The evening sun hung low in a slate-gray sky like a big red-orange ball floating above the dark green of the distant pine forest.  Even in the first hours before it plunged below the horizon, the air was humid, dank, and hot; waves of heat shimmering above the yellow-brown grass that carpeted the field around my cabin.

The frogs were getting an early start on the evening concert, croaking their love songs as they sought mates in the fetid waters of the swamp that bordered the looming forest.  A few birds were chirping their high-pitched calls as they swooped through the thick air, snatching the insects that dared rise up from the grass.

I sat in the old cane rocking chair on my front porch, my shotgun resting on my thighs, lazily rocking back and forth, my corncob pipe clenched in my teeth; not much else to do as I waited for the dark to creep across the land.  A half-filled mason jar of old man Clyde’s corn liquor sat near my feet.  I’d taken a sip or two, but decided against more; I needed my wits on this summer evening.  One or two sips sharpened my senses, and warmed my innards, but more than that, and my reflexes would be dulled; my hearing would be diminished and my sight dimmed; and on this evening, I needed both.

The heat draped over me like a wool blanket, pulling the moisture from my pores; my shirt had dark half moons of sweat under the armpits, and my hands were wet.  I wiped them on the thighs of my faded jeans; needed them to be dry so my grip wouldn’t slip at a crucial moment.

They would come after dark; they always came in the dark, skulking through the pines, their faces covered, and draped in white.  The light was their enemy; and, so was I.

I’d waited for them for five days; and, they hadn’t appeared, but I knew that this, the sixth day, would be the day they would come.  They had to come; they couldn’t let me continue to defy them.  I’d done so for five years, living here alone in my cabin on the edge of the swamp, coming and going as I pleased; something they hated, but had been unable to do anything about.  This day; this steamy summer day; had to be the time they’d make their move.  If they let me stay even one day longer, I would be the victor in our little standoff, and this, I knew, was to them, unacceptable.  Today, this night, when the darkness came, would be the time of confrontation, and when the sun rose over the tree tops the next day, one side or the other in our little war would be vanquished.