“Well, it was always like this when I was boy,” my grandfather said as he lit a candle and placed in on the spent dinner table.

The sky was growing dark out the west facing kitchen windows; the local summer sunset of blazing orange and purple was dotted with golden clouds and painter brush black pecan tree outlines. He was a man too large for this small world, he lowered himself into his chair at the head of the table and us kids hunkered around, awaiting his tale; our after dinner delight.

“When I was a boy, the first electric lights came down this road. We had lived with the darkness of the river for so long, it seemed strange to want to know the goings on in the corners of the pines, in the whispers of the salt marsh. Let the creatures go to sleep, let us not forget we too slumber in the twilight… Now, boys will eat their dinner and still have something left to be done of the day, I would push my chair back unceremoniously, my mama yelling after me as I hit open the screen door and ran across the yard. The road was dirt, the road went no where really, we had to take the ferry to see your friends o’er to Bettie, which was fine. I ran down into the shadows to see my pal Johnny, smoke cigarettes and kick stuff around. Didn’t take but an hour, here late October, to go from dinner to darkness. So I said my goodbyes to Johnny and the other Garners, and started back to home.

Wouldn’t even be something you could pitcher in yer mind now, the way the pines and pecans start talking. This was the fifties, little woman! This was the fifties, my boy! Things were different then. Y’all don’t know quiet anymore- ceptin’ maybe right now, if you can blot out the whoosh o’ them cawrs speeding by on the paved highway. Highway- was a dirt road that lead back to the Mason homestead, Primrose himself, Helen, Ralph waiting to trip me up in the bushes, I knew someone was follering me.

Youngins times were different. North River was to my back, and the sun had set proper. Just like now,” my grandfather turned his head to look out the kitchen window. It was dark completely now- the light of the candle grew long over his sea-worn face. We loved him, still do, even though he is gone now, too.

“Times were different. A boy wouldn’t know who was following him from the dark side of town, the moon no where to be seen, the sun gone down completely. I started running. I was skeered! I started pounding the ground, running fer mah life,” he paused and gave arched eyebrows for dramatic effect.

“I was ragged of breath, I came through the pocket of woods from pitch darkness to the safety of home. There! The house! Golden to me, glowing… I jumped on the porch and…” at this moment my grandfather always flung his arms out wide, stood jarringly up above the table, casting an enormous shadow behind him.

“I jumped on the porch and there it was! The thing following me! Blackness! Darkness! A person twice my size! I fell back off the porch with my heart out of my body. I was seized with terror!

The shadow cast from that first streetlight about took me- the light from that first streetlamp cast my own shadow there before me with such crisp edges it could’ve been a great man for all I knew. The way a shadow exists just on the other side of the light- the fear, the way I could snuff this candle out,” with a dramatic puff he blew out our only light and we all gasped, “I take out the light and the darkness is always there. The default. And just because you have a candle, or a streetlight, or the sun, doesn’t mean that the darkness isn’t always there, right there on the other side of it.”

He would sit with aplomb at that, sip his coffee, and simmer. He’d grab his guitar after a while, but only after our eyes had adjusted to the night.

Editor’s Note on First Light on Hwy 70

While this story wasn’t quite creepy enough to make it to the finalist round of our Winter Hauntings ghost story contest, it stood out for its authentic local voice and its evocative atmosphere of darkness. Edgar-nominated author Thomas Kies summed it up best, calling it “local as hell.”

We couldn’t agree more. First Light on Hwy 70 captures the kind of storytelling that keeps us connected to the places we call home—highlighting the rich potential of our landscapes and lore. We’re thrilled to share it with you here and hope it inspires more writers to tell stories that reflect the soul of our community.