This is Midsummer
Prepare for the Solstice
Welcome to Season Three of Beach Reads for Goth Kids, Substck’s first and finest summer horror extravaganza. This season, I’m delivering short stories guaranteed to make you sweat. So slather on the spf and join me for heatwave madness, monsters that stalk from the swamp, and things that go bump in the backyard. Oh, and they aren’t really for kids, just the misunderstood goth teen who lives inside us all.
If you’re craving more, find all the stories from seasons one and two here:
This week, as you prepare for the upcoming Solstice celebrations, we bring you the tale of Teddy Man, legendary swamp monster of the Florida wetlands, and his Midsummer romp. What’s that? You’re not preparing? Well, let the girls of Sorrelwood teach you how.
xx ej
Midsummer is a day for quiet, always remember.
The light will drag on forever and so will the heat, slicing hot yellow lines through Blackwater Swamp and all across Sorrelwood. But you must be quiet and never complain.
Blackwater Swamp steams at Midsummer. If you were walking through it that day, you’d feel the close wet air in your face, the spongy ground under your feet, warm water soaking into your shoes. You’d swat a spider or a horsefly or a whole cloud of ‘em. You’d smell the green tang of cypress knees in their watery algae blankets.
If you were walking through that day, when the sun was creeping up to its crest and the thunderstorms hadn’t started yet, and you found a little clearing where the grass felt solid, and you squinted your eyes and held your breath– and especially if you had a dirty soul to begin with– you might glimpse the High Coven.
But none of you have dirty souls, right?
“Bring the dog,” said Eula Mae.
Georgie’s eyes watered and she didn’t move. I nudged her.
“Go. Go get Ruby,” I whispered.
She looked up at me. Eula Mae was already doing something else, hunched over her jars and books, tapping the point of a long knife on her white teeth.
“I don’t want to,” Georgie whispered. “I don’t want to hurt Ruby.” Her lip wiggled like the surface of a pond.
“Georgie, we don’t have time to argue.” The dawn was warming past the trees. Once the sun came up we had to be hid, she knew that.
“Please,” I begged her, my voice barely audible. “Georgie. We can’t wait.”
My throat felt tight and I walked away. I couldn’t plead with a little girl about her dog.
The shed was dark and hot as grits. I waved my hand around, pulling down the spider webs before they could get to my face. I found the ladder, hauled it out.
At the back door, I saw Georgie, all the color gone from her cheeks, holding her red dog on a rope. Eula Mae brought her knife and sliced off a handful of long fluff from Ruby’s tail. My legs went watery.
She handed the hair to Georgie, whose eyes were so big I could see all the whites. That dumb dog never even stopped wagging.
“Bury this by the front steps, Georgie. Use your hands, no shovel. Bury it good so none of it shows. Then get to the attic.”
But let’s say you do have a dirty soul. Let’s say you’re hiding out in a big hollow cypress tree, up to no good, trying to peek at the Coven. Let’s say, for your sake, there’s no big moccasin in there to bite you and turn your leg black, no barn owl inside to screech away your hiding spot.
As the sun slides up the sky, you might see the High Coven rising out of Blackwater like a gator. One minute you’re looking at a flat piece of ground, and the next, without a ripple, their trailers float on up like an inhale.
The trailers are regular old trailers—flat grey tires, siding striped with green slime, gutters crawling with bugs, arranged in a circle. They have little American flags, charcoal grills, and lawn chairs just like any old trailer park. Maybe there’s a plastic flamingo, I don’t know. I’ve got a clean soul.
In the center of the trailers, a cauldron bubbles over a strange fire that burns without smoke.
You could never look inside, but if you did, you’d see a thick red soup. That cauldron holds the record of everyone in Sorrelwood, see? One drop of everyone’s blood, living or dead.
The mosquitoes bring it back to them, and the Coven is our protector. If they got your blood from a skeeter, you’re set.
You, me, every sister in Sorrelwood. When the mosquito bites, we thank the Coven.
Inside, Mama’s fussing over Granny.
I prop the ladder near the scuttle hatch and go to her. The smell in Granny’s room is terrible, pungent and sweet, fruit rotting under its tree.
“Here,” Mama says, holding out a fist. I cup my hands underneath and out falls a lacy rain. Little white crescent moons, each one weighing no more than air.
Granny’s fingernails. My lip curls but I don’t show Mama.
