The Honey Locust Grove

It was the last week of July, and the heat had settled over the Mississippi Delta like a wet blanket. I’d driven out to the old Chickasaw Bayou battlefield, not far from Vicksburg, to escape the grind of city life and visit a college friend who lived in the area. I’d checked into a tired motel on the outskirts of town, its neon sign buzzing with a dying insect’s persistence. The desk clerk, a skeletal man with nicotine-stained fingers, gave me a map and a warning: ‘Mind the grove, east of the Union lines. Folks say it’s not quite settled.’ I laughed it off, pocketed the map, and headed out.

I paid the ten-dollar admission at the visitor center, bought a bottle of lukewarm water, and drove through the wrought-iron gate. The park was a sprawling green sea of manicured lawns and monuments, each one a granite testament to some general’s folly. I was on the Union side, where the earthworks still slumped like tired shoulders. I parked near a battery of iron cannons, their muzzles aimed toward a distant treeline. The air was thick, cicadas screaming in a rhythm that felt almost human. I grabbed my camera and stepped out, the ground crunching under my boots.

The cannon before me was a massive Parrott rifle, its barrel pitted with rust. I circled it, snapping photos of the breech, the carriage, the faded inscription: ‘Presented by the State of Ohio, 1862.’ I knelt to get a low-angle shot, and that’s when I looked up.

A grove of honey locust trees huddled just beyond the cannon, their long, twisted thorns catching the harsh sunlight like rusty needles. Between the trunks, the shadows were so dark they seemed to swallow the light. I’d noticed it earlier on the map, labeled simply as ‘The Thicket,’ but now it felt different. A shiver traced my spine despite the heat. I stood, dusted off my knees, and walked toward the treeline, camera raised.

I stopped at the edge, where the grass gave way to a carpet of dried leaves and thorns. The air here was cooler, almost damp. I could smell something earthy, like turned soil, but with an undercurrent of metal. I raised my camera to capture the tangled branches overhead, and that’s when I heard it—a low, guttural hum, like a swarm of bees buried underground. It pulsed beneath my feet, vibrating up through the soles of my shoes. I lowered the camera, and the sound ceased.

I stepped back, and a crow burst from the branches, its wings slapping the air. I laughed, chiding myself for being jumpy, but as I turned to leave, I noticed something half-buried in the leaves near a tree root. A rusted canteen, its strap rotted away. I bent down and picked it up. It was heavy, as if still full. The lid was corroded shut. I gave it a shake, and something sloshed inside. I pried at the cap with my thumbnail, and it gave way with a gritty squeal. A dark liquid, thick as syrup, dribbled out. It wasn’t water. It smelled like honey, but sour, with a metallic tang.

I dropped the canteen, and the liquid soaked into the soil, turning it dark. The hum returned, louder now, and I felt a pressure behind my eyes. I scrambled back to my car, my heart hammering, and slammed the door. The engine turned over, and I drove away without looking back. But the thicket stayed in my rearview mirror, watching me.

That night, in my motel room, I couldn’t shake the feeling. The hum had followed me, a low thrum vibrating in my teeth. I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw the grove, its thorns drawing closer. In the morning, I resolved to go back. I needed to understand.

I returned the next day, earlier this time, with the sun still low. The park was empty, the dew heavy on the grass. I walked straight to the cannon, then to the grove. The canteen was gone, but a fresh patch of dark soil marked the spot. I stepped under the canopy, and the temperature dropped dramatically. The hum was unmistakable now, rising from the ground like a dirge. I knelt, pressing my ear to the earth, and heard a voice—not words, but a chorus of muffled groans, as if the dead were trying to speak through the soil.

I dug with my hands, frantic, until my fingers hit something solid. It was a bone, pale and pitted, half-buried. I yanked it free. It was a human femur, snapped cleanly in two. The hum stopped, and the grove went silent. Then, a single thorn, long and black, fell from above and struck the ground near my knee. I looked up, and the branches were bowing toward me, their thorns glinting like fangs.

I ran. I didn’t stop until I reached my car, and I drove straight out of the park, past the gates, and didn’t look back. I left the femur on the passenger seat, wrapped in my jacket. I didn’t stop until I reached my friend’s house, and when I told him what I’d seen, he went pale. ‘That grove,’ he said. ‘The tour guides don’t talk about it. But my grandfather used to say that the honey locust trees grew where the bodies were buried. The roots drank the blood. And sometimes, if you listen close, you can hear them still humming.’

I never went back. The femur sits on my bookshelf now, a grim reminder of what I found in that grove. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear that hum again, rising from the bone, and I know that the honey locust trees are still growing, their thorns reaching for the sky, waiting for the next foolish traveler to stop and listen.