A young black farmhand is desperate for money - and willing to weather a white farmer's disdain and hard labor for it. But as the reward is pushed further and further in to the future, he begins to have his suspicions about the person-sized mounds that surround the farm. A story of southern racism and supernatural vengeance.
Walter Shelton patted and smoothed the mound of red clay with the back of the shovel. Another long, hot Georgia day was done, and Helen no doubt had corn bread, fried pork chops, fresh tomatoes and mashed potatoes waiting on the table, with a pitcher of sweet iced tea between their two plates.
He was more tired than he thought he would be by today’s work. He sighed and scrubbed a tanned, liver-spotted arm across his brow. The farm work wasn’t getting any easier, and he reckoned he’d have to find some help again. He grimaced. Helen always argued with him about that. She didn’t understand, for some reason.
Ever since his son had been killed in that damned war over in Germany, he’d had to handle things with no other family menfolk around. Women like Helen, they could work some, but some things just took a man to do. Yep, he’d have to talk to her about getting help around here again.
Walter entered the kitchen, easing the screen door shut behind him. Didn’t do to make her mad if he could avoid it, he reasoned, and she always hated the sound of the slamming screen door. Scared her, she said. Hmph, he said.
Chris has been fostered at the Crowley boot camp since he turned seven. At sixteen, he is finally ready to run away because his foster father is an abusive person who works Chris and the other children to the point of exhaustion. All he has left of h
