text: Braahnk. Braahnk. “The Croaks are coming.” Mortimer rocked back in the rickety chair. Took another swig of sweet tea. The breeze blowing through the porch cooled his leathered skin during the midsummer's night. “Ain't no such thing as Croaks, Papaw.” Little Averitt says he doesn't believe. But his wide eyes and his goosebumps betray his words. “They're just bullfrogs.” Averitt continued. The boy's grandfather turned to him. “There're bullfrogs out there for sure. Cicadas and 'gators. Cottonmouths too.” They scanned the swamp that stretches out beyond the front porch. There's plenty out there that could kill a man. Braahnk. This time Averitt jumped. Mortimer let out a chuckle. Averitt climbed off the floor and edged closer to his Papaw. “You gotta be careful this year, boy. You're finally ripe.” “They don't take little boys away!” With defiance, Averitt belted out his words. They say the Croaks only snatch children of at least eight years. Averitt's never seen it happen. He's never been friends with older kids either. Mortimer enjoys toying with his grandson, but he knows Averitt had better stay close to home this summer. The Croaks aren't too concerned with the child's belief system. A lack of belief didn't keep Mortimer's friend safe. Nor his brother. Of course, everyone in the small town of Henry believes the boys ran away. That they do believe. Braahnk. “Is it time for bed yet?” Averitt's getting awfully fidgety. Even more fidgety than an eight year old ought to be. Mortimer throws another gulp of sweet tea down the hatch. A few cubes of ice rattle around the empty jar. He stands to stretch. Back pops like a corn cob thrown on dying embers. “I suppose it is, boy.” **biscuits and gravy** “Averitt, get down here! Breakfast's ready!” Eleanor didn't believe. She's had to listen to her husband talk about Croaks her whole marriage. Sure, she didn't meet Mortimer until later in life. And she didn't grow up in Henry. But she's the best Grandma Averitt could ask for. She treats him like her own. Treats him to fluffy, buttery, cathead biscuits topped with her famous sausage gravy for breakfast. Half-asleep, Averitt makes his way downstairs. “Did Papaw keep you up late again last night?” Mortimer's not going to let Averitt answer this one. “I wouldn't dare such a thing, Ellie!” Averitt flashes a grin. “We heard the Croaks last night, Grandma!” That lights her up. “What did I tell you about fillin' that boy's head with lies!” “Aw, they was just bullfrogs is all.” “But you told me--” Mortimer won't let his grandson protest. Now's not the time. Gotta let Eleanor get off to the neighbor's house. Too many goats to milk and not enough hands. Eleanor heads to the wash basin to clean up. Scrubbing dishes, she's still hot. She's spouting off to no one in particular, but Mortimer sure can hear it. She dries the last dish, washes her hands, and heads for the front door. Pauses. Turns. “Don't scare the poor boy, Mort.” She walks over to Averitt and plants a wet kiss on his cheek. He's not too keen on grandma-kisses, but accepts her affection. She's going to be late. Eleanor turns and heads out the door. Mortimer walks over to the window. Watches her walk down the dirt road. Once Eleanor is a sufficient distance he turns back to Averitt. “You better believe those were Croaks, boy! Every ten years. Middle of summer they come.” Only by accident of birth did Averitt miss the last Pickin'. He's more curious to hear the tale again under the safety of daylight. Mortimer and Avery sop their plates clean and head outside. No breeze today. The oppressive heat does a number on Mortimer. He finds his seat and pulls out a handkerchief to fan himself. Averitt plops down at the edge of the porch, feet dangling over the side. Grass hasn't been mowed in a while and the taller weeds graze against Averitt's calves. Averitt's eager to listen. Sweat's already forming on Mortimer's brow. He wipes with the 'kerchief and resumes fanning. He begins the tale: “The Pickin's been going on for longer than Henry's been a town. Every ten years they come. Middle of summer. We never know when exactly. It always varies by a couple days. But they'll be here this year. They'll be here soon. And every ten years we hear the same excuses. So-and-so ran away. Charles was killed by his father.” Mortimer pauses. Charles was his friend. He's remembering. “Mr. Haddick didn't kill his boy! He loved Charles. He'd do anything for that boy. Anything.” Averitt turns to look at his Papaw. Mortimer tries to hide it, but Averitt catches the handkerchief swat a tear from the corner of the old man's eye. Averitt doesn't acknowledge