“Loyalty, you going to church today, baby?”

Mama has her head poked through the door of my childhood bedroom and is eying me expectantly.

She takes one look at me and knows the answer. I’m in my light orange t-shirt with the brown Gig Hunter logo on it, jeans, and Timberlands. She wants to hear me say it, though.

“Naw, Mama, I’ve got a gig this morning,” I say, swiping my lashes with mascara. It’s not like monsters take the Lord’s day off.

“All right, then,” Mama says, and comes in to kiss me goodbye. “You be careful out there.”

“I always am,” I remind her, giving her a one-armed hug. “Those monsters won’t know what hit them.”

She heads out the door, mumbling something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Not talking about monsters.”

She ain’t wrong. I about got shot at once, even wearing the Gig Hunter shirt. Some fool opens up the door and starts asking me where L. Stevens is, as if that ain’t my own goddamn name. Even though I’m pretty sure I’m the only monster hunter within a hundred miles, I’ve gotten more bids accepted since I took down my profile pic and started using my first initial instead of my full name. I don’t like it, but most folks don’t turn me away once I’m knocking at their door, ready to take care of their monster problem.

Anyway, I tried to explain to this guy, but the minute he threatened to get his shotgun, I was out. Let him deal with the damn will-o-wisps on his own. I heard later, his dog “ran away,” and I felt a little sorry for the dog, but not for him. That was the most afraid I’ve been on a gig, and I deal with literal monsters every damn day.

Most folks are all right, though. To my face, at least. Today, there are a couple of listings within easy driving of Tuskeegee. Mitchell Farms has already accepted my bid, so I’m heading out there to investigate some possibly supernatural fires. We’re about to get into drought season, so it’d be nice if I could find whatever’s causing them before things get outta hand.

#

Mitchell Farms is out in the boonies, even for Alabama. It’s nestled in between Notasulga, which boasts a population of about 800, and Lochapoka, whose population hasn’t quite reached 200. I can just barely see the farmhouse from the road, surrounded by fields of soybeans and corn and a few low, grassy hills dotted with haybales. Out my open window I can hear cattle somewhere in the distance.

I roll up to the house in my old Nissan and park beside an ancient white pickup with a navy-blue bumper sticker on the back that says in all caps, “I AM THE LESBIAN FARMER RUSH LIMBAUGH WARNED YOU ABOUT.” Interesting.

When I knock on the front door, a short, stocky woman with short brown hair and a bit of pink across heavily freckled cheeks opens it. “Hello?”

“Hello,” I say. “I’m looking for Sharon Everett-Mitchell?”

“That’s my wife,” says the woman. “What’s this about?” She’s eyeing the logo on my shirt, and it don’t look like she likes what she sees.

“She accepted my bid on Gig Hunter. I’m here about the supernatural fire problem? I’m Dr. Loyalty Stevens.” Sometimes using the bonafides helps those who are otherwise a bit skittish about contracting my services.

She frowns, still uncertain. “I guess you better come in. Sharon!” she calls into the house as I enter. “We got company!”

She leads me into a brightly lit kitchen with a cute little breakfast nook, where a very tired-looking woman with short blonde hair is hunched over a laptop, fingers flying. She’s much taller and a bit thinner than the woman who greeted me at the door. She looks up as we enter, unfolds herself from the small wooden chair where she’d been sitting, and stands to greet me.

“Dr. Stevens?” she asks, and offers me her hand. Her complexion is much paler than her sunburnt wife’s, and it highlights the dark purple circles under her eyes.

We shake. “That’s me.”

“I’m Sharon Everett-Mitchell; this is my wife, Aimee Everett-Mitchell.”

“Nice to meet you. How can I help you folks?”

“Well, I’m hoping you can tell us what keeps setting our hay bales on fire,” says Sharon.

“I can tell you what keeps setting those fires,” mumbles Aimee, not quite under her breath. “Buncha kids out smoking cigarettes or dope where they think they won’t get caught.”

“Yeah, uh-huh, and tell me, how many stubs have you found?” asks Sharon. She crosses her arms, too, and looks at Aimee like she already knows the answer.

“That don’t mean it’s anything supernatural,” Amy retorts under her breath.

“Doesn’t mean it ain’t,” says Sharon. “How many times our bales got to catch fire before we call somebody in?”

They’re facing each other now, like they’ve forgotten all about me, the person they have actually called in.

“How many fires have you had so far?” I ask before Aimee can reply, pulling a small notebook and pen out of my bag and flipping to a clean page.

They both turn to me and stare, then Aimee says a little sullenly, “Only two.”

I make a note of it briefly. “Can you describe the fires?”

“I dunno; it’s fire—” Aimee begins, but Sharon cuts her off.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like, what color was the fire? Did it have a peculiar smell? Did it burn hotter than regular fire, or was it harder to put out? Things like that?”

“You’ll have to ask the Little Creek Volunteer Fire Department about that,” says Aimee. “They’re the ones that put it out.”

I nod and ask for the names of the fire fighters who came to put the fire out. “I’ll stop by there later today,” I say. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the fires? I’d also like to see where they happened, if that’s all right.”

Sharon nods, but it’s Aimee who speaks up. “Yeah, I can take you down there, I reckon.” I think maybe she’s warming up to me, but then she says. “I want to double check for cigarette stubs and lighters anyway. Mighta missed something this morning.”

Sharon rolls her eyes but doesn’t rise to Aimee’s barb. I don’t say anything, either; their squabble is none of my business. If they ask me to leave, I’ll leave, but otherwise, I’m just here to hunt monsters; I don’t do marriage counseling.

 #

Aimee drives me down to the edge of one of their fields—alfalfa, if I’m not mistaken—on the back of a four-wheeler, and we pass by several golden-gray bales of alfalfa hay on our way down. The field backs up against a grove of loblolly pines, and not ten yards from the grove’s edge are the blackened and burnt remains of two of the bales. The rest of the bales in the field appear to be untouched.

After we dismount the four-wheeler, Aimee starts scouring the ground around the blackened haybale remains, all but crawling along the ground. I sniff at the air, and it only takes a single breath for me to know she's not going to find what she’s looking for.

“One of the nice things about fire,” I say as I lift up a few blackened pieces of hay to examine them. “Is that there are only a few documented supernatural beings associated with it.”

Aimee scoffs, still circling the remains of the bales, scanning the ground as she goes. “Oh yeah? What, like dragons?”

“No confirmed dragon sightings have been documented in this millennium,” I say. Time to ramp up the academicspeak. “Though several unconfirmed sightings were documented between nineteen ninety-six and nineteen ninety-eight.”

She raises her eyebrows and looks genuinely surprised. Good.

“But it’s more likely that you’re dealing with something much smaller, like a salamander, a phoenix, or a hellhound.” I pause for effect, like I’m considering, even though I’m not. “Maybe a cherufe.” I name the creature using Chilean Spanish pronunciation. “Find anything?”

She stands, brushes her hands off on her cargo shorts. “Nah. You?”

In reply, I take a large, audible sniff of the air. “Smell that?”

She does, and then wrinkles her nose, then her brows. “Boiled eggs?”

I shake my head.

“Brimstone.”