The year is 1932. The sun's just dipped below the tree line, leaving behind a haze of gold and blood-red sky that clings to the horizon. Out here in the Mississippi Delta, the air hangs heavy with humidity and something else—something old, watching. Spanish moss sways gently from the twisted oak trees, and the scent of damp earth mixes with woodsmoke and honeysuckle.

Down the dirt road, a flickering glow spills from the windows of a ramshackle juke joint, where laughter and blues guitar slip into the night like whispers. Crickets sing loud, nearly drowning the quiet thrum of something unnatural pulsing just beneath the surface. Folks around here don't ask too many questions—especially after dark.