it. He knows better. Turns back around. Kicks at one of the weeds. Mortimer composes himself. “The Croaks are horrible creatures. They'll snatch you from your bed. From the porch. From your parents' arm--” He sees the boy twitch. Shouldn't have said that. Averitt's parents both died a couple years back. Mortimer continues. “But they love to hunt in the swamp. You don't venture out to the swamp this summer. Not to fetch a ball that was tossed too hard. Not cause someone dared you. You shouldn't even want to leave this porch this year. The Pickin' will happen soon.” What little hair Averitt has on the back of his neck begins to rise. He wants to hear more. “Tell me what they look like Papaw” Mortimer wipes more sweat away. His 'kerchief is soaked now. Keeps trying to fan himself regardless. “They look like bullfrogs, for sure. Sound like 'em too. But you know when you hear a Croak calling you. Sends a chill down your spine. Mesmerizes you. You only hear a Croak call once. They enchant you. You lie in bed, sheets pulled to your nose. Stare at the ceiling, not daring to move a limb. The Croaks are coming. You know they're out there. You know they're Pickin'. You know you're next. But when you hear it, when you hear the call, all fear leaves your body. Your soul detaches from the flesh and is lifted from the bed sheets. Braahnk. The call is a sweet melody now, divorced from the one that draws you closer. The Croaks are coming. They lurk in the swamps. They wait in the shadows. And they hunt at night. Slick skin the color of moss. A bullfrog's body, hundred times over. Tall as I was before gravity took its toll. Then it smiles at you. Teeth like daggers, you'd welcome a rattler's fangs deep in your flesh rather than look any longer. But by the time you see the smile you're already gone. Then it hops. Feet like a grizzly pound the ground, claws dig deep into the soft mud. The call brings you closer. Then it pounces. Like a cougar it grabs you, fangs sink in deep. They drag you deep into the swamp. You'll never be seen from again. They take you back home. Back to the Other World." Mortimer looks down at the floor. He stops rocking in his old chair. He pauses. Thinking. "We don't speak of the Other World.” The comforting embrace of the sun's rays isn't warm enough to stop the cold tingle running up Averitt's spine. Too scared to move. Mortimer cups his hands round his lips: “Braahnk.” Averitt falls off the porch. He whips his head around to see Mortimer cackling. “Papaw!” Still laughing, “I think it's time we head inside. The shade we're under now ain't doing us no good.” **whiskey** Wrapped up in a blanket, Eleanor has her nose in a book. Mortimer's not concerned with the title, some sappy romance he reckons. “How do you stand being covered up like that?!” Even inside, even at night, Mortimer is still fanning himself. He lifts his glass of whiskey to his lips. Draws in slowly. He doesn't drink like he used to, but the burn helps him get as much sleep as he can. The house is still. “Why don't you go check on Averitt?” Eleanor doesn't look up from her book; she just wants Mortimer to leave her in peace. He obliges. Takes the stairs carefully. The bones of the house are getting weak and he doesn't want to wake the boy. The door is cracked slightly, a sliver of moonlight illuminates the hallway. Mortimer pokes his head in. Averitt's not in his bed. Mortimer coaxes the door open. “Boy, get away from that wind--” Braahnk. The breath leaves his body. Cemented to the floor, his veins freeze. Averitt tumbles out the window. Life fills Mortimer's body once again. He runs to the window. With a thud, a shadow plops into the yard. It comes closer to his grandson. Mortimer turns and runs for Eleanor. “Eleanor, Eleanor! The Croaks are c--” He makes it to the top of the steps and in his confusion trips. He tumbles, house slippers over head, down the stairs. With a crack, his skull meets the solid oak wall. “Mortie!” Eleanor drops her book and rushes to her husband. The trickle of blood slowly flows down the step. She runs upstairs to find an empty room and an open window. She rushes to the window, scans the yard. Nothing. **ice water** “Drink up.” Eleanor's neighbor passes her a glass of ice water. Hands still shaking, Eleanor accepts. Thankfully her neighbor has one of the few phones in town. Eleanor hurried over as fast as she could. The officer sitting across the table from the two wraps up the interview. “We'll find Averitt. I promise. He's the second child this week to run away. For the time being, I suggest you stay here. When you're ready, we can help you prepare for Mortimer's funeral.