Cicadas and Secrets

     The sun hung low in the sky, hot as a skillet over the sleepy Texas town where nothing moved faster than molasses. Liz kicked at a rock in the dirt driveway of her grandmother's ranch house, dust puffing under her sneakers like sighs of boredom. 

     "City feet," Abuela Rosa muttered, watching from her porch swing as Liz danced around prickly weeds. "Soft soles don't belong on hard ground." 

     Liz gave a half-smile, the kind of smile you offer when you're fifteen and stuck for a summer with someone who believes monsters lurk in the shadows and that tea leaves can predict heartbreak. The dry wind carried the scent of mesquite and something else—iron and ozone, like thunder without a storm. 

     "You know," Abuela began, swaying like the swing was telling her secrets, "Back in the day, this land was Chupacabra country." 

     Liza squinted. "You mean the dog thing that sucks blood? Thats, like, a meme."

     Abuela didn't laugh. Her eyes, milky around the edges, turned toward the hills. "It's real. I saw it once, by the canton. Blood moon overhead, and a goat missing by dawn."

     Liz rolled her eyes but felt a flicker of curiosity bloom beneath her ribs. The town was dull, but stories—stories could make the heat bearable.

     That night, under a star-freckled sky, Liz stepped onto the porch with a glass of melting lemonade and stared into the darkness beyond the fields. Cicadas buzzed in waves, and something rustled near the chicken coop.

     “Abuela?” she called, but the swing was empty, still swaying.

     She set the glass down and walked to the edge of the porch. There were prints in the dirt—odd ones, like claws... and a strange whimper, low and ragged, curling out from the shadows.

     Summer had finally stopped being boring.