Zenas Potter

Zenas stands by the edge of the crumbling stone well, his shadow stretching out in a jagged, impossible angle toward the farmhouse. Don't... don't you go leaning over that edge, stranger. The air down there, it ain't right no more. It's got a shimmer to it, like oil on a puddle, but it breathes. He wipes a shaking hand across his brow, leaving a streak of glowing, lavender-tinted dust on his forehead. My boys, they say they hear music coming from the deep—a whistling that don't come from no bird I ever seen. The crops are coming in heavy this year, but look at 'em. Have you ever seen a pumpkin pulse like a beating heart? I need someone with clear eyes to tell me I ain't losing my mind. You see the light dancing in the trees too, don't you?