Not Your Usual Scary Stories

Silence of Cicadas

--------------------Part 1------------------------

If you can, listen to this video (above) on medium volume in the background on PC/mobile in a quiet room while reading, if you dare. Pause where indicated within the story 

The feeling of hot, muggy summer air against my face brings me back to my childhood. Somehow, that familiar endless buzzing of the cicadas has always lived in the back of my mind. I am reminded of days long past, memories long are forgotten. I spent every summer here with my grandparents till I was five. I haven't been back to this house since then, but as I step onto the oddly familiar porch, I can't stop the memories from washing back in like the evening tide.

There's the bench I used to climb on. I got my head stuck between the bars once and grandpa had to pry it open. I can still see the slight bend in the metal.

And there's the rocking chair he always used to sit in. He would bounce me on his knee while he read newspaper articles out loud to me. I have a few odd recollections of being there. The world seems strange and distorted in my mind, but I can still feel his scruffy chin, smell his menthol cigar, taste a cold popsicle in my mouth.

He'll never bounce me on that knee again. I'm adult now, and that old man has died. I flew into town for his funeral. It was a lovely service, but I could hardly connect it with the man I hadn't seen in years. It wasn't until grandma and I returned to the house that the memories came flooding back, though I didn't have the time to ponder them. Grandma was distraught. She needed my help.

I think I'll be here a while. Grandma keeps calling out for him in the night and addressing me by the wrong name. She shouldn't be here alone. I'm the only one that can take care of her. My parents were only too happy to shirk the responsibility.

I take a seat in grandpa's rocking chair, finally able to take a moment for reflection. Yes, being here really brings back the clarity of my earlier memories. They feel almost like a faded dream, but the reality surrounding me is a solid anchor. This is that very porch, those are the same trees, it's even a hot, sticky, summer evening just as it always was. I take in a deep breath of moist air and follow the smell back to an earlier time.

In the evenings we would come out to this porch, just me and grandpa. I would play in the grass while he strummed melodies on his banjo. It stands out to me in stark contrast to the home I was raised in. Here there was no television. Here there were no toys. We found other ways to entertain ourselves.

I remember lying spread eagle on the floor in my underwear, munching on fresh watermelon to fight the heat, with grandpa always in the background; the scent of grilled meat and smoked pipe filling the air. But more often than not, I remember sitting on his lap and staring out into the deep forest. Oh the stories he would tell. Stories of things I had never heard. I don't remember many details, but I remember the point.

This forest was old, almost magical. Grandpa always spun tall tales about the keepers of the woods. The last remnants of the world before humans. Elves, sprites, and beasts of all sorts. It really filled my young mind with a sense of wonderment for this place, and I feel it now as the night sky falls heavy upon its branches. I've been here before.

I glance upon those very trees. They feel even older now, aged along with me. Their shadows grow long in the last rays of the setting sun, dancing along the ground as the trees shake in the soft breeze. I can still feel that same wonder as I stare, becoming lost in the depths of the forest. For a moment I am that young child again. I can practically hear my grandpa's droning voice behind me as I scan the foliage for movement.

I can feel the joy, the curiosity, the magic, but then something else bubbles up to the surface.

Fear.