I remember when I saw my first dirt demon. All my life I’d been raised on stories about the dirt demons that hide in fields of corn, rye, hay—anything tall enough to cover their dusty backs. Everybody’s mama and abuela had tales to tell about those dirt devils. Never go into the field without your dad or brother or primo there with you. I always thought it was a crock of shit. Every summer I was always the one that would dare to go the furthest into the feathery sea of overgrown asparagus behind Abuelo’s house. Each summer, Tía Tomasa would threaten us with la chancla for our stupid game. I never understood until the summer of my twelfth year, the day of my half birthday, the Fourth of July.

Back in those days, we used to invite the farmer who lived across the field to our barbeque. Papí said we had to, something about showing our respect to the man that helped us. He was a nice man, gave us work gathering apples and pumpkins in the fall and cutting Christmas trees in the winter. He always came with his wife and son who was learning to take over the business. I’d never seen his son do much work, unlike the farmer who never hesitated to give us a hand. Me and the primos liked that he gave us pop and Rice Krispie treats whenever he came by. The farmer and his wife came because they liked us...I think the son only came because he liked how Tío Nuno grilled fajita.

It was dark by then, and to pass the time until the fireworks started, we played our game. Asparagus season had ended by mid-June that year, and Papí had yet to mow the old field to make way for green beans. Chachi kept whining, saying she was going to tell Tía and then we would be in for a pow-pow. Victor told Chachi she was a snotty little pendeja and said she would keep quiet if she knew what was good for her. So far Victor had the record, he’d gone so far that we were no longer able to see his curly head. The lights from the back porch could not reach us  at the edge of the field, making it harder to spot the difference between vegetation and Mexico football jersey.

That’s when I decided to run in after him. I could hear the sounds of him rustling about back there, and followed them in the hopes I could push Victor down as I ran past him and further into the field. The ends of the asparagus swayed in the stiff breeze, tickling my cheeks, and gently clawing at my braids. I stopped to look around to see if I could spot Victor, but there was nothing but the endless crowns beckoning me in every direction. Finally, I heard the crunching sounds of someone stepping over the dead stalks that littered the ground. I smirked and ran after the sound, determined to rub it in that little cabrón’s face that I was going to beat him. After only a few strides my toe caught on a rock half-buried in the earth, and my heart leapt to my throat as I pitched forward and landed face-first in the dirt.

All the air left me, and my mouth was full of dry, sandy grains that tasted bitter from the chemicals we used to keep the pests away. I rolled over onto my back to catch my breath, and that’s when I heard someone rushing towards me. I quickly sat up to look around for any sign of Victor, but I couldn’t see anything.

“Ya basta, Victor!” I snapped. “This isn’t fun anymore.”

My braids smacked around my head like whips when I heard something behind me, but there was still nothing but the bending asparagus. Something turned in my belly, and I knew I shouldn’t turn around, but I did anyway. A few yards ahead of me, were two large red lights. They glittered like Abuelita’s precious ruby earrings that she only wore on special occasions— but never for church, you never wear el color del diablo in church. These were the devil’s color. These were the eyes of a demon.

I stood still, praying to God to keep me safe like Abuelita taught me. If I didn’t move, maybe it wouldn’t notice me. My hand shot to my mouth to stifle the heavy breaths, I wanted to  cry so bad. A white-hot pain shot down my spine, and my visions blurred, but I could still see those eyes. The scream ripped through me just as the first fireworks began to go off in the heavens above.

There was no time to look back to see if it was close, I just scrambled to my feet and ran for my life. I didn’t know where I was going, only hoping that I could get as far from the dirt demon as I possibly could. Fire burned through my legs and chest, each breath was a labor greater than I had ever known—and I carried bushels of fruits and vegetables across acres for a living. I would’ve run forever to get away from the demon if I hadn’t run into the farmer’s son.

For the second time that night the air was knocked out of me. A thick and heavy hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me back. The plants barely went past his waist, he was like the old maples that lined the edge of the fields.

“What are you doing way out here?”

“I—we were playing—I saw—”

He patted the top of my head, “Shush, catch your breath.”

I nodded, glad to be near someone to scare off the dirt demon.

He tilted my head up, “You’re a real cutie, ain’t ya?”

No matter how many times they ask me, I still can’t remember anything but those red eyes. I don’t remember seeing Victor in the asparagus. I don’t remember what happened after I ran into the farmer’s son. They tell me that I didn’t show up until I came crawling out of the green sea behind the house shortly after the last firework had faded away in inky wisps across the deep blue night. My clothes were in shreds and sweat cut tamale-colored tracks through the ashen dirt that coated me from head to toe. One of my braids had come undone. It wasn’t until I was eighteen that Tía Tomasa told me about the blood.

At least, they told me, I came back. All we had left of Victor was a scrap from his football jersey. I don’t think we ever played the game ever again. Nunca. I know I couldn’t. Not after the dirt demon. Even in the peak of the day, I wouldn’t go out into those fields without someone else beside me. Abuelo got fed up with that quick.

When I was fifteen, we were planting asparagus crowns for a new crop next to a neighboring rye field. He told me to keep laying out the crowns while he and Chachi went to get more. I really did try, but los susurrus in the rye were the farmer’s son’s heavy breathing, the fireworks, and Victor’s shouting. The truck was barely fifty yards away by the time I caught up to them. I don’t know what made Abuelo think that would work. Not after Abuelita had to permanently lock away her ruby earrings—she couldn’t bear to see me run away from her.

The farmer moved away soon after that Fourth of July. There were no more Rice Krispies to make our mouths sticky with the sweet goop, just chapped lips split by the warm winds. No more fizzy Cola to send us scurrying across the fields with sugar highs, only bitter iced tea that never failed to get mixed with some dirt that stuck in your teeth. No more Victor to push on my way to get the first concha from Abuelita’s shopping haul. There were so many primos, but even just one less of us was too much to bear.

Everybody’s mama and abuela has tales to tell about dirt devils. Never go into the field without your dad or brother or primo there with you. They hide in fields of corn, rye, hay— anything tall enough to cover their dusty backs. I always thought it was a crock of shit. Ahora, yo no soy pendeja.