First light of dawn barely touched the creek when Benny cracked open one eye. The water was still cool from the night, sliding over his wrinkled skin like liquid silk. He stretched -- first his stubby legs, then his long, flat body -- before pushing off the mossy rock that served as his bed. Forty years of living in these Ozark hills had learnt him the rhythm of the creek: when the water ran fastest, where the crayfish hid, which hollows made the best napping spots after a long night's patrol. This mornin', though, something felt off. Not in the water -- no, the creek was still clean, still alive with the hum of mayfly larvae and the occasional dart of a minnow. The wrongness came from beyond the bank, where the scent of crushed grass and fresh-turned earth lingered like a warning.
Benny wasn't jest any Hellbender. He was the last of his line to remember the old ways, the ones his great-great-granddaddy had passed down during the darkest days of the Trail of Tears. Back then, when General Scott's soldiers marched through these hills, it was the Spooklight that had give his ancestors a fighting chance. A jar, a handful of lightning bugs, and the kind of quiet courage that only comes from knowing you're protecting something worth more than your own hide. Benny'd never needed to use that knowledge -- until now. The surveyor's stakes along the ridge, the farmer's troubled mutterings about 'offers too good to refuse,' the way Lenny's glow had flickered nervous-like last night when he talked about the 'big metal boxes' comin' to the hollow… it all added up to one thing: trouble. And trouble, Benny knew, was jest another word for opportunity -- if you were clever enough to turn it.
He surfaced near the bank, his frilled gills flaring as he tasted the air. No chemicals yet, no bitter tang of fertilizer or the acrid burn of motor oil. But the developer's men had been here. Their boots had left prints in the mud, their voices had carried down to the water like the buzz of angry wasps. Benny'd heard the farmer talkin' to them yesterday evening, his voice tight with that polite kind of anger good men use when they're being pushed too far. 'This land's been in my family since before the War,' the farmer had said. 'Ain't for sale.' The developer had laughed -- a sound like dry leaves scraping stone -- and said something about 'progress' and 'inevitability.' Benny didn't rightly know what those words meant, but he knew the tone. It was the same one the soldiers had used when they told his ancestors to move along.
A shadow darted over the water, and Benny twisted just in time to see Lenny land on a cattail leaf, his little lantern of a belly pulsing yellow. 'Mornin',' Lenny buzzed, his voice barely above the ripple of the creek. 'You feel it too, huh?' Benny nodded. Lenny wasn't jest his best friend; he was the great-great-grandson of the lightning bugs who'd helped create the first Spooklight. Their families had been allies for generations, bound by the kind of loyalty that didn't need words. 'They're comin' back today,' Lenny said. 'Heard 'em talkin' by the old oak. Something about "final offers" and "eminent domain."' Benny's gills tightened. He'd heard that last phrase before, in the stories. It was a human word, but it meant the same thing as 'steal.' 'Then we ain't got much time,' Benny rumbled. Lenny's glow steadied. 'So we do it? The jar?' Benny looked up at the ridge, where the first golden light of sunrise was creepin' through the trees. 'We do it,' he said. 'But we do it smart.'
By mid-mornin', the creek was alive with the usual sounds: the farmer whistling as he checked his fishing lines, the rustle of a doe leading her fawn to drink, the distant chatter of squirrels arguin' over acorns. But Benny wasn't listening to any of that. He was under the bank, in the cool dark of the root tangle where he kept his treasures -- a smooth river stone that fit perfect in his palm, a fishhook the farmer had lost years ago (Benny'd pulled it from a bass's lip and saved the fish), and, wrapped in a scrap of oilcloth, the jar. It wasn't much to look at: a plain mason jar, its glass clouded with age, its lid rusted shut. But it was the last one his great-great-granddaddy had used, and that made it precious. Benny nudged it with his snout, then turned to Lenny, who was perched on a root beside a cluster of his kin. 'We'll need twenty of you,' Benny said. 'The brightest. The ones who can hold their light steady.' Lenny's antennae twitched. 'They're ready. Been talkin' about it all night.' Benny nodded. 'Good. Because we ain't jest scarin' off some surveyors. We're sending a message.' Lenny's glow flickered, then burned brighter. 'What kind of message?' Benny's eyes gleamed. 'The kind that don't need words.'
As the sun climbed higher, Benny and Lenny went to work. They moved careful-like, sticking to the shadows where the cattails grew thick and the water ran deep. The plan was simple: fill the jar with lightning bugs, wait until dusk, then place it where the developer's men would see it -- somewhere unexpected, somewhere that would make them question what they were messing with. The farmer's ridge was the obvious choice, but Benny had a better idea. The old mill site, half a mile upstream, was where the creek narrowed into a deep pool. The water there was black as ink at night, and the trees grew so close their branches woven together like a roof. If a man was already jumpy -- say, from stories about strange lights in the Ozarks -- seeing a jar of fireflies floating over that pool would make his skin crawl. And if that jar happened to move against the wind? Well. Benny smiled to himself. Sometimes, the old ways were the best ways.
By the time the farmer packed up his gear and headed back to the house, Benny and Lenny had the jar hid in the roots of a sycamore, its contents dark and still. The lightning bugs inside were resting, conserving their energy. They knew what was comin'. So did Benny. He watched the farmer pause at the creek's edge, his calloused hand brushing the water like he was saying goodbye. Then the man turned and walked away, his boots kicking up dust. Benny's heart ached. This land wasn't jest dirt and water to the farmer. It was home. Just like it was home to Benny, to Lenny, to the crayfish and the minnows and the herons that nested in the reeds. And home was worth fighting for -- not with teeth or claws, but with something a sight more powerful: a story. The Spooklight wasn't jest a trick. It was a reminder. This land had memory. It had teeth. And it wasn't giving up without a fight.
That night, as the first stars prickled the sky, Benny and Lenny returned to the mill site. The jar was where they'd left it, but the world around it had changed. The air hummed with tension, the kind that comes before a storm. Benny could smell it -- the developer's men were close. He heard their voices first, low and uneasy, then the crunch of boots on gravel. ' -- sayin' there's lights out here,' one of them muttered. 'Swamp gas, probably,' another scoffed, but his voice lacked conviction. Benny waited until they were most to the pool, until the dark water swallowed the sound of their steps. Then he nudged the jar with his nose. It bobbed once, twice, then begun to drift toward the center of the pool, its contents glowing gold in the blackness. The men froze. One of them whispered something Benny couldn't catch. The other crossed himself. The jar floated on, untouched by the breeze, its light pulsing like a heartbeat. Benny, hid in the reeds, allowed himself a slow, satisfied blink. The Spooklight was back. And if he had anything to say about it, this land was staying exactly where it belonged -- with the people who loved it.