, and mouthed something I couldn’t hear over the cicadas.
I rolled down my window.
“What was that?” I shouted.
Her lips moved again. This time, I caught it:
“Hell don’t have walls.”
I didn’t sleep after that. Didn’t eat, either. The heat started curling the paint off the windowsills. My sheets stuck to my skin. I watched the hallway mirror warp my reflection until it didn’t look like me anymore. My nose too small. My mouth too wide.
I asked myself, was I the crazy one now?
But that’s the thing about going crazy—people don’t tell you when it happens. They just nod a little too slowly. Ask if you’ve taken your meds.
That’s what Davis did when he came by again. This time with Clarice. She was older now. Healthier-looking, with straightened hair and a clean, ironed shirt.
“She never died,” Davis said gently. “You made that up.”
“Did not,” I spat.
“You got confused. Remember? The doctor said it was schizophrenia. Started late. The heat’s just making it worse.”
“Clarice!” I snapped. “Tell him! You died, didn’t you? Didn’t you—?”
She looked at me with those big dark eyes and said, “Why would I die, Mama? You took such good care of me.”
My knees buckled.
The next week, the town held a vigil.
For who, I couldn’t say.
Everyone showed up. The pastor, the old mailman, my next-door neighbor who never wore deodorant but always brought pie. They all brought candles. They all stood in a circle around the oak tree in my front yard. Clarice’s tree. The one we planted the year she moved in.
They didn’t say my name. Just hers.
I stood behind them, barefoot in the dirt, and listened. No one turned around. Not even when I screamed.
That’s when I knew: they weren’t doing this for her.
They were doing it to me. To spite me.
The truth peeled back in layers, like sunburned skin.
Clarice had been different, yes. But I hadn’t tried to understand her. I’d locked her door some nights when she screamed. Ignored the school counselor who said she needed “real treatment.” Laughed when she said the voices wouldn’t stop.
“Everybody hears voices,” I’d told her. “That’s just God talking.”
Except maybe He wasn’t.
Maybe He isn’t.
Maybe the voices I hear now aren’t His at all.
Cora Mae showed up yesterday.
She brought a pie. Said it was peach but it tasted like metal.
“Everyone’s forgiven you, you know,” she said sweetly.
“Forgiven me for what?”
She tilted her head. “For letting her rot.”
I dropped the pie.
She didn’t blink.
Now the house talks to me.
It whispers in the vents. Groans in the pipes. Sometimes it says, “Mama,” in Clarice’s voice. Sometimes it says nothing. Just breathes.
I try to leave again, but the front door isn’t there this time. It’s fine. I don’t need to leave, anyway.
Let’s just collect my thoughts:
I might be dead. Or they are.
I might be sick. Or they made me this way.
Clarice might’ve lived. Or never existed. Or died just as I remember she did.
How did she die again?
The heatwave still hasn’t broken. The cicadas scream. The town smiles too wide. My reflection doesn’t blink when I do.
So I sit. And I wait.
Because someone’s coming.
Someone always comes.
And when they do, I’ll ask the only question that matters:
“Do you hear the cicadas, too?”
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The level of creepiness is fantastic, but it is also tragic. I like the pace and the peeling back of layers within the story. Great inaugural piece. Welcome to Reedsy.
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Thank you! That’s exactly what I was going for! Never shared my stories before, so I’m excited that it invoked the right feelings.
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Glad that you decided to share. Hope you find this a great platform to showcase your work.
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This story is simply stunning. From the very first line, it pulls you into a strange, unstable atmosphere where the ground never quite feels solid. As the narrator loses her grip on reality, we’re right there with her—wondering what’s real, what’s imagined, and whether the truth even matters anymore. The oppressive summer heat, the endless cicadas, and the eerie small-town characters all amplify the unease and dread. A powerful, haunting piece. Well done.
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