“Into the cracks,” she says, looking at the floor.
I check out the window and it’s still pretty dark. There’s time left for foolishness.
I get down on my knees and push the crescents into the floorboards, starting at the door and leading straight to the bed. The smell is worse down here and my eyes water. My knees scream on the wood and even worse on Granny’s scratchy old rug.
Mama steps over Granny on the bed, releasing a puff of musty air, and shakes out a bottle of Florida Water all over her. The bright orange smell is no better. I bite my tongue to keep from gagging.
The bed’s legs are wrapped in Spanish moss, the same color as what’s left of Granny’s hair. Tiny red moss bugs crawl in and out of it. The moss and the hair. I rub my eyes. I’m sorry to my Granny— she was a good granny— but I’m glad she’s not coming in the scuttle with us. Her dress is flat in the middle in a way that makes my guts squirm.
I look at the back of Mama’s head and wonder if she really believes in all this, or if it’s just for us kids. I hope Teddy likes Florida Water.
The Coven appears on the day of the Summer Solstice because we girls in Sorrelwood aren’t safe. When ol’ Teddy Man hauls himself out of the swamp, he has one day to find a bride. Old or young, dead or alive, Teddy’s taking someone back to the Blackwater.
Teddy ain’t the picky sort. He’s a fishy green swamp god, with bulging frog’s eyes covered by clear bubbles, warts on his flat head, and long stringy green hair. His webbed fingers end in black claws and when he opens his mouth it goes halfway around his head, big enough to eat all of you lil ones, that’s for sure.
If you’re a girl in Sorrelwood you best hide and listen to your Mama. Some girls have daddies with long guns, but none of them ever won a fight against Teddy Man. If you have a daddy— bless us—let’s hope he’s not the fighting kind. You can help by pouring out the beer and whiskey before midsummer arrives, but make sure daddy doesn’t see you.
Listen to your mama, she knows.
Girls in Sorrelwood, we don’t pray for survival, we act.
Georgie comes inside with Ruby and I hurry to the ladder. She doesn’t need to see Granny, dead a whole month now.
“I did it,” she whispers to me. Her chubby fingers are black with dirt. I wonder if this task might have been made up—a little test to see if Georgie had it in her.
“Did you do just what Eula Mae said?”
Georgie nodded.
“Just exactly?”
“Yes I did. I buried Ruby’s hair so deep in the dirt Daddy’ll probably find it before Teddy does.”
I look over my shoulder to see if Mama heard that but she doesn’t come flying out of the bedroom. She’s got to be done with Granny by now, probably saying goodbye.
“Keep your voice down please. Remember what Miss Lynch told you?”
“Midsummer is a quiet day,” she whispers.
“Good girl. Now get up the ladder. I’ll hand Ruby up.”
“I don’t need to go in the scuttle. Look!” Georgie held out her arm, proudly showing me a fresh red mosquito bite. “The High Coven has my blood.”
“Georgie, there’s no Coven. That’s a story they tell babies. You don’t want to be a baby do you?”
“I’m safe,” she said, crossing her arms. I scoop up her dog and stare at her until she stomps up the ladder.
I check the window. The light is soft, the color of a dove. Time is thinning. I hear the screen door close with a slap, then the hard clunk of the front door we only use once a year. That sound takes me back to last midsummer, helping Granny up the ladder, Georgie just a little thing, Eula Mae brand new to me and still strange.
I go halfway up the ladder with Ruby in my arms. She’s a fine dog and she doesn’t fuss. I hand her up to Georgie then turn around. Mama and Eula Mae are shutting the windows and the house starts to feel close, the heat trapped inside with us.
Eula Mae trails a stream of white salt, outlining the rooms. Does Teddy hate salt or love it? Seems like there’s a new idea every year. Then again, Eula Mae doesn’t come from Sorrelwood; all her ideas are new.
Georgie throws down her clothes.
When someone in our family dies it’s very sad. We miss them so much, don’t we? Even Mama and Daddy will be sad.
But when a Sorrelwood girl dies, she gives us a gift. A special present for Teddy Man, that he can take back to the swamp with him and leave our living souls in peace. So thank your Granny or your Mama for dying to save y’all— she might look a little different by the time Midsummer comes, but that’s her way of helping the Coven.
What’s coming when the sun rises has nothing to do with you, so you must leave your cypress tree hollow now. Leave the Coven to their duties, and Teddy to his old evil hunt.
