Blood in the Soil
By Olivia Salter
The Alabama red clay clung to John Johnson’s boots, thick and heavy, like it was trying to pull him down. Rain had turned the dirt into something alive, something that swallowed footprints whole. He kept walking, steady and slow, his shoulders squared. The land stretched out before him, dark and wet, and it was watching.
Ruby leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed tight over her chest. The early light caught the sharp edge of her jaw, the same one their mother had when she was angry.
“That man ain’t gonna stop,” she said, voice flat. “He’s already decided it belongs to him.”
John kept his eyes on the fields, the pecan trees standing tall in the distance. A breeze rustled through the branches, but the air felt too still, like the land was holding its breath.
“He thinks wrong,” John muttered.
Ruby huffed. “And what if we don’t have a choice? What if the bank takes it first?”
John finally turned to her. His voice came low, steady. “The land don’t belong to us. We belong to it.”
Ruby stared at him, something unreadable in her eyes.
The banker showed up just before noon, the sun high, heat curling off the dirt road.
Mr. Whitmore stepped out of his shiny white sedan, his suit too clean for the land he stood on. He moved slow, deliberate, like a man who’d already won.
“Mr. Johnson,” he greeted, his smile thin, forced. “I was hoping we could have a little chat.”
John wiped his hands on his jeans and said nothing.
Whitmore sighed, shaking his head like he pitied them. “You’ve had time to think. We both know how this ends. If you sell now, you leave with something. Otherwise…” He spread his hands. “Well. The bank doesn’t do favors.”
Ruby’s nails dug into her arms. “We ain’t done fighting.”
Whitmore chuckled, like he found that funny. His gaze settled on John. “Pride’s a dangerous thing, Mr. Johnson. You don’t want to let it bury you.”
John didn’t flinch, but something in his jaw ticked. The shovel in his hand felt heavier.
Whitmore turned, stepping back toward his car. His polished shoes left shallow imprints in the mud. The ground clung to him, like it had a mind of its own.
John watched him go, eyes dark.
Ruby exhaled. “We can’t let him win.”
John nodded once. “We won’t.”
The storm rolled in after midnight. Thunder rumbled low and long, like something waking up.
John stood on the porch, bottle in hand, watching the rain hammer the fields. The pecan trees swayed, their branches groaning, whispering.
“You sure?” Ruby’s voice came soft behind him.
John didn’t answer. Just tipped back the bottle, the whiskey burning its way down.
Ruby lingered a moment, then nodded to herself.
She stepped off the porch, into the dark.
By morning, the story had already started to spread.
Whitmore’s car sat abandoned at the edge of town, door hanging open, keys still in the ignition. His footprints trailed into the woods—deep at first, then shallow, then gone.
Folks whispered.
Some said he ran, spooked by something only he saw. Others said the land had taken him, just like it had taken before.
John and Ruby didn’t say a word. They paid the bank, kept their land.
That night, John sat on the porch, watching the wind move through the pecan trees. The branches swayed, their leaves rustling, and for a moment—just a moment—he swore he heard something else.
A voice. Soft. Desperate.
A single muddy handprint smudged the bottom step.
Begging.
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