The Man in the Mango Grove

I grew up in a creaking farmhouse on the edge of the Blackwood Marsh, where the locals whispered of the Old Ones—spirits of the first people who walked this land before the settlers came. They said the Old Ones were tall, taller than any man, with skin like bark and eyes that glowed like embers in the dark. And they said that if you disturbed their sacred groves, they would come for you in the night.

My younger brother, Jamie, and I were in his room, arguing over a racing game, when the power flickered. The console went dark, and the room fell into an unsettling silence. I told Jamie I’d be right back, that I’d go to the main house to check on the generator. But really, I just needed to step outside for a moment—the walls felt like they were closing in.

The farmhouse was a duplex, with a separate wing where my parents slept, but the generator was in the shed by the mango grove. As I walked across the yard, the humid air clung to my skin, and the smell of rotting fruit filled my nostrils. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, and the only light came from the dim lantern on the porch.

When I reached the shed, I heard my father’s voice. ‘You feel that?’ he called out from the shadows. I froze. ‘Feel what?’ I asked, my heart starting to race. He stepped into the lantern light, his face etched with worry. ‘Something’s here. Something big.’ My dad used to see spirits like I do, but he’d closed his ‘third eye’ after my mother’s accident. Now he only sensed them.

I looked over at the mango grove, and my breath caught in my throat. Between the gnarled trees stood a figure—not a man, but something that wore a man’s shape. It was at least eight feet tall, with shoulders too broad, and its skin shimmered like the surface of a dark lake. And it was looking right at me.

‘Dad,’ I whispered, my voice shaking. ‘I see him.’

‘You see it?’ he said, taking a step toward me. I nodded, not daring to look away. ‘It’s huge,’ I said. ‘Like a giant.’

My mother came rushing out of the house, her robe billowing. She saw the look on my face and stopped dead. ‘It’s an Old One,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘They’re big, but they’re dangerous. If you’ve disturbed their grove…’

As she spoke, the figure took a step forward, and then another—and from the shadows behind it, more shapes emerged. Three, four, five of them, all towering and silent, their eyes pinning us like insects on a board.

I grabbed my father’s arm. ‘We need to go. Now.’

We stumbled back to the house, locking the doors and windows, but I could feel their presence pressing against the walls. That night, I gathered my brothers and sisters in the one room that felt safe—the upstairs bedroom with the heavy oak door. We piled into the bed, blankets over our heads, listening to the groan of the house settling, the scrape of branches against glass.

But I knew they were out there, waiting. And I knew they would never leave us alone.

In the months that followed, the grove grew wilder, the fruit rotting on the ground, and the shadows between the trees always seemed to move when I wasn’t looking. Sometimes at night, I’d hear a low hum, like the tuning of a thousand violins, and I’d see them standing at the edge of the property, watching. They never came closer, but they were always there.

My father says it’s because we took from the grove—when Jamie was young, he’d ripped a branch from one of the trees to make a slingshot. The Old Ones don’t forget. They can’t be reasoned with, and they can’t be fought.

Now, I don’t go outside after dark. I don’t look at the grove for too long. And every night, before I fall asleep, I make sure the doors are locked and the windows are sealed. But I know it’s not enough. They’re patient, these Old Ones. They have all the time in the world.

One day, they’ll decide our debt is due. And when they do, they’ll be waiting in the mango grove, tall and silent, ready to take back what’s theirs.