The Pico de Gallo Summer

In the summer of 2019, I lived in a quiet cul-de-sac in the outskirts of Flagstaff, Arizona. My family had moved there the previous year, seeking a slower pace away from the city’s chaos. I was the quiet one, the middle child, content with my books and the cool shade of the backyard. My older sister, Marisol, was the outgoing one, always organizing barbecues and neighborhood gatherings. My younger brother, Leo, was a bundle of energy, constantly exploring. Our mother, a nurse, worked long shifts but always came home with a smile. We were happy, peaceful, and the entire cul-de-sac seemed to share our tranquility. The neighbors were friendly, the summer was mild, and we spent our days making fresh salsa and lounging by the small pool. There was no drama, no tension, nothing unusual.

I had always been a skeptic about the supernatural. I believed that everything had a rational explanation, that ghosts and spirits were figments of overactive imaginations. Anger was an emotion I avoided at all costs; its heat and intensity drained me, and I preferred to let conflicts slide rather than engage. My family teased me for being a pushover, but I didn’t mind. I liked my quiet life.

That summer, however, something began to change. It started with small things: a misplaced garden gnome, a window left ajar when I knew I’d closed it, the faint scent of oranges in rooms where no fruit was present. I chalked it up to absent-mindedness or the wind. But then the dreams began. In them, I would find myself in a vast, empty field under a blood-red sky, and a voice would whisper, ‘You let it in.’ I always woke up with a start, my heart pounding, but I convinced myself it was just stress from work.

One night, I woke up to a strange sound—like the scraping of furniture upstairs. My room was on the second floor, next to my sister’s, with my brother’s across the hall and our mother’s at the end. I listened, but the house was silent. I tried to fall back asleep, but a nagging feeling kept me awake. I decided to check on everyone. I tiptoed to my sister’s door and peeked in: she was sound asleep. Same for Leo and Mom. I returned to my room, but as I lay down, I noticed a faint outline of a handprint on my window, as if someone had pressed their palm against the glass from outside. I froze. That was impossible—my window faced the backyard, and the only access was a tall fence. I told myself it was a smudge from the cleaning lady, but I couldn’t shake the unease.

The next day, I tried to dismiss it, but the feeling persisted. I decided to investigate the backyard. The fence was intact, no signs of intrusion. I checked the shrubbery—nothing. As I turned to go inside, I noticed a cluster of orange peels near the base of the fence. We didn’t grow oranges, and nobody had eaten oranges recently. I felt a cold shiver despite the warm sun.

Over the following weeks, the occurrences escalated. I would find small objects moved—my books rearranged on my shelf, a cup in the sink that I hadn’t used. More importantly, I began to feel a presence, a weight in the air, especially in the hallway upstairs. I tried to convince myself it was my imagination, but the dreams grew more vivid. In one, I saw a figure standing at the foot of my bed, its face obscured by a shifting darkness. It whispered, ‘You let it in. You let it in.’ I woke up screaming, and my mother rushed in, worried. I couldn’t tell her the truth; she’d think I was crazy.

One afternoon, during a family barbecue, I noticed our next-door neighbor, Mr. Hargrove, staring at our house with a strange intensity. He was a retired man who kept to himself, but that day he approached me. ‘You feel it too, don’t you?’ he asked, his voice low. ‘The anger. It feeds on it.’ I was taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’ He glanced around, then leaned in. ‘This cul-de-sac, it’s a trap. Something old lives here. It was here long before we came. It likes peaceful people, but it gets bored. It starts to stir things up to create anger. That’s when it feeds.’ I wanted to dismiss him as a kook, but the hairs on my arm stood up. ‘How do you know?’ I asked. He just shook his head. ‘I tried to fight it once. It’s patient. It’ll find a way.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Mr. Hargrove’s words. I decided to research the history of our neighborhood. After some digging, I found an old article: in the 1980s, a family had lived in our house, and there was a report of a tragic incident—a father who flew into a rage and hurt his family. The article was vague, but it mentioned that the family was known for being peaceful before the incident. A chill ran down my spine. Was it possible? Was something in the house feeding on our tranquility, probing for cracks to create anger?

The next day, I noticed my sister and brother arguing over something trivial—who had used the last of the shampoo. It was unusual; they rarely fought. I intervened, trying to calm them, but I felt a surge of irritation rise within me. I fought it, but I noticed the air felt thicker, almost oppressive. That evening, my mother came home exhausted and snapped at us for leaving dishes in the sink. She never snapped. I began to see a pattern: whenever I felt that unsettling presence, small disputes would ignite. I knew I had to do something.

I remembered Mr. Hargrove’s warning. I found him in his garden the next morning. ‘I need to know more,’ I said. He looked at me with a mix of pity and fear. ‘The only way to starve it is to not let anger in. But it will test you. It will push your buttons. You have to stay calm, no matter what.’ I thanked him, but I felt hopeless. How could I control the emotions of my entire family?

That night, I woke up to a strange noise again. I crept to the hallway and saw a faint, wispy shape floating near my mother’s door. It seemed to be watching her. I felt a surge of protectiveness, but also anger—anger at this thing for threatening my family. The shape turned, as if sensing my emotion, and I felt a wave of heat wash over me. It was feeding on my anger. I forced myself to breathe, to think of calm things—the pool, the salsa, my favorite book. The shape flickered and seemed to dissipate. I realized then: my anger was its fuel. I had to be the one to keep the peace, no matter what.

The following weeks were a test. I became a peacemaker, defusing arguments before they could escalate. I practiced deep breathing and meditation. I started a journal, noting any signs of anger within myself or my family. But the entity grew bolder. One night, I found my brother sleepwalking, muttering about a ‘red man.’ I guided him back to bed, my heart racing. Another time, my sister accused me of stealing her necklace, which I’d never seen. I stayed calm, even when she screamed at me.

Then came the night of the full moon. I had a sense that something big was coming. I couldn’t sleep, so I sat by the window, watching the moon rise. Around midnight, the temperature in my room dropped, and I saw a dark shape materialize in the corner. It took the form of a tall, gaunt man with hollow eyes. It spoke, not with words, but with images in my mind: scenes of my family arguing, of my mother crying, of me losing control. I felt my anger rise, but I fought it. I focused on a memory of us laughing together, making pico de gallo in the kitchen, the smell of fresh cilantro and lime. The shape recoiled, and with a sound like a sigh, it faded away.

After that night, the occurrences stopped. The air in the house felt lighter, and the peace returned, even stronger than before. Mr. Hargrove moved away a month later, but before he left, he gave me a cryptic note: ‘You did well. But beware: it never truly leaves. It just waits.’ I kept the note in my journal. I still don’t know if I believe in the supernatural, but that summer, I learned that anger is a dangerous seed, and the calm it took to starve that entity was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Our family remained peaceful, and we still make pico de gallo every Sunday, a ritual that keeps us grounded. But sometimes, at night, I glance at my window, and I see a faint handprint on the glass. I tell myself it’s just a smudge. And I keep my temper in check.