by Kim Hayes
I sat on the steps of the smaller house, with a bottle of chilled white wine next to me. It was a gorgeous spring afternoon. I smelled the clump of mint that grew nearby and remembered picking it as a child for my parents’ mint juleps. It had been a long time since I was last here.
The detectives here with me hid themselves well. I was equipped with a tiny earpiece and microphone. They kept asking me if I was ok and I kept assuring them that I was fine and I knew what I was doing. Twice someone said they thought they heard voices. Or thumps. Signals were made for specific situations to avoid speaking.
More whispers, rustling in the trees with no wind and one very loud thump from inside the smaller house. I realized my ancestors were still present, even after all this time. They remembered me.
Everything would be ok; they would look out for me.
Knowing it might be a couple of hours; I turned on the phone he had given me a few months ago. The GPS was on. He’d find me soon enough.
And then he would pay.
He had no clue who or with what he was messing. He didn’t know about my history or my connection to this place. That was his biggest mistake.
You don’t mess with the South.
We waited.
Eventually, three black Cadillacs, the kind you see in presidential parades, drove slowly down the driveway. It amused me if he thought he needed that much backup.
Several men got out of cars and started sweeping the property. He exited the final car and glanced around. Seeing me on the steps, he smiled. “What brings you out here? Where is this, anyway?”
Idiot.
“It’s called Google Maps. Use it.” I nursed my wine. I had all the time in the world.
“I did. You don’t seem to be the sort to trespass.”
“I have permission. I thought this spot would be a good, neutral meeting place. You said you wanted to talk. So, talk.”
He took some time to walk around, conferring with his posse over a radio. They spread out, searched bushes, explored the barn, then headed to the ruins of the big house. They avoided the smaller house, where I was sitting, possibly at his direction.
They asked about the circle of bricks near the ruins. They all looked at each other, clueless. I spoke up. “Ask your boss here, he says he grew up in this part of the country.”
One of his younger men approached me. He looked fresh out of college, just a kid. “He asked me to sit here with you. I don’t bite.”
“Plenty of room.” I held up the bottle of wine. “Sorry, no glasses. I don’t have cooties.”
A shout from the barn interrupted us. Two of his men ran out, squawking on their radios.
He glared at me. “You said you were alone. They heard voices. And noises.”
“I am alone. I have permission.” A slight wind rustled through the trees, but to me it sounded like laughter. My ancestors had them spooked. The tiny earpiece in my ear whispered, “We heard it. Your kin don’t like them. They are itching to stir things up.”
I undid the ponytail my hair was in and re did it. That was my signal for them to wait.
“What voices? I haven’t heard a thing.” I said.
“I asked you first. You are supposed to be alone.” His hand went to the gun in the holster he was wearing. The kid sitting next to me gave me a look as if to say, ‘Sorry, I’m just following orders’, and stood up, with a hand on his gun.
Then I noticed where he was standing. I tried not to smile. He’d find out soon enough.
He yelled and looked down, as a swarm of furious red ants covered his legs. He had stepped right into an enormous pile of fire ants. They swarmed up his pants, on his legs, and kept going. His lower body was covered in a layer of ants.
I sat there fascinated, unable to look away. The rest of his men came running, guns up, stopping short to watch their boss flailing about.
“WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING. WHAT IS THIS,” he yelled. He screamed, “You knew, didn’t you?”, looking at me and the expression on my face.
I took a huge swig of wine, savoring the taste before answering. “You made one big mistake. You never did your full research on me. I grew up here. You claimed you did, but the fact that you ignored where you were stepping says otherwise. Anyone who grew up in the South knows to watch their step. This property used to be in my family. Like I said, I have permission.”
At this point he was frozen, he couldn’t move. The ants were swarming all over him. The ant pile that was visible above ground was at least six inches high. Fire ant piles as large as the one he stepped in often had another six inches of nest underground. There were millions of ants in it. And they were swarming everywhere.
His henchmen didn’t know what to do. They stumbled over each other as they scrambled to get back in the cars and drove off.
His screams echoed around us as the ants covered him up. From my perifacial vision I saw a few detectives coming out from hiding.
The thumping grew louder, the whispers increased. The tree branches shook in a wind that didn’t exist. My ancestors were pleased.
Justice was served.
© 2025 Kim Hayes All rights reserved.
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