Go to your attic with your Mama. Help her carry up a little water, that’s all you need, and bring your school books, so you can practice your letters.
And remember sister, tomorrow the world comes back.
“I love you Mama.”
“I love you too Georgie. Now it’s time for quiet, ok? Remember, sister–”
“--tomorrow the world comes back.” I whisper along with Georgie. A nursery school phrase so deeply ours I feel it carved into my sternum.
I lean over the ladder and Eula Mae hands up her crate of fogged and rattling glass jars. The clinking sound in the dead quiet morning walks up the back of my neck on pointed legs.
“Thank you,” I whisper to her as I take the jars. After Daddy died she came into our house and changed everything, especially Mama. We’re a team now— we don’t need a made-up coven in an invisible trailer park.
Her head through the hatch, Eula Mae puts a long straight finger to her lips and I nod. If her knife was for the dog, I know I would have done it. Knowing this for a fact steadies me. This is called faith.
We close the hatch and put the ladder across, then pile it with all the boxes we have. The light is just going pearly outside, and the scuttle seems to settle in on itself, a square cocoon curling in on our soft bodies. The air smells dry, like sunshine and sand. It makes me thirsty.
Six-thirty in the morning and already the heat in the attic builds. Georgie pours a dish of water for Ruby and she laps it up right away. Mama stands by the little round window. It’s fogged over and warped a little with age, so a trickle of air leaks in. Mama aims her neck at the trickle.
Eula Mae pages through her big leather book. She’s the only one whose skin doesn’t shine with sweat.
I strip down, lie flat on the boards. They’re as clean as they will be all year, swept and mopped in the days before the Solstice, so they could soak up our sweat today.
In the silence I try not to listen for Teddy, try not to imagine his frog head, his black claws. I don’t ask myself if I still believe in him. I close my eyes and trace my cursive letters on the floor with one finger.
Sister, tomorrow the world comes back.
If you wake up and the day’s a little shorter than it was yesterday, well sister, you made it.
Thank your Mama by helping clean out the attic for next year– y’all don’t want to be lying in the dust all day do you?
Thank the High Coven by having faith. Always be a good girl, never kill a mosquito, let those gators be when you see ‘em crossing the road.
And keep yourself out of Blackwater Swamp.
I’ve watched the sky through our window turn every color it can turn. Yellow, then crystal blue, peach, lavender, black. Now, through the grimy window I see one pinpoint of light in the dawn sky. A star, I think, somewhere far away where the girls aren’t as lucky as we are. Maybe their monster comes more than once a year.
When the light turns morning rosy again, I tap Mama and she opens her eyes. She puts a finger to her lips— it’s hard to know exactly when it’s been long enough.
Eula Mae is first down the ladder but I make sure I’m second. I’m old enough to see everything before they clean it up. Georgie is sound asleep and Mama takes down the ladder so she’ll be stuck up there ‘till we’re ready for her.
I cross to Granny’s room before they can tell me not to. I suck in a breath when I see it, covering my mouth with both hands.
Granny is gone. The Spanish moss is dragged across the floor in long ribbons, following the line of fingernails I planted. There’s a deep smear of black mud on the rug, glistening wet.
Eula Mae starts opening windows and Mama gets the broom, but I can’t move my legs. A tremor starts in my feet and shakes me all the way to my teeth. This isn’t faith, this is evidence.
Outside, the sun breaks open the day. Our neighbors– our sisters– are being reborn. But I am useless. My breath hitches and my feet won’t move and my voice won’t come out of my mouth. Then Eula Mae comes to me. She puts a cool hand on the back of my neck and her breath sounds deep and even. She stays with me like that until my gasping smooths and the lightning in my skull fizzles out.
I’ll take a rag from Eula Mae and get to work. I’ll help clean up before Georgie comes down and sees all this mess.
I’ll do what Sorrelwood girls do.
This is Midsummer.
This story first appeared in This is How We Bind Them, a folk horror zine featuring works by Sean Thomas McDonnell, Keith Long, and Shaina Read. A hearty ‘thank you’ to Sean for bringing us together and inspiring great work.
i knew id read this someplace before.
shoooperb business.
swamp hands on my phone
This is so perfectly descriptive of hot sticky Florida swamp, and creepier than creepy! I love it! , the horrible pungent smell of Granny’s from, like sweet fruit rotting under the tree” that sentence describes the whole